From the moment I first understood what a writer was, I wanted to be one.
It just made sense. Stories had their way of gripping my young mind in ways hitherto.
And I went to lengths to be one.
When I was younger, I still remember my parent’s first computer. The tapping of the keyboard keys struck a cord. I still get that feeling now, giddy. But once I learned how to type, I would—I’m not kidding—write out children’s books. Word for word. Just because I enjoyed it. I eventually started to type out books with a little more girth. Oftentimes, when my eyes crossed or I tired, I would have my babysitter continue to type out my carefully selected books. (They weren’t Hemingway or F. Scott Fitzgerald or anything grandiose, sadly). I’m not sure why she acquiesced. Probably because I was finally quiet.
Today, I still tap a keyboard. Now for a living.
And I’d still make my babysitter continue to write for me if I could.
Keep writing. Every. Damn. Day.