When I was around 5 or 6 years old, I penned a story about a boy and his cat. It was short, 6-7 lines at most and incomplete. It had three characters; the boy, the cat, and the boy’s mother. It was shit, to be honest, but at that time I remember being so excited about something that wasn’t even two paragraphs long.
I was so excited about my masterpiece, that I showed it to my grandmother, my nana, who I was living with at the time. It took her about three minutes at most, to finish reading it. And my nana said she loved it like all loving nanas are obligated to do. That or my memory is really failing me early in life.
It was that moment, although the spark had ignited before, that threw kindling and fanned the flame I had for reading and writing. Since then, there had been many moments throughout my 28 years that have, in turn, stoked and dwindled the flame, but it has never died.