The other day I recaptured a memory from when I was very, very young.
My aunts and uncles and cousins always got together with extended family, so I knew my cousins’ aunts from the other side of their family. This memory comes before I went to school, so I couldn’t have been much older than three or four, but it is very vivid.
My cousins’ aunt, a teenager at the time, had a toy typewriter. It was red. It typed purple, like the dittos I would later receive in school for classwork. I was obsessed with the typewriter. I remember wanting desperately to play with it. Longing to use it.
Even then, I knew I was a writer.