When I was ten years old I made a discovery that has never left me: words move people. Even in works of fiction, words are powerful.

It was summer, a particularly hot day in Whittier, California where I grew up, and it was one of those perfect days for finding a place in the shade to sit down with a really good book. I decided I'd take the Reader's Digest condensed version of Old Yeller by Fred Gipson and head outside for an afternoon read.
So I poured some cold grape Kool-Aid into a blue thermos, wrapped waxed paper around a few Flaky Flix cookies-- those finger sized wafers, chocolate covered and dipped in corn flakes -- and headed down to our avocado grove on the northeast side of our house.

Once there, I picked my favorite sturdy trunk to lean against, moved the leaves around to form a nice cushion--something my dad hated as it wasn't good for the tree roots.  Nevertheless, I made myself comfy, poured some Kool-Aid into the thermos cup, ate a couple of Flaky Flixes, and opened up the book.

What's always stuck in my mind to this day, even after all these years, is how the day in the grove started out as perfect: hot sun, cool shade, sturdy trunk to rest against,  crunchy chocolatey cookies and cold grape-y Kool-Aid for refreshment. And a good book. Perfection for a ten year old bookworm. I just hadn't planned on the tears.

When I got to the part where Travis realized he had to shoot his rabid dog Yeller, the dog he adored with all his boy heart, the bliss in my warm summer day turned cold. Through eyes filling with tears, I read and experienced as if it were all true and happening in front of me; as if I stood nearby as Travis approached his sick old dog and then with what was an immense and personal sorrow, Travis shot his dog. I could hear the gunshot reverberating through the avocado grove.

A fictitious story on a summer day. Sweet Flaky Flix and Kool-Aid. And salty tears.
Words on paper showed their power to move.

Words. They can be beautiful or brutal, tender or terrifying , liberating or limiting. The choice of which to use to exhort, to soothe or savage, amuse or ambush is the work of a lifetime. I think that day, somewhere between settling back against the sturdy tree trunk and allowing the tears to fall,  I think that day I knew I wanted to write,  because that was the day I felt first hand exactly what carefully chosen words could do.