<p>The only thing I ever wanted to be when I grew up was a writer. (Except for a brief period when I was three years old and decided I would be a fire fighter because I really wanted to drive that fire engine.)</p><p>My parents read to me every day. Children's books, of course. But poetry and bits of the classics, too. Story time was my favorite part of the day. </p><p>Left alone to play, I enacted elaborate dramas with my stuffed animals. I told my dolls stories while I jumped on my bed. For some reason, the plot lines flowed better when I was jumping. (For the record I no longer do this. My knees are not as forgiving as they used to be.)</p><p>When I was five, I was so obsessed with stories, that I was even willing to give up my play time to go to school. My parents promised I would learn to read, so it seemed a fair deal. My plan was simple. Once I could read, I would not have to wait for someone else to read to me. Best of all, I could learn anything I needed or wanted to know. I figured I would not even have to go to school anymore. Brilliant!</p><p>That is when I learned that life does always follow your plan.</p>
