Vincent had a daily routine. When he got home from school he would have a snack and play with his familiars. Then he would get any homework he had out of the way and help Giselle with the small things that needed taking care of around the house and shop. Most of the time it was with helping Giselle with simple dinner preparations. He wasn't much of a chef yet, but his mac and cheese was pretty amazing if he did say so himself. They would eat, Giselle would go downstairs to mind the shop and work on new pieces, and Vincent would log onto his computer, go to the dictionary website, and find the word of the day. Then he would pull out a special journal, flip to a clean page, and write a short story using that particular word.
For as long as Vincent could remember he'd always wanted to be a writer. There was just something magical about books of all kinds. You could tell of events that happened ages ago, stories of things and people and all the stuff they'd done. Some of the things were good, some were bad, but regardless it was there fore anyone who picked up the book. Or the writer could use words to create entirely new worlds, worlds with things and creatures straight from the lands of purest fantasy. They used their words to weave together another universe entirely, something altogether apart from reality and yet, because that book existed, still vividly and solid part of reality.
Vincent had had a lot of free times on his hands back when he lived in the orphanage. Oh he played with the other children his age, looked up to the ones older than he and took care of the ones younger, but there still wasn't much to do. So he read. The academy let him take home books, so most of his time was spent reading. Sometimes it would be a story for entertainment, sometimes a history or educational text. He would also bring back books way beneath his reading level, to read to younger children who wanted to listen. He watched the love of stories blossoming on their faces, the rapt way they would focus on his every word. It made Vincent put a bit of a polish on his reading style; he had quite a fine reading voice to this day.
Now he didn't have much to complain about with his life. He was fed, clothed, and housed. Sure the adults spent more of their time with the younger children, but he'd understood. There were so many orphans, and only so many workers. Still. Part of him longed to do something unique. To leave his mark on the world, so that years from now when he was likely making old bones in the ground, there would be people who still spoke his name. After all hundreds of people before him had done so, so why couldn't he?
To that end Vincent practice writing every chance he got. He kept a daily journal, both for record of his life and to practice noticing more details in the world. He would look up a new word every day and use that word to make a story, in the hopes of expanding his vocabulary. Giselle had even gotten him a special journal with daily writing challenges. He had a shelf in his room crammed tight with spiral notebooks, full of writing. Vincent knew writing wasn't all there was to making a book, that there were plenty of things he still had left to learn, but it was at least a start.
He looked up the word of the day. Jitney. He picked up his journal, flipped to a clean page, and began to write.
'Paul, tired from a long day at work, waited under a sheltered overpass to catch a ride on the jitney. He looked forward to the day he could buy a car of his own, but that would be a long time in coming. Right now, public transportation was his only means of getting around...'
