The Story Begins

     

     She remembered December, rehearsing for a winter voice recital.  "You Raise Me Up" had managed to burst from her lungs with a volume that she hadn't realized was possible.  Her voice teacher had smiled.  "When you sang that song, I could tell that you love music." 
     It was true, she realized with surprise.  She had loved music for a long time, but she had forgotten.  Later, she would tearfully insist that she didn't like playing piano, but there was always a little whisper in her mind:  "You love music.  Not just singing, either."
     There were other whispers, saying, "Why waste your time?  This has nothing to do with your future, nothing to do with the career plans you have yet to make.  Plus, you aren't that good at it."
     This time, she managed to remember that she loved it.
     In the spring, she was chatting with her aunt.  "I know how much you love art." she heard.  Her aunt was absolutely right.  She loved colors and patterns and the way it connected with people.  She had no intention of being an artist- her enthusiasm for the subject always dimmed when faced with her own meager capabilities, but, somehow, that was okay.
     All the time, stories followed her around.  Real stories, ones that were funny because she was a goof, or happy because she was loved.  There were sad ones, too, and she tried to learn as much as she could from them so they wouldn't come again.  Imaginary stories floated across her mind.  She saw sunlit beaches, princesses locked in towers, an old man masterfully playing the violin on a gray street corner.  She loved stories.  No one needed to remind her of that.
     Then she realized that these interests were all one.  She loved different forms of art.  They were colorful, unique, and diverse.  They made connections and points that other mediums could never get across.  She thought it was beautiful, also, how they flew, uninhibited, across the barriers of culture, age, and time.
     The question sprang into her mind:  How could she use these interests of hers?
     She thought, first, of words, and of how she loved to come across quotes from books that seemed to fit her exactly.  Then she remembered, as a child, painting with water colors at her aunt's dining room table.  There had to be a way to combine them, like music combined chords and lyrics to create exquisite songs.
     What did she do?
     You're reading the answer.