The first time I held a book, I was a mere three years of age.
I had no idea what the imprinted words on the book meant,
Only, that I wanted to read them, know them, understand them.
By the age of four I was sure, I could read almost everything in every book.
Or so it seemed that way to me, unfourtanately, most of my vocabulary had been made up.
That mattered not to me, for I had things to say and I wanted to be heard!
By the age of seven, my wonderful mother taught me how to be heard.
I had learned to read and write beatifully by that age,
and my Mother saw that my writing skills (if honed) could take me places,
places I couldn't even dream of at the age of seven.
So She, and my Father bought me a computer so I could start writing.
Seven years later my first short story was created.
I had never dreamed I would accomplish something like what I had created.
Something, bold, warm, and printed on to white beautiful pages of paper.
One-hundred and seventy-five pages made up the life that was my short story,
Before that it was two years of hard work, dedication, (blood, sweat, and sometimes even tears)
So that I could be heard.
Without the help from my Mother, I'm sure (Without a doubt) I wouldn't be here today.
She is the one and only reason I have a voice today.
She is the one and only reason I am who I am.
She is the reason that I write!