Writing itself is inconsequential, unless it becomes a means to an end. In my first book, Golden Apples in Silver Settings, I express my thoughts, values and passions, convinced that the audiences who were inspired in earlier years had given credibility to what I was communicating on paper years later. Writing for a paradigm shift. Producing change.
In that book I tell, “As a child I loved reading, and I became an avid dreamer because of knowledge. Geography fascinated me and in my textbooks I travelled the world and saw how people lived, their industries, the topography, oceans, climates, deserts and tundra zones…”
I imagined the places and people I read about. I came alive vicariously through descriptions, prose and facts. Without needing a passport or packing a suitcase I jetted off to lands and crossed seas like Peter Pan. A sprite who would one day write.
I scribble other people’s stories, canonizing their experiences in Little Copper Pennies. I want my readers to live, like I did as a teen, alongside the characters roaming the pages of words and punctuation. So I write to the end that they time-travel back to the 1960s and taste the jawbreakers, feel the loss of not having a red cent, widen eyes at the one recently auctioned for $402,000. To mourn for the penny and what it used to be.
I write to touch the heart. Capture a juncture in infinity. Find magic in the simple and build crystal castles from homey clay. I write for the same reason I teach. To create new knowledge and paradigm shifts.
The end of writing for me is to change a life for the better. And in writing I find my own life.