Why I Write

Not unlike many I grew up small town, I’m not ancient in age by any means but we didn’t have a television until I was almost ten. When my Uncle bought one for my Grandmother. Up till that point it was Star Trek and Lawrence Welk  on occasion at the neighbors house. I wouldn’t say we were poor, but on the farm we did have an outhouse.
My Bug came from my Grandmother. She worked sewing at one of those big sweat shop type places, rows of singer sewing machines filled with woman pumping the peddles and running fabric, I still have pictures of her and those woman. Looking hauntingly overworked and underpaid.
My Grandmothers way of relaxing was sitting in the evening and reading to us children, as we got older she would let us take turns reading. She had shelves of these hardbound readers digest books all in a row with different colored  book spines that would jump out at you with there gold embossed lettering of what they contained.
My favorite books were ones she had kept for years some being handed down from earlier relatives. They were old then and some bindings seemed barely held together, with yellowing pages and vibrant  pictures of some of the scenes be read. Books like ‘Arabian Nights’ and ‘Last of The Mohicans, my personal favorite. I still have these books. Just glancing at them on my shelves I think back to simpler times.
I still love to read and I’ve been writing as far back as I can remember, I am not famous or really have had much published, but it doesn’t seem to matter, not as much as it means to have to write, that’s the bug I guess, I could do without many things and have throughout my life, but writing is not one of them. Anything and everything is my parchment and has been, regardless of material. Writing is a drug. I’m proud to say my drug of choice.
Thanks for listening.

Rob

p.s. My Grandmother is on the far left