I was always a smart kid. I was talking in full sentences before I turned 2, and I distinctly remember lying on my stomach in the basement office/playroom at my Nana’s house with a pencil, my favorite book about storks, and a lined notebook. With a determined tongue stuck out between my teeth, I would painstakingly copy my favorite stories onto the blank paper. Such began my fascination with stories. I had such a vivid imagination that I absorbed everything around me with an added flourish: the crack in the wall in my closet was a door to a world of angels and magic, the creepy stonewall stairway to the dark and dank basement was filled with gluttonous, talking rats, the dirty and bug-filled crawlspace under the back half of my childhood house was the start a treacherous quest that only the bravest of warriors could face and survive.
I may have been constantly making up stories in my own head space, but I didn’t write anything down on paper until I was ten years old. I had recently moved to a new state (Texas from Massachusetts) which was, to say the least, a traumatizing time in my early life. I had also just really begun homeschooling, which helped to shape me as a writer and is an important part of my past. No “what if” is big enough to encompass what my life could have been like if I had gone to public school, or never left Massachusetts. All I know is that, at age 10, I wrote a short story. It was very short–two full sides of one piece of college-ruled paper–and it was about a sad boy who was stuck in a mirror and the girl who helped him. I’m fairly certain I have the original piece of paper still as a reminder of where it all began.
I have written a lot since I was 10 years old. 15 years of writing concludes in over 100 folders of half-ideas, five “finished” (I use this word lightly) novels, a million words invested in fanfiction, a half a dozen college creative writing courses, and a strong desire to publish. It is an ultimate dream of mine to walk into a book store and see my book on the shelf. When it happens–positive thinking!–I will probably end up breaking down in tears. My life continues to throw me curveballs, and as the time ticks away, I fear my chances of getting published are beginning to slim. It’s times like these that I remember how excited 10 year old me was to write a story, and how everyone’s lives move at different paces.
I am an author.
I will get published.
This is just the beginning.