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You all are a bunch of bookworms!

A friend made that comment to me recently, and I had to laugh because it was true. My friends are all talented writers or artists in their own right. We are in different stages; some are published, some are in the midst of writing, some are hidden writers, and others are just beginning to awaken their inner writer. There was something intrinsically unique to growing up in our close knit social setting.

I remember growing up. My mother ran childcare as a favor for a friend, so two of my best friends were over every week for fun and adventure. For years, we ran wild, limited only by our own imagination, and with six acres of land which included dark woods, flowering fields, babbling brooks, and colorful gardens, there was nothing we could not conceive. Many hours were spent in creative abandon, many days chasing the sun and the stars.

There is something magical when people–no matter the age–come together with minds full of ideas. I remember nights seated around our kitchen table just eating cookies and shooting the breeze. Sometimes we were rolling in laughter over stories and tall tales we spouted to each other. How many wild ideas had we conceived on those nights? How many world problems had we solved?

Because we did that, too. We weren’t just kids all the time, we discussed every relevant problem under the sun. We practiced our opinions in the safety of friendship, we learned how to bend our ideals and allow ourselves to be open minded. We didn’t all agree, even for how close we were, there were still differences of opinions. The kitchen table was an open floor format for anyone to speak up, even if they wanted to be utterly ridiculous to change the subject. That was cool, too. We didn’t get hung up about problems, we let the conversation take its natural course.

We’re all grown up now and, like I said, maturing into accomplished authors. We don’t get to spend nearly as much time together. Some of us are getting married, some in serious dating relationships. A few people have been added to ‘The Collection’–as we often call it–and others have left for grand adventures. We’ve moved out of the Blue Castle with its acres of dragon-infested, fairy-spotted, danger-lurking territory and the kitchen table setting has changed, but when we get together, the story is the same as always. I suppose that’s the gift of a childhood friendship. We don’t feel the need to “grow up”, we have always included the relevant matters, and we can still talk nonsense with all the seriousness of the world.


Books have always been a passion of mine. I loved to read. My friends loved to read. My parents didn’t let us fill our days with television and video games, so we read a lot. I ate up fantasy fiction books mostly and sprinkled in a few biographies, classics, and horse books. Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen were my heroes, I think I read every one of their books before realizing it was basically the same story repeated…

One girl meets boy, some drama, girl gets boy, other girl surprisingly gets a boy too. The End.

When I could comprehend the language, I bit into science fiction genres to feed my addiction to Star Wars and Trek. I consider myself well versed, but am humble enough to admit I missed a lot of what some people consider to be essential reads. I’m also honest enough to say certain books never even interested me.

Little House on the Prairie? Let’s be real. I was too busy chasing outlaws with Zane Gray and Louis L’Amour. I’ll wager my Chick Bowdrie Texas Ranger to your Laura Ingalls any day.

But I’m not here to debate essential reads with anyone. We all have our own flavor in books, and I feel we should respect each other in that regard. You may refer a book, but you may not condemn or scoff a person for choosing not to read. Not on my blog, at any rate.

Tallyho, friends


Fanny T Crispin

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