I’m often asked if I always knew I wanted to be a writer. I don’t know that I ever really considered writer as a career option. You know, because I like to eat. And pay my bills. And buy extravagant things like socks. Thinking back to my childhood, however, I remember telling stories frequently. Usually, my stories consisted of nuggets like, “No, I didn’t hit my sister; the wind knocked her over” and “Yes, yes I did finish all my homework, Mom.” What can I say? I was creative with the fiction.
But I have some proof of my budding genius-like story-telling skills. My mom saved a box of old papers, art projects, report cards, and stories from my grade school days. Now and then I like to pull them out and reminisce. I’m always shocked by what I find though. Somehow, the glorious report cards I remember have changed over the years and now include all sorts of negative comments from my teachers. The amazing artwork I created back in the day, falls flat when I admire it these days. And the stories I once considered brilliant masterpieces are well, not quite the epic sagas I remember. Case in point – here’s a book I penned when I was in the third grade.
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I think it’s pretty obvious that even back then, I was headed for literary
mediocrity greatness. With skills like those, I was clearly destined to be a writer. Or you know, a sociopath. Six of one, half dozen . . .
Now I’ve gotta go because the wheels in my head are already spinning with ideas for a sequel! Ah, such is the life of a novelist.
Buy my books. You can hang them on hooks. They’re so much fun to read! They’re something you need! They’re the best thing in town. (Well, next to the clown.) Because I Said So and You’ll Lose the Baby Weight (and Other Lies About Pregnancy and Childbirth).