I knew I wanted to be a reader before I knew I wanted to be a writer. I suspect most authors would echo that. First comes love (and envy) of other people’s written words. We slip into their stories and find ourselves mesmerized by the magic of language. In my boyhood Texas home, we had all the westerns of Louis L’Amour, so, in my imagination, I saddled up with the Sackett’s and made my blanket the stars. Later, of course, other authors came along, wooing me, shaping me, and sometimes deforming me, but never leaving me the same.