Reading & Writing

I am a second-generation story-hoarder. From as early as I can recall, my mother, a voracious reader, read stories to me.  We sat squashed together on the sofa or a park bench, transfixed by the tale, me following the print across invisible lines on the pages with my finger and squinting to see the relationship between the words and the pictures, as she read aloud in her mellifluous voice.  Once I asked her if she made up these stories and wrote them on the paper for me.  She laughed and said no, a special kind of artist did; they were called writers and the stories they created enriched everyone’s lives. Writers caught magic with their imaginations the way my cousins and I caught lightning bugs in old jam jars.

When I was three, she took me to one of her favorite places, the main branch of the New York Public Library at 42nd Street, to get my first library card so I could join her in the pleasure of checking out books.  I remember climbing the great stone staircase slowly, my short legs requiring two hopping steps to every one of her long, elegant strides.  My awkward ascent wasn’t helped by the fact that I peered over my shoulder continually, trying to look at the two enormous stone lions, placed like sentinels where the sidewalk met the stairs, and wondering what they guarded.

When we finally made it to the cool marble lobby, I gasped as I saw what the unblinking lions were protecting.  The entire building was full of books; I could see them from where I stood under the big chandelier.  I knew then why my mother loved this place; this was where those special artists brought their ideas for the rest of us to hold in our hands.  Wandering through the aisles of the children’s section, running my sweaty finger along the plastic-wrapped spines of the Dr. Suesses and Beverly Clearys, it occurred to me why the lions out front were so busy they never closed their eyes; the stories inside of these books were valuable; my mother had said so.

I caught my mother’s abiding passion for stories like a DiMaggio caught pop flies - effortlessly. She encouraged me totally.  In elementary school, when I wanted to own every book in the monthly Arrow Book Club newsletter, my mother wrote the checks. Then when I decided to try to scratch out my own magic by writing stories and poems, she purchased endless numbers of spiral-bound notebooks for me.  She convinced my grandfather to build floor to ceiling shelves in my room to hold my expanding library. And when, at age eight, I succeeded in publishing my first poem in Highlights for Children, she crept into every pediatric office in the Fordham Road Medical Arts Building and swiped every waiting room copy.  So, when the opportunity arose for me to study great literature abroad for one year as I completed my education, my mom was the first to encourage me to go, certain that it would help me achieve my goal of becoming a professional writer. It did, although it sure took a lot longer than either of us planned.

I have begun to be what I wanted to be.  My stories have been included in national and international publications, although it isn't yet time to quite the day job.

And it is all because I was lucky enough to have you as my mother, so thanks, Mom.  I love you.