Credit: Writer’s Digest
I don’t remember the first time I thought, “Hey, I’d like to write.” Some people have a specific incident they can point to as the exact moment they decided to become a writer. Truthfully, I think writing chose me.
I remember lying in the grass during summers at my grandparents’ house, staring up at the clouds and noticing them taking shape. I’d see dinosaurs, faces, hearts and bears. The idea that I may be the only one experiencing this kind of magic made me feel lonely. I desperately wanted to share what I was seeing with another person.
In junior high, our class read the book Where the Red Fern Grows together. We had to read some parts at home, and some parts were read aloud in class. The ending is quite sad, and I remember looking around the room and seeing my classmates crying. The idea that we were all sharing the same emotion, just because of a book, made a huge impact on me.
As I got older, books really began to give gave me a way to understand the world around me. I loved nonfiction, or fictional works which were (or seemed like they could be) based on true stories. I wanted to know about life, about real life. I understood that there were things happening outside of my very small world, and I wanted to know about all of them. Continue reading →
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