It’s difficult to say which passion came first: the book or the film. As a young child, even before starting school I was already making regular trips to the library with my mom, checking out the maximum allowable materials. I also have amazingly distinct memories of the movie theater, the smells of the concession counter, the feel of the seats, the anticipation during the previews. So many landmark films seen at that theater: ET, Star Trek II, Return of the Jedi, Fantasia, Back To The Future, The Never Ending Story, Remo Williams : The Adventure Begins.
Okay, so maybe that last one wasn’t quite as landmark as the others.
The point is that some of my earliest memories are entangled with my love for the narrative structure and the excitement of story telling. I still remember being in awe of the magic that I saw in the movie theater and I think to this day I still catch myself chasing that feeling. I still remember the simplicity of childhood, living inside as well as outside of books, measuring time by how long it would be before I could dive into the depths of my own sub-conscious and just swim.
I knew at a very young age that story telling was something that I wanted to do. I wanted to create that feeling in others that had fostered such a love in myself for the written word. If, through writing I can spark a fraction of the amount of time I spent living in my own imagination then I consider myself to have accomplished my goal. We live in a world so devoid of magic anymore with so many things explained, demystified and understood, it would be arrogant for me to claim to have the power to beat back that tidal wave of evolutionary transition.
But we can still dream, can’t we?