I’ve always known I wanted to be an author.
In first grade, the class wrote a poem “together”. Except I was too excited to let any one else in the class participate. It was a little ditty a about a clown who came to down and turned the frowns upside down.
In third grade, poor Mrs. Birmingham tried to teach us pronouns and punctuation. I clearly remember thinking, I need to know this because I’m a writer.
Every year in early June, I would set up an “office” somewhere in my parents house, preparing for my summer of novel writing. Once year, my dad procured an old Remington cast iron office typewriter (manual), with a broken return bar. The typewriter was always in my makeshift office.
In high school, I always carried a notebook for jotting down my angsty teenage poems. I also kept a journal because journals are how biographies of famous people are researched.
When I moved into my own apartment, I borrowed my mom’s typewriter so I could “practice typing,” but I was really writing horrible poems and maudlin stories.
I always kept a notebook on me. I was always working on something. Once, while sitting in a hospital emergency waiting room for word on my badly injured grandmother, I pulled out a yellow pad and went to work. My uncle, who was with me, asked, “What are you doing?” “Working on my novel,” I replied. He said, “Oh. Are you still doing that?”
I’m a writer. An author. Yeah. I’m still doing that.