Before I could read, I wanted to write. Or at least, to type. When I was four years old, I asked for a typewriter for my birthday. I am blessed with amazing parents. They never asked me why I wanted something…if it was a possible request, no matter how odd, they would do what they could. So on my fifth birthday, I unwrapped my first typewriter. A bright sunshine yellow machine, perfect for the mid ’70’s. And no sooner was it out of the box, that my mom and dad gave me a fistful of paper, and helped me roll it into the typewriter. They took a photo of me as I sat beside it on the kitchen floor. Already, I am looking off into the distance, one hand on the keys, thinking. I can only imagine that even at that age, I was listening for the Muse.