a hunk a hunk of burning love. yeah.

ever since I can remember, I've wanted to be a part of the reading experience. as a child, I was a voracious reader. In first and second grade, I was the irritating child with her hand up volunteering to display my reading prowess. In third grade, nirvana presented itself in the form of the SRA program. My California elementary school class introduced a self-paced reading class. For the entire year, I could read my way through as many books as possible. I ended the year ready for junior high. well almost. I completed nearly 3 years worth of reading education.

I had a very troubled childhood and my escape was books. I think I might have been one of the few children punished for too much reading! "Kimberlee Paige, get your nose out of that book and go outside and PLAY!" Being an only child of parents who moved a lot (among other things) didn't foster a plethora of playmates. I had a set of junior classics that I made short order of. But returned to again and again. Chowed my way through Laura Ingalls Wilder. Early on, I tended to get the fever for authors and themes. Prairie life. Austen. Dickens. Lonely children struggling to survive. Anne Frank. Holocaust books. By junior high school, I was sneaking books home that wouldn't have been approved. Kafka. Tolstoy. Solzhenitsyn. Bukowski. Eldridge Cleaver. Hell, I can't even remember half of the authors. I typically (and to this day) read several books at a time, my appetite was voracious and seemingly unappeasible.

I hit freshman year having exhausted many school libraries. I used my one precious elective to enroll in the creative writing class. In the first week of class, we read a short story where one of the main characters was a writer. A young writer. Whose routine was to go to lunch every day to a diner in San Francisco, and have a hamburger and coffee. Coffee from those chunky beige china mugs that are so common and dinerly. Upon consuming said hamburger, young author sat drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, observing the opera unfold and writing about it. Over 30 years later and that story's details remain with me, clear as day.

That was it. The flame was lit. The picture painted by that author, about the young writer ... was so vivid ... so appealing. I could envision everything in the scene. I could taste that burger. I could smell the smoke in my hair. I was transported. I knew then and there I wanted to do what that author had done. What countless authors I had been having a not-so-secret, lifelong affair with had done. I wanted a shitload of readers, clamoring for moi.

One of our first short story assignments was doled out. My story was about a concert I had attended at the Circle Star Theater. I had been allowed to attend with my step-aunt. (all of my stepfather's family will forever retain the step-title. end of story.) It was a big ass deal for me to be able to go to that concert.

I'll never forget that grade of "A". My first creative writing assignment. First story written. Big old A. Lots of superlatives in the margins. Someone complimenting MY voice! An adult someone. Ms. Padgett, to be exact! There were a series of those "A's" to follow. I felt the fire, folks.

Throughout my life, I have continued to write in bouts. There were years I couldn't go a day without writing. My voice has been silent the last 8 or 10 years. I gave up writing for climbing ladders. Until this blogging thing. I'm kind of raspy. Haven't really hit a groove yet. But I have flashes of my old inspiration. Some of the lines and paragraphs have pleased me. When I write, it is usually just a big free form flow. It is like the stories are in there, just waiting to elbow their way to the front of the line and speak out. I've never understood authors who plot out a story. I mean, like write from an outline.

I think some of the novelists have done that. Having found a formula. I'm speaking of the Jackie Collins form of writing. Can be an entertaining read. Having never read any autobiographical insights into Ms. Collins, I guess I am really talking out of my ass. Maybe she starts with a few of her characters first, I don't know.

I'm not far enough along to know how it should work. I mean, the kind of writing that isn't telling life stories. Other than short stories.

Some girls dreamed of being a wife. Some a ballerina. Some a doctor or lawyer. For me, from the age of 13 or so, I wanted to be a writer. Where did that girl go? How did she get sidetracked and waylaid? well, that my friends is a whole other story. or ten. ones that I am sure will be told.

How about you? has your flame of burning love burned long and bright? or is it a flicker?