
I’m a writer, so it’s not exactly a newsflash when I tell you I love stories.
I love everything about them. Hearing them. Reading them. Watching them. Telling them. Sharing them.

The first story I remember hearing was about… well, me. My mom used to say that very soon after I was born, my dad woke up in the middle of the night in a panic and he jostled my mom awake and said, “Honey! Why in the world did we name our son CARL? It’s a TERRIBLE name!”
My mom replied sleepily and not a little angrily, “CARL??? Our son’s name is CRAIG!!!”
My dad breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank god. That’s a MUCH better name,” he said and went right back to sleep.
My mom did not.
I wrote my first story when I was about four. I called it “Eddie the Rat & Gus the Ghost.” That’s pretty much all I remember about it — the title, and that at least one of them didn’t make it out of the story alive.

Later, in first grade I think it was, my teacher asked everyone to write a letter to someone famous or someone they wanted to meet or whatever. You know, one of those kind of assignments.
Most kids wrote to the President or Santa Claus or David Hasselhoff.
Not me. I wrote to a guy who told some pretty good stories.
Dr. Seuss.
And guess what?
Dr. Seuss wrote back.
Seriously.

What did he say, you ask?
What pearls of wisdom did he impart upon me, grownup to little Falzone, doctor to student, master storyteller to wannabe scribbler?
Did he mention whether his life — the life of a writer, the kind of life I wanted, surrounded by letters and words and punctuation and all those awful blank pages just sitting there, mocking you, waiting to be filled — was it all worth it?
Well, what Dr. Seuss wrote is…
I have no goddam idea.
Because I can’t remember what he wrote and I don’t have the letter anymore because our school closed for good at the end of the year and we all went to a different school from then on and since I was kind of a quiet kid back then I didn’t exactly make a fuss about not getting the letter back.
But I should’ve.
For the love of Cindy Lou Who, I should’ve.

So if anybody out there who knows the whereabouts of a closet or a storage locker or, hell, even a landfill stuffed with the contents of Mrs. Schick’s class, Pasadena Drive School, Plainview, New York, circa 1978 — you know where to find me.
You might say this is one story I hope isn’t over yet.