Hair pulled back, pen in hand, open book on lap

As many of you know, I have a deep-rooted passion for reading and writing. One could say I was conditioned to love it, glimpsing back to my early childhood. My mom, who was a 3rd Grade teacher and quite possibly the most devoted mother ever, spent countless hours reading the exciting tales of the Pevensie children in Narnia, Harry's adventures in Rowling's magical world, Nephite-verses-Lamanite battles in the Book of Mormon, and so on. By the age of four I was reading with her, and it was not long after that I developed a love for reading on my own. I loved the thrill of jumping into stories with new, exciting happenings that differed from all I knew. Without leaving my top bunk, I embarked on all sorts of adventures, triumphed over every kind of evil, gained maximum insights, and experienced the inexperiencable.

My admiration for literature viciously spread from my mind to my pen, and words were constantly etched on thin notebook paper. I loved having total control of my writing: if it could be imagined, it could be written. By the age of eight I became a "write-aholic," so to speak. It all started when I decided to publish a monthly newspaper called "The Daley Prophet." (The name may or may not have been stolen from Harry Potter--at the time, eight year-old me thought the multi-meaning of "Daley" was fairly clever.)

Anyways, every issue had a headline story about topics varying from American Idol updates, exciting things happening in my life, upcoming events in Yakima, funny stories/incidents, and family vacation highlights. Next came the Sports Section, which recapped soccer, baseball, and basketball games for teams my little sister or I played for. I always included a "Dennis the Menace" cartoon, which guaranteed half a smile and maybe a hidden dimple exposed. The rest of the page included things like the weather, silly polls, jokes, photography features, political updates, upcoming birthdays, Melody Lane news, artwork, my original short stories, etc, depending on the issue.

Feeling all official on my small, purple bike with dusty white wheels, I dutifully rolled each "Daley Prophet" into a scroll and tied it off with ribbon, piled them into my bicycle basket purchased with a Christmas gift card at Toys R' Us, and delivered them to my neighbors. My route went something like this: down the hill to Letty's house off of Poplar View Way, and down to Ray's house on Lincoln, hitting all the houses on the left, then wrapping around and delivering to the houses on the right. Looking back, I doubt any of my old, retired neighbors were at all interested in reading a newspaper written by an eight year-old girl, but they never rejected my newspaper delivery, and they always complimented my work. Their patience and comments gave me the confidence to keep writing.

And here I am today, still writing. Next week I start training for job as the Director of Public Relations at YVCC, which is a fancy title for "The Girl Who Writes the Newspaper." Deja vu?  Maybe so.

And that's my story.