I escaped into books from a very young age, mesmerized by Dr. Seuss and Winnie the Pooh and Frog and Toad. I relaxed into the stories Mom told as she flipped pages, while I sat in her lap. Soon I realized those black symbols on the page somehow helped her recount the stories and I became determined to decipher them myself. She taught me about letters, and about sounding out words. Before I ever entered school I was reading my own books, and sometimes the cartoons from the newspaper. I could even clumsily write my own words.

Most of kindergarten was boring to me. While my classmates tried to learn their ABCs I sped through our silly assignments. Yet there was storytime, when Mrs. Kenny or Mrs. Champine would read from books, or even sing songs that told stories I hadn’t heard before. As much as I hated bugs, Itsy Bitsy Spider seemed positively magical.

One day Mrs. Kenny read us the story of The Three Little Pigs. That wolf huffed and puffed, and kept pursuing the pigs. When the pigs finally built a house of bricks, the wolf still huffed and puffed but got nowhere. The pigs were protected and safe in their new home.

I thought the story was stupid. Even though I was little, I knew that the evil wolf should have the upper hand – that’s the way life worked! Even Itsy Bitsy Spider kept getting swept down the waterspout. I emotionally expressed my dismay that a wolf was outsmarted by pigs.

So my teacher challenged me – she suggested I rewrite it my way. With crayon in hand I wrote my very first story. In my version the wolf got his bacon. I felt proud that I’d corrected one of the world’s greatest wrongs. My story had pictures, and glorious words. At five years old I found my calling. I wanted to be a writer.

The unspoken piece here – pardon the pun – is that I was mostly mute as a child, and when I did speak it was with a stutter and heavy lisp. I had so much not to say. It had been made clear to me that so much of what I was experiencing were things I wasn’t to mention, and even if I did, most people didn’t understand me. Most the time I said nothing.

Yet through my stories I found a voice. In grade school I was exempted from learning vocabulary words and encouraged to write, reading my stories to the younger classes. For my ninth birthday I was gifted a typewriter, and started my first business – charging my classmates 10 cents or more for stories in which they could be the main character. I sold my first story for publication when I was just sixteen – a comedic romp starring a lonely ermine who sent off for a mail-order weasel-bride.

Four and a half decades later I still want to be a writer. Today, though, if I were to rewrite The Three Little Pigs it would end with the wolf renouncing his carnivore ways and happily enjoying tea with his new friends, and for Itsy Bitsy Spider, I would focus on the hope inherent in resilience and determination.

I want my writing to lead others from the darkness.