Rationale

One of my earliest reading recollections took place when I was about seven years old. I recall reading a story about a boy who loved peanut butter. Everyday this kid would eat Peanut Butter in some way with a meal or as a snack. He was kind of like the Bubba Gump of Peanut Butter-eating Peanut Butter crackers, Peanut Butter sandwiches, Peanut Butter on apples -a veritable Peanut Butter connoisseur. Come to think of it had Dr. Seuss not already penned Green Eggs and Ham, my little Peanut Butter friend and his Peanut Butter compulsion would have been a perfect subject for such a tale, for if memory serves me right he ate his Peanut Butter in a tree house, Peanut Butter on the porch, Peanut Butter in his room, and one could beg the question Can you eat Peanut Butter on the moon?

Shortly after I completed reading this Peanut Butter chronicle my mother was confronted with a sudden need to purchase bulk quantities of my new found epicure. It was also around this time that I first put my hand to writing my own stories of little boys and their many indulgences –the pursuit of suitable football teammates, the cultivated angst of being told to clean ones room, the little girl who, unbeknownst to him at the time whose attention he would one day vie for, would not stop looking at him in class, and the like. I had learned through that simple, yet incredibly captivating tale of sandwich fixings of the power that the written word has to illuminate, influence and shape the human condition.

I believe in the art of storytelling.