The Book

The Book

I always had the dream of writing a book one day. I’d spent so much time reading everything I could get my hands on as I grew up, I felt like I could easily write a book myself.

In my early teens I started collecting things that might help me with my story. I loved walking in the woods, so periodically brought home leaves, sticks, flowers, whatever I found that caught my eye. I also loved sidewalks, walking by stores or houses imagining what was going on inside. Finding a feather was always exciting. I’d go home with it and look up what kind of bird, and read all about it so I might make it part of my book. My book that never seemed to have a story.

Eventually my room got overwhelmed with things that I’d collected that never really lead me to a story. My mother periodically told me I had to get rid of some or I wouldn’t fit in my room myself. Being in my teens, I found it hard tossing anything out, so instead I started yard sale-ing stuff. My front yard sale table of rocks and feathers and such began attracting people doing crafts. I had lots of beautiful things. The rocks, the feathers, dried flowers. I actually became quite popular at it.

Eventually I grew up, still hording a lot of found things, and moved the sale to my mother’s garage. And when I got old enough, to my own garage. I still collected, thinking I’d still start writing one day.

I was in my fifties when I realized I was never going to write that book, but by then I had my own store. Oddly enough, many of my customers actually were writers. Life is weird, don’t you think?