In spite of my natural inclinations toward science, math and all things that public school kids deem to be geeky, I somehow ended up as a professional writer and editor. It was as much of a shock to me as it was to anyone. I went to college thinking that I’d be a math major. My mother expected me to be an engineer or pre-med. Instead I graduated with a dual major in English and Political Science and a dual minor in (of all things) Philosophy and Russian Studies. I worked for the student paper and the local newspaper. I edited the manuscript for a Psychology professor’s book, later published by Oxford University Press. I worked as a research assistant for an English Professor.

You would think that all of this would have branded me as an intellectually fluffy liberal arts major, and yet it wasn’t uncommon for me to assist my college roommate with her Engineering homework. I was an odd one, full of surprises for those who underestimated me. I suppose, then, that it’s not surprising that my writing and editing work tends not to be in the softer creative writing side of things, but rather focused on more technical, medical or scientifically focused topics.

Yet I still marvel at the fact that I work with words for a living. I can only assume that this can all be traced back to the endless amounts of reading I did as a child. I read constantly. I had an odd ability to read for hours in the car without invoking the wrath of motion sickness. I looked forward to family vacations not for the destinations, but because I was granted full and unobstructed license to go to a bookstore and buy as many books as I wanted before the trip; it wasn’t uncommon for me to leave home with half a dozen books and several magazines, and still run out of reading material before the trip was over.

Even now, after long days of reading, writing and rewriting, even when my eyes are tired and sleep is looming large, I find that I still have the urge to read in bed, even if only for a few minutes. I still love absorbing the words, whether they come from novels, nonfiction or even just a magazine. I get edgy when I run out of unread material on my “to do” shelf. I maintain a constant list of recommended books just in case of a reading crisis — and yes, there is such a thing as a reading crisis.

I’ve built quite the unique little world for myself, carving out a niche that I share with few other writers. It was a circuitous path that led me here, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.