One day at age eleven I settled comfortably on the backside of the sloping levee across the road from my childhood home. Opening my dime store (not to be confused with Walmart) tablet, I chewed thoughtfully on my #2 yellow lead pencil. Words stored in my mind began to transfer onto the page. Poetry flowed in sync with the sounds coming from the Mississippi river in the near-distance.

I listened to the wails of a loon echoing from the meandering waterway. The voice, like a grieving mother after the loss of a child, fed my melancholy thoughts. I depended on the loons and the croaking bullfrogs to give me inspiration. At age eleven I was a dreamer and I felt driven to write sentimental and lonely poems.

Today when I revisit my hometown I still hear the loons, ever consistent, continue their mournful tones that reverberate from the rolling river. The bullfrogs answer, gruffly chastising the rest of the water creatures.

I have since realized I’m not so much a poet after all though an equal amount of creativity remains embedded within me. Every time I write a story the imagination of an eleven year old launches itself forward. The loons still inspire me though now they are cataloged in their own niche to be utilized when melancholy may settle in again. I’m still a dreamer and it’s imperative I stay a dreamer. It allows for an enormous amount of material for my storytelling.