Writing was not my first love.

From the time I could wrap my little fingers around a crayon, drawing was my life. My mother was always opening books to find little surprise doodles on the inside of the covers. My grandmother kept plenty of butcher paper on hand, as well as a jumble of stubby colored pencils and chalks for me to ply my abundant imagination to.

This love spilled over into school, where art projects were seen as rewards, not homework. If we were given choices on the difficulty of the assignment, I always opted for the most difficult art project to tackle. I still remember walking into fifth grade history with one of my end-of-year tasks. Most kids chose the essay. I chose to draw King Tut's mask. I even added in all the gold embelishments. Mr. Davidson gave me an A+ for that one.

And so my love of art grew. But so did my passion for music.

Music always flowed in our house. Whether it was from the old cabinet stereo, or the upright piano that was up against the west wall, there was rarely a silent moment to be had. So it was a natural progression that my parents enrolled me in piano lessons when I was 8 years old, and I found a whole new talent to be enamored with.

Piano came with a strange new language to sort out. Scales and chords...majors and minors. Staccato and legato. Pianissimo and FORTE! I soaked it all in, week after week, and quickly surpassed the weepy little ballads of "Colour My World" and "Time in a Bottle". My first piano teacher was replaced with a classical tutor, who swept me away into the world of Beethoven, Chopin, and Bach.

Her name was Jill, and she had raven black hair that she would have to put up in a bun or else it would get caught beneath her when she sat down. She would chew lightly on her gum as she scrawled endless notes in my spiral notebook for me to pay attention to in my week's practice sessions. I would lug my backpack along as I walked to her house after school, Schirmer's classical piano books wedged in between my folders and schoolbooks.

So I became known as 'Aimee, the artist and musician'. I defined myself by it, day after day. Backdrops for school plays, recitals for audiences of pleased parents - this was my life. This was how I knew to live life.

Junior High came around, and I added even more to my plate. I took up the clarinet - though my first choice was the flute. Girls who played the flute got to carry dainty little black cases that held their pretty silver instruments. Those who played clarinet or saxaphone walked with sagging shoulders from the weight of their chosen horn. I told the teacher I wanted to play flute. He told me I would be a better clarinetist, because....and I quote....'Your lips are too big to play the flute, kiddo.'

So I joined the sagging-shouldered troup. And I also became our concert band's first chair clarinetist.

Now for those of you who do not know what a 'first chair' musician is, let me explain. You must conquer your way to the top. Not only that, but you must do it in front of the whole class. You raise your hand, and challenge someone ahead of you to a duel for the next chair. Those people in first and second chair are often rewarded with solos in concerts, and though it might seem small - it's all you have when you are in school. The challenger picks the piece of music to play, and the battle begins. The audience votes, and the results are instant. You have to collect your music off the stand, and switch places then and there.

I was seated in fifteenth chair. I raised my hand fifteen times, and on by the fifteenth challenge I sat myself down in that number one spot. I remained there until I graduated highschool.

So by the time I was Sophmore in highschool, my talents were cemented. I had the freedom in art class to select whatever my next projects would be. I was good friends with my band teacher, and was allowed to remain in the classroom during break in order to listen to music and stretch out for a snooze behind the trumpet section chairs. My piano lessons had escalated to the point where 24 page Concertos could be played with eyes closed. The definition of myself seemed complete.

And then I met Suzanne.

She was my Collage Prep English teacher. She had a love for language that seeped out of her every pore. She was the first person who ever suggested (as an assignment) on keeping a journal, and writing about things I enjoyed. Oh I had written in the past, and even won a small award and a picture in the local newspaper for writing a little essay on 'What My Home Means To Me'. But her task was enthralling... write about whatever I wished.

So I did. Sprawling descriptions of what a fantasy day would be like. Notes about the latest squabble with my best friend. Lovesick prose about a new crush. Overzealous descriptions of city life which I knew nothing of, and yet felt compelled to pen anyway. Each one was met with encouragement and kind criticism from Suzanne.

I still didn't realize that I was really 'writing'. To me, I was The Artist and Musician. I never conceived that there might be something else out there that would lure my soul and tempt my senses with a new passion. I was simply completing my assignments and enjoying the benefits of pleasing my teacher with my efforts.

Suzanne must have seen something within me, for she kept coaxing me to write more. She paved the way for me to attend a special conference for gifted students, where I stood in front of an audience and read some of my poems. She never turned me away when I had something new to show her, even when it was between classes or time to head home. Little by little, she was nurturing something inside of me that would eventually grow into an all consuming love.

But by the time I was really starting to understand that enchanting artistry of words to paper, it was time to graduate and enter the world. My time with Suzanne slipped away, but what she instilled with me carried on.

The art and music will always be there, waiting in the background for moments stolen from the world. But the words are an ever beating pulse of need. They are there in my mind, and if left untold for too long, they begin to humm like mad bees. I have to get them out, somehow...someway. I get pouty and disorganized if the hectic pace of the work week has kept me from my words. I need the fix. I need that hit of adrenalin and satisfaction. I am a junky for the stories told.

I used to define myself as 'Aimee, the artist and musician'.

Now I simply live, and let the creativity take me where it wishes.

Writing was not my first love. But it has become the soulmate that beckons my Muse like no other.