Since I can remember, I’ve been in love with words. As a child, I would type away on my dad’s work computer after school, print out my stories, and proudly read them to my family. No matter how cringe-worthy my early attempts were—and trust me, they were far from best-seller material—my family always sang my praises. Somewhere along the way, though, life got busy. In high school, I stopped writing and even drifted away from reading.
Then, in my freshman year of college a large campervan parked outside my lecture hall caught my eye. The sign read Mobile Library. Inside, shelves lined the walls, bursting with books. There was so many they were stacked on top the shelf and on the floor as well. An old man with a perpetually mean-looking face sat behind a makeshift counter. Curiosity got the better of me, and I started visiting—just to poke around at first. Over time, we became acquaintances. He would tell me how little students would enter, and how fewer would check something out. Behind his gruff exterior was a bored man, with little to do and no one to talk to. There was also kindness I doubt other students saw.
He started recommending books; fiction, non-fiction, short story’s and poems alike. After some convincing on his part, I signed up for a library card. I began borrowing book after book, devouring each one. I’d swing by before or after classes to let him know my thoughts. That old man reignited my love for literature and, more importantly, reminded me of the joy I found in creating stories.
So here I am, writing again, chasing the magic I felt as a child. Thanks, old man—whatever this becomes, I owe it to you.

-Sol Fallman