Writing is in my blood.  It is as essential to me as breathing.  Since I was a young child, I have written.  My early memories involve snuggling up with my notebook and writing stories and poems.  When we were given a writing assignment in school, I could feel the excitement bubbling up while the other kids groaned.

I am not a first generation writer.  My grandfather was a sports editor and writer for a local newspaper.  My favorite picture of him shows him sitting in front of his old-fashioned typewriter with a cigar in his mouth and a glint in his eye.  My mother still has the typewriter.

The tools of the trade have changed a little since my grandfather wrote his articles on that typewriter, but some things remain the same.  Such as the joy that comes from breathing life into words on a page.  Taking the passion that others have for what they do and translating it into the written word.  Or,  slipping into a zone where hours pass in minutes. 

Maybe someday my grandchildren will have a favorite picture of me.  There will be no cigar, and there will be no typewriter.  Instead, it will be me with my computer.  And a glint in my eye. 

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