If you asked my grandfather about the desk he built, he would tell you that he used oak, the strongest and sturdiest tree to build furniture with. He might even bore you with the details of the light-colored stain he used or his decision to forgo the addition of any drawers or cabinets. None of these describe the most obvious quality of the desk — its sheer size. It’s fucking huge. 

 

After twenty years in the Marine Corps and twenty-five in the state police, my grandfather did what most people with a shelf full of marksman’s trophies would do in retirement — consulting for a cell service company.In his later years in the police force, his role as head of communications gave him enough connections and experience in making legal agreements to qualify him as a “relationship builder.”

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His new position allowed him to work from home, which meant he needed a new office space. No desks at retail stores were big enough for him. As an experienced craftsman, he took it upon himself to build his own — a 52” by 31” behemoth of a table that spanned nearly the entire wall of his office. His laptop looked like a deserted island in a sea of carefully collated papers and meticulously positioned desktop organizers. For most of my childhood, this desk remained in the upstairs of my grandparents’ house that I visited often. While its use fluctuated, I figured he was too proud of it to ever leave his home.

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Writing is my passion. But in reality, I’m not sure that I had a choice.

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The best place to start is before I was born. My mother, Melissa, always loved reading. It may have come as a direct result of the number of times she moved as a kid; she loves to mention the fact she never lived anywhere longer than two years until she was a sophomore in high school. Hardly popular in school myself, I understand the companionship provided in a good book that classmates often withhold from kids who can’t be considered cool by any contortion of the word.

 

My personal relationship with writing began at four years old. When I realized I couldn’t understand much without being able to read, I pestered my parents to buy me the DIY regiment for reading Hooked on Phonics. According to them, I never begged for anything more before or after my strange obsession with the program. Our neighbors’ son had it but never got “hooked,” fortuitously leading to it falling in my possession.

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​From there, everything changed. My parents love to tell the story of them waking up to me listening to the cassette tapes that accompanied its flashcards, repeating each sound our boombox directed me to. I heard every tape, read every book, and filled out every worksheet until I was satisfied, finally able to explore the world that reading opened up to me.