Adrienne Kerman
Growing up I had a print on my bedroom wall that announced in pink and purple curlicues that little girls were made of sugar and spice and everything nice. I loved the image those words evoked. On my bookshelf in that same room were dozens of books whose type-faced words told wondrous stories about fantastical characters who swirled around my head in colorful dramatizations. And so I early on recognized the beauty and enchantment words can create.
I’ve since learned I’m not made of sugar or spice. I am constructed of words. They spill out of me to paint pictures, convey thoughts, transfer ideas, and create magic. They stream out of my pen, tumble onto the computer screen in frenetic clicks and clacks, and pour out of my mouth too often and at too great a speed and volume—so says my wonderful husband. I am a writer by nature and a mother at heart. And vice versa. I have twin boys in sixth grade who provide me with endless material and who grow the confines of my love to extraordinary proportions. I dedicate this column to them.
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