I have seen many interviews of how writers are born with feather quill pens in their little hands. How every word they have ever said has had the Great King Midas envy of how golden they are. How even as a child they wrote pamphlets for their school, or how they have been writing for so long that the nuances of the English word is child's play to them. How they simply showed their future publisher a sentence they had written in grade school and they received a ten book contract on the spot. Grant it, I exaggerate, a lot. But that is the way it feels when these authors spill how they started conversing with written word. I have no such story. I was not born with a pen in my hand. I was born cross-eyed and laughing my head off. At what, only the higher power truly knows but, my obsession with the art of putting words to thoughts did not start until 12th grade English class.

I walk into class, talking with a friend. "If I could go through an entire school year without reading a single word I would be happy...maybe." I said slumping my far too large frame into the torturous small desk seat.

"Oh yeah like that's gonna work." My friend said as he sat in his place across the room. We had been separated the week before for talking too often instead of actually doing our work.

Mrs. Stewart looked around the room as she took the attendance, knowing most of our names it was a simple matter of looking for the empty seats. She put down her clipboard and clapped her hands. "Alright class, today we are going to watch a movie!" She said waiting for the customary cheers from her students. I leaned back in my chair, (Oh good I can take a nap) I thought as she pulled the television cart (The thing classrooms had before they all got a built in screen and projector) to the front of the class. "Don't get too excited. After we watch this we are going to do a writing assignment." She said. I groaned at the missed opportunity of a nap and sat up in my chair again. (I hate to write...or read) I thought rolling my eyes at the once again incredible inconvenience that another teacher has put on me.

The television popped to life and over the course of three class periods I soak in every detail of "Gulliver's travels," and not the crappy Jack Black version. I watch for days, being not only entertained but blown away by the completely outlandish things that this movie showed me. I love that story all by itself, but my love grew by bounds when Mrs. Stewart said this after the movie was over.

"The whole reason Johnathan Swift wrote this was because he wanted to show the people of England how crazy and unfair the English Government acted, and since he couldn't say anything straight out with being labeled a traitor and more than likely executed, he made fun of them without them knowing that he did." She explained and I soaked that up like a starving child. "I want you to write a satire that pertains to your life." Twenty minutes later I handed in a three page satire comparing the flock of cheerleaders we have at school. As a band nerd I feel I have a keen insight on the torturous nature that is the cheer-leading creature. How they pray on the viewed weakness that is the natural musically inclined. How they prey upon us as if we were small vermin to eat and fuel their hungry popular desires.

Sadly my teacher informed me. "Did you know that my daughter is the head cheerleader that you speak of in this piece?" She asked me. I stood in the front of the class and started to sweat. I cleared my throat and wished I was anywhere but in that classroom at that moment. "It is written well and way before the deadline. I'll give you a B+ because of my personal investment." She said with a slight snicker on her face. Mrs. Stewart enjoyed watching her students stress.

I remember that to this day. I was not born to write. I loved being able to passive aggressively complain without anyone the wiser. It was this moment that I decided I wanted to write. But that is not the reason why I write. This is just the moment that switched almost painfully from hating to read let alone write to craving both as if I were a written word junkie looking for my next fix. I hated both activities with a livid passion. Now I own over 5000 books ranging from the year 1896 up to my last paycheck. Not just books in the genre I work in but all genres, except romance, I refuse to collect those. I have text books from times long gone. But again that is not why I write. There is no simple answer of why I write and It would take many pages upon pages to explain why I write, for there is no one single reason other than to say many reasons and do you have three hours for me to explain it all?

It only takes a moment to change your life. The secret is to grab those moments by the hand and let it run, don't just watch it run by.