Where most children’s first utterance is “mama,” mine was “book.” In preschool, as other kids scampered around Toys "R" Us, I devoured the shelves of Barnes & Noble. Some go weak in the knees at the scent of chocolate lava cake, but the new book smell has always been my aroma of choice. By the time kindergarten rolled around, my teachers had granted me the magical title of "classroom reader." As I read to my classmates at lunchtime, books, like pixie dust, enabled me to soar. Reading has enhanced my imagination, perception, intellect, and curiosity. Without books, "2+2 = 5" would be a mere calculation error instead of a chilling Orwellian warning, and "Hogwarts" would conjure up images of pigs with skin conditions. Stephen King once said, "Books are uniquely portable magic." As a book 's spine opens, so does the mind. Growing up, books always infused my days with creativity and sunshine. In grade school, if handed a stick, I 'd argue that it was truly my magic wand—I was Hermione Granger, see? It 's a tragic day when a toddler looks at a stick and only sees a stick, for I fear that shortly after, she will become an adult who looks at the world and sees problems, but never solutions.
As a fiction writer, actress, journalist, playwright, and blogger, creativity has always flowed through my veins. I refuse to believe the arts to be anything less than magic. Creativity changes lives.
It’s changed mine.
As someone who anticipates a lifelong marriage to the arts—till death do…