maybe it's just me, but i think stories and pillows are apart of the same family.

they may even be siblings. that's a thought, eh?

I think a story--to the reader at least--should feel like a home. even if it is temporary. you see, i read veeeeeery sloooooowly. sometimes it takes me months to finish one medium-sized novel. the fact that i like words doesn't help either. i'll re-read and re-read and re-read a single paragraph just so i can completely understand where the author was coming from, and where he or she plans to take me. i become a part of the stories, or rather, the stories become a part of me. oh, and i'm committed too. i'll stick with a story 'til the bitter end. even if (while i'm supposed to be reading it) it puts me to sleep, makes me yawn, makes me think of my To-Do list, makes me think of who I need to call, how bangin' that salad was this afternoon, Did I forget to get my laundry out this morning? I need to call Grandma. What am I going to cook for dinner. I DO NOT feel like doing my hair. Oh My God, get me off this train.

Eh-hem. As I was saying... I'm committed. and it's funny b/c i've always been like this. I remember when I was younger, my mother would take me to the library when we lived in Kansas City. there was a children's section, and I used to love going to the Table With The Puzzles. they had little wood sticks on them, so that little hands could grip the images, and fit into the right spot. i loved the process of choosing a book. that slightly used, but still in tact look and feel. i was a part of a chain of words. this book had passed through several hands, and now it was my turn to see what all the fuss was about. we'd head to the counter, check it out, and go one about our way. me, eventually off to some fairy-tale La La Land. the bookstore was the shit too. i LOVED going to the bookstore to get a new Berenstein Bears book. They were my favorite characters. Mama, Papa, Sister, Brother. I remember wishing they could get new outfits, and that they had funner names, but b/c they'd taken me through so many adventures, i forgave them.

berenstein bears became baby-sitters club became R.L. Stein. i lived for R.L. Stein. His teen murder-slasher-mystery series, "Fear Street," had me captivated. for the first time, a story stretched my limits in a different sort of way. as a child, stories taught me about social things: the meaning of friendship, sharing, playing by the rules, but these stories had me at the edge of my seat. gripping the sides of the chair, biting my nails, wanting so bad to flip to the back of the book...i couldn't get enough. i fell deeper in love.

i grew out of r.l. stein. i got older, and the stories stayed the same. kept the same formula. from then on, it was mostly required reading for school. i was in high school, so there was always a book assignment. catcher in the rye, jane eyre, to kill a mockingbird. all very lovely, but nothing jaw-dropping.

until

the bluest eye made its way into my life. toni morrisson's tale of a young black girl in a blue-eyed world, registered with me. showed me that there's strength in the black female voice. that emotions, catastrophe, love, history...everything could put down on paper with such grace, elegance, and intelligence--and even published! and recognized! i wanted to do it too. i wanted to capture words and use them to my advantage. i, too wanted to wrangle truth and pain and experience and life and serve it with pride as fiction.

i was destined to write. to make fluffy pillows for people to rest on, for, i don't know a week? a month? however long it takes you to read. i feel as if i'm here to deliver messages, or maybe just one. somehow, i feel this journalism path that i've been sent on is practice for the main event. i don't know when, how, or why, but as they say at my church, "I am open to receive."

that's my story. (i hope you weren't thinking about your To-Do this whole time...)