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.)

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.  

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.)

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!

That is when I learned that life does always follow your plan.