The advent of spring always brings offers I can’t refuse. The chores of the house expand out to the chores of the yard, adding fresh air to the honey-do list as well as the coinciding perspiration.
After explaining my plans for a lovely Saturday afternoon, my neighbor remarked, “Don’t you just love to work outside, edging the flower garden?”
My less than enthusiastic response led to another inquiry. “Then what do you love to do around the house?”
After only a moment’s thought, I concluded that literary repose was my pastime of choice. I like to read and write. I could argue that the limelight of literary license is my love.
Although I am a serviceable musician and cook, my identity lies within the notion that I have a bent for the written word. I wasn’t born with it and I certainly don’t come from a long line of authors. Something, along the way, happened to me.
When asked to unfold my chosen route, I am reminded of Mark Twain and his short work entitled, “The Turning Point of My Life.” He argued that the one divergent moment of his past that led to his life’s endeavor, was merely the last in a line of circumstances and decisions that paved the way.
The factors that made me literary began in junior high. It was a time of innocence and awareness, when boys got together and secretly discussed girls, about what they’d heard and what they’d read. Someone in the hallway mentioned a certain page in a certain Mafia bestseller that I found at home in the basement in a box with other paperbacks that were passed around in those days.
Without reading any other parts of the book, I surmised that a powerful man known as the Godfather was throwing an extravagant old-fashioned Italian wedding for his daughter while his son, named “Sonny,” was meeting up with a girl that was not his wife in a room upstairs, separate from the traditional festivities.