Their heft when you lift them off of a shelf.
Running your fingers over the title of an embossed cover.
The sound of just that kind of paper, as you flip the pages until a word, a sentence, a chapter title, or just plain instinct, stops you.
The smell of them.
The urge to write is persistent. The dream of becoming published…urgent. Sometimes even obsessive.
But life happens. Urges are stifled, dreams are put on hold. Still, throughout life, there are diary entries made, journals become a passion and massive reams of paper, handsful of pens and the hoardish possession of great, hardback journals full of empty, inviting pages feeds an obsessive-compulsive streak you never knew could be so fierce.
Then you retire and everything falls into place.
Over the course of sixty-one years*, one can accumulate a library full of memories and experiences, thoughts and philosophies. Categorizing everything by subject can take years, especially if you’re physically organizing notes. Then comes ordering, whether chronologically or otherwise, and then updating and setting it all down in NEW notebooks or, stored in and on the latest technological format.
During the past decade and a half, I’ve discovered that nearly ten books have grown out of my 61* years of life.
One book lacks only illustrations. One is nearing it’s final self-edit before a more professional editor can critique’ it*. The rest are coming together, slowly but surely. “I Love You More”, part of the “Mama Always Said” series (Mama Always Said, Vols 1-4 ©2003-2017) is my first children’s book.
It is time.*