While getting up meant that lots of exciting things might happen, like coffee cake for breakfast, or finding a turtle plodding along in the road, or a trip to the park, bedtime always meant that lots of pleasant things certainly would happen.
Bedtime meant a glass of chocolate milk. It meant that another chapter of another exciting book would be read. It meant that both music boxes would be played. It meant pajamas and stuffed animals. It meant that all of the exciting things that had happened that day would be recounted. And then, it meant lying in bed for a long, long time, snuggled under the quilts and in pajamas and with stuffed animals. And that meant quiet, and dark, and the perfect time to tell herself stories. She liked the stories that were read out of books for her, because from them she learned lots of things she hadn’t known before. She also liked to have many of the same stories read again and again. But every night she made up new stories for herself, and she liked those stories best of all–because they were her very own.
The little girl grew up, and there was no more chocolate milk at bedtime, no more chapters of books read aloud, and the stuffed animals were replaced by a very snuggly cat named Pudding. Many, many things had changed in the little girl’s life, but what never changed was her love of stories, and her love of thinking about the kinds of cozy, comfortable things that had filled all the stories she used to tell herself, as well as all the stories that were read to her.
Like many people, the little girl loved to collect things. She liked lists of things, and she liked boxes full of things, and she liked to know how and where to find things (which was very funny, because she was really not a well-organized person at all!) The little girl especially loved to collect books full of nice bedtime stories (though, as she got older, sometimes they were essays instead of stories, and sometimes they came with no pictures at all).
One day, the little girl realized that she could collect all of her own stories, too. So the little girl started a blog, where she would write down all of the little fancies and imaginings that it pleased her to write. The magic of WordPress would list and box them for her, and tell her how and where to find them again, when she wanted them. It would even let other people list and box them, and tell other people how and where to find them again. And this made the little girl very happy.