It was Sunday. The library was closed, and I’d finished all the books I’d taken out. I didn’t feel like reading any of my own books, but I wanted… I needed…. something to read. Something new.
So I wrote my first story, casting myself as the heroine. I’m pretty sure it was inspired, at least in part, by the stories Little Lulu told Alvin in the comic books.
In the story, in which I was the heroine, I went exploring one Saturday, and got lost in the woods. (Not very original, but after all, I was only eight years old!)
I remember writing about picking berries in the falling snow. (I repeat, eight years old!)
I found myself in a cave filled with jewels…. and robbers! I wish I could remember how I handled them. What I do remember is that somehow I ended up with the jewels PLUS an award from the police. (Not a bad day’s work for an eight-year-old!)
And the next Saturday, I went exploring again.
I wrote my first fiction because I wanted something new to read.
And then I knew…. I wanted to be a writer.
No. I knew I was a writer.