This post was written in response to Writing 101: The Things We Treasure.
Shiny baubles may catch my eye and I may be easily mesmerized by twinkling lights but neither constitute a treasure. I love my family and adore my friends but they are not my deepest treasure.
If you were to cut me open and peer at my heart, you would find in it a treasure more desirable to me than gold or diamonds. Piled high in my heart, flowing through my veins, live stories.
I hoard books filled with stories so that they line my walls without a space between them. I wait, impatiently, for stories not yet written. I long for ideas that will capture the minds of readers far into the future. I crave new stories that I can read and explore their worlds. I anticipate the next story as I’m closing the book I’ve just finished.
As far back as I can remember I have loved stories. I can still remember the words of the “Lost Little Kitten” being read in my mother’s voice. There are story books that have been passed on to the newest generation which were read to me as a child. Some of the stories I remember from my youth were created by parents and babysitters who wanted us to settle for the night. Other stories from my youth were written in scribbles on the notebooks my parents left lying on the kitchen table.
My mother encouraged my love of stories by buying me treasures to hoard like a dragon in its cave. When one book was finished another was waiting to be read. From a modest stack, the treasures grew into a massive pile.
I’ve cut down on my treasure since becoming a woman. I’ve shared them with those less fortunate by donating to libraries and local foundations. Unfortunately for my floorboards, the pile still keeps growing.
Whisper2Scream pointed out the disconnect between the previous beginning and the rest of this piece. I’ve edited out the old beginning and replaced it with something I like a bit better.