I became a writer because
my overactive imagination needed an outlet. At bedtime, it would be fed with
pages from Dahl, Blyton, King-Smith and later, Rowling, Skidmore and Wilson. I
would read for hours, dividing my after school time between being hunched over
a book or hunched over my beloved GameBoy Advance. Books influenced me so much
that by the time I was eight, I wanted to be a vet, due to the envy of Mandy’s
lifestyle in the Animal Ark series.
Then we watched Animal Hospital on Thursday nights and I didn’t want to be a
vet anymore.
I bought pretty notepads with my pocket money and filled
them with scribbled, unending stories. But that didn’t matter that they had no
end, no plot, no character arc. They were adventures and made me excited to put
pen to paper. When I had the opportunity to write stories for homework, I took
it very seriously. Selecting my best pen and positioning myself at the dining
room table, I would concoct wondrous worlds of dragons and fairies. I always
got a gold star sticker for those assignments.
The continual praise for my writing as I went through
school added fuel to the fire. My
passion grew and took hold of my decision making. Choices became geared to
whatever would assist my writing career and they were the right choices. I will
have a blissful life indeed if I can play imaginary games for a living. The
hard part is writing them down.
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