When I was seven years old I wrote my very first book. It was an idea I’m pretty sure I pilfered from a TV show, a story about dryer monsters that eat socks. But I wrote it, illustrated it, and my 2nd grade teacher (Mrs. Scullion, because I never forget anything) bound it for me. It was a project, something I was supposed to do, but it got me hooked. I decided I was going to be an author someday. A famous one, I was sure of it. You know, the way seven-year-olds are sure of everything.
I’ve always been a talker and, more specifically, a story teller. I want to tell everyone what happened. All the time. Even if maybe I embellish a little along the way. That’s a story teller’s privilege, isn’t it? My social, talkative nature kind of clashes with my other dominate trait: I’m a reader. A bookworm, really. I’ve never gone to a school where the librarians didn’t all know me by name. I’ve always felt that books were where I belonged, if that makes any sense at all.
What I’m trying to get across is that words are more than how I communicate, they’re how I exist. Since I was seven, I’ve changed my intended career a few times but that first one has always been there. It’s almost like I just put it up in a box in the attic to wait until I was ready to accept it again. I don’t have even half the surety I once possessed but I know I want this. It’s the oldest dream I have and the dearest.
So. I’m writing a book. Maybe it’ll be great or maybe it won’t, only time will tell. But I’m committing to it with all that I have and that has to count for something.