Gere McClellan, author

My poor parents: I spent most of my fifth birthday in tears, and there was nothing they could do about it.

I had been told I had to wait until I was five to start school. So … now I was five. I was expecting to hop on the school bus the next day. When I found out that wasn’t the case, I was crushed. By bedtime, I had grudgingly accepted that I would have to wait until September to start learning to read, but I wasn’t happy about it.

The next big excitement was that spring, when I got to go to O.H. Somers Elementary School one day for kindergarten screening. I don’t remember much about it — just being in the cafeteria and I think there were balance beams involved, and lots of other kids. The one thing I remember very vivdly is that they told Mom she shouldn’t let me learn how to read before I started school. WHAT?!

Apparently, the school district had decided to experiment with something called the International Teaching Alphabet. They were afraid kids would get too confused if they already knew how to read, because ITA had special symbols for each sound in our language. Here’s the thing, though: Even when they finally us how to read ITA in first grade, we still couldn’t read English. If that sounds stupid, it was — at least as far as I was concerned. The experiment ended after one year.

In second grade, we finally learned how to read like normal human beings. My spelling was abysmal thanks to ITA, but so what? I had words. Beautiful words. I couldn’t wait to get to know them all. Finally, I could pull a book off a library shelf and READ IT.

I’m pretty sure I was devouring chapter books by the end of the school year. I tore through the Carolyn Haywood shelf, made a quick stop at the Phantom Tollbooth and then was off on adventures with Nancy Drew, the Three Investigators and the Black Stallion. At some point I discovered fantasy and sci-fi books — starting with Ruth Nichols’ “A Walk Out of the World” — and soon would have happily emigrated to Pern, given the option. (In retrospect, I don’t believe “DragonFlight” was intended for fourth-graders, but it had dragons.)

By the time I was eight, I had decided I had to be a writer when I grew up. There was nothing else I ever wanted to do.

I ended up working for newspapers, usually as an editor of some sort. My work was words — all day, every day. I was surrounded by kindred spirits who considered a that/which error a cardinal sin; who truly, deeply believed the only thing that ever got underway* was an armada; and who might enjoy a game of Scrabble in the back yard or a backyard game of Scrabble … but never ever set foot in a “backyard.” Pfui!

My point is that using words with care and precision matters — to me, at least. Writing a sentence is like assembling the gears of a clock: You fit together the fewest number possible to accomplish the task at hand. Efficient. Beautiful. Transcendent.

I am a better writer because of my years in newsrooms, but being a great journalist was never my goal. Being allowed to tell some else’s story can be one of the greatest honors possible, and I loved that about my job as reporter for the Bucyrus Telegraph-Forum.

But that was never enough. It’s finally time to tell my stories. And I promise you, I’m just getting started.

*Certain readers might look back at my second paragraph and note a departure from AP Style. Pay me by the hour and I’ll use a numeral for ages. Leave me to my own devices and things get a little grey.