From very early in my childhood, as soon as I learned to, I loved to write. Stories, thoughts, letters writing was a great joy for me. On my ninth birthday I received a gift that I will always remember. A friend of my mothers, whom Id known from birth, gave me a rather large book. The book was bound in dark leather with a red trim, and had no writing on the outside. When I opened it, there was nothing inside but blank lined pages. I absolutely adored that gift, and even at that young age I realized how much thought this woman put into it. She gave me something that was uniquely special to me. I still have that book; filled with everything from fictional stories to the rambling thoughts of a girl as she struggled to reach adulthood. And each time I look through this book, I remember how special this woman made me feel that day. She told me, without words, that my writing was important.
As parents we know that the closer our childrens birthdays get, the more hints and outright pleas we hear for this gift or that gift; usually things that are popular with everyone else their age. This is normal – and its also normal for you to buy them at least some of the...
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