It's been a lifelong affair. I believe it started with the stories my parents told me.

They would tell me the most magical stories from books, songs, real life, their own imaginations—it didn't matter. No matter the plot or the setting or the genre, all the stories had something in common; they all were completely my own. Unlike movies or television, where everything is already decided for you, literature allows you to be thrown as deep into the story as you want. There are no restrictions, no three-walled rooms with ceilings you never see.

In films, you may only see one room of the castle or one angle of the battle scene, but in novels you control nearly everything. You're thrown into the story, so you are the master of it. You can wander the whole castle as long as you wish. You can fight in the battle. You determine the pace, the narrator's voice, the exact look and demeanor of the characters, and your perception of the adventure.

And the best part of all, every person on earth could read the same book, and no two experiences would be the same. Your interpretation is unique, so your mind creates your own personal world that no one else can touch. No one can change your Wonderland, your Hogwarts, your Willy Wonka Candy Factory because they are just that—yours.

And once you begin to form your world and start to see it clearly, you're sucked in. But another perk of books is that as quickly as your sucked in, you can be plucked out. One glance up and reality rushes back in like an empty glass being submerged in an overflowing sink. And with no pause buttons or rewinding or having to adjust the volume, you can return—silently slipping out of your current world and into one of your design. They're just boring, familiar letters strung together into a new conglomeration on flimsy paper, but once your imagination takes hold you're surrounded by a completely different atmosphere that feels just as tangible as the one you've always known.

And surprisingly, as breath-taking and over-dramatic as I just described reading to be, that's not even my favorite part of literature. My one true love is the only activity where you can create a universe in a split second and break hearts and build bridges with no physical exertion. You can prompt conversations and laughter and arguments and even pry people's minds open without ever meeting them.

It's writing.

You don't need to hold auditions or hire a crew or schedule rehearsals or budget special effects. You don't even need a computer. All you need is a pen, an idea, and something to write on; most times I use my hand. I hate to let ideas slip away because writing can start with the smallest idea you've ever had. Ideas can grow. In fact, they're known for it. The intricate world of wizardry that so many have ventured into all started out with a fuzzy image of a scrawny boy with glasses and black hair.

My initial purpose of writing this piece was simply to express my love of literature and share it with others, not to persuade people to write who have no desire to do so. I hate pestering people. So I won't give you any unwanted advice or possible inspiration. I'll let Mark Twain do it. "Don't wait. The time will never be just right," and, "Continuous improvement is better than delayed perfection." That's all.

While a picture is said to be worth a thousand words, I believe a few words can be worth millions. Even a single word can spark a memory or a feeling that someone else's vision can't fully grasp for you. Don't get me wrong; I love art, but being the literary nerd I am, I've always thought the words in picture books were far more beautiful than the pictures. It's not necessarily the words I loved, though my five-year-old brain didn't understand it, it was the story they told and the feelings I'd never forget from those stories.

I remember once in elementary school when our assignment was to write a short story based off of a picture from the book "The Mysteries of Harris Burdick." This particular assignment frustrated me. It wasn't the actual task of writing it or the page count or even that it was homework keeping me from running outside to climb trees. I hated having to pick only one story because I could imagine a hundred different scenarios for each drawing. A picture is just a single snapshot of a world's story, and I was overwhelmed at choosing which world to sculpt, temporarily reside in as founder, and lead others to. Full disclose—I was about eight, so it probably ended with, "And it was all a dream..." but it was still my first real sip of how spectacular the rush and flow of writing can be.

With an overactive imagination and a dire need to move around every second of the day, I was a very tenacious and curious child who hated going to bed. I would spit out question after question like a rapid-fire machine gun with a thousand moving targets, no connections or segues. Just time-killers.

How deep is the ocean?

Will people ever start gardens on the moon?

Do you think everybody's color blue is the same?

If Dorothy got to Oz through a tornado, why couldn't she just take one back?

...

My father knew how to settle this. I hated getting into bed to end my day, but he knew I loved hearing stories more. My favorite book he read to my sister and I was "Peter and the Starcatchers." Each new chapter would allow me to refine my mind's creation and add new places and characters. I could tweak their image to comply with the new descriptions. I would widen the jungle, so Peter would have more to explore and Captain Hook would have more to get lost in. And no one could stop me or tell me it was wrong—a big deal for a little kid. Nothing can be wrong in your own imagination. I could be Tinker Bell or one of the Lost Boys or place myself in the story right alongside Peter.

And the only thing better than my dad reading me a book in his soft, serious narrator voice that led me to sleep was him creating a whole world with characters no one else had ever met before. My favorite series featured an angry little Scottish dragonfly named Angus McGrumpypus who believed he was a real dragon who could breathe fire. Every night, a different adventure, each as wonderfully thrilling as the last. Every night, my forest thickening and evolving, and Angus' personality developing. Every night, my imagination overflowing and my love of writing and storytelling maturing.

My love affair with literature has been intense, and I hope it never ends. Whether I become a writer or a teacher or a businesswoman who simply loves to read, I know that I wouldn't have become that person without the stories that propelled me there. Stories are just as vital to maturing as education and time. The complexity of the words and the sentence structures may change, but the heart of storytelling should forever remain untouched. You could be reading adventurous tales about crime-fighting cowboys or woodland nymphs or a gray futuristic dystopia. It doesn't matter. The content makes no difference; it's the escape from life needed to gather up your courage and learn from other's failures and realize your priorities. It's getting to enjoy your dreams while awake and walking away better because of it. I truly hope that storytelling will remain a staple in this world, as necessary as water to sustaining life and the people who drift in and out of it.