I like to write.  Doesn’t necessarily matter what the topic or who’s reading it … it’s some sort of cosmic release.  If people in militias have a stash of weapons, then I have a stash of vocabulary words at my disposal.   In fact, the only reason I started this website is so that I could have an outlet for my wordsmithing.

My folks cannot fathom how I can make a living stringing words together.  Frankly, neither can I.  My father wanted me to follow in his footsteps in the single most mundane career ever, an engineer.  And if that didn’t work out … a dermatologist.  Followed by an accountant … which is what my mom did for a living.   When I told my folks I wanted nothing more than to write … combined with fame and fortune, they couldn’t believe it.  Where had they gone wrong?

I’ll tell you where they went wrong.  It all harkens back to me being four years old.  I’m sitting curled up in the closet with my dad and we’re learning vocabulary words.  Why we’re in the closet I’m still not quite sure, but it seemed fitting at the time.  The closet has become a place near and dear to my heart.

My dad and I would learn several new words every day.  And then I’d have a chance to try them out on him.  Clearly, he was impressed that 1) I was a child prodigy and 2) I was soaking words up faster than he was.

Out in the real world, my four-year old brain was spewing out words at the most inopportune moments.  I told my Chatty Cathy pre-school teacher that she was loquacious.  If she wanted me to be a successful world-renowned finger painter, she would clearly need to be more taciturn.

One day while watching “Sesame Street”, my mom asked why I thought a particular Muppet was sad.  I said, “Mom, the Muppet is not sad … he’s pensive.   Duh.”

The vocabulary lessons concluded shortly after that.