And So it Begins…

I feel like the first post of a brand new blog has to arrive with some sort of fanfare. Maybe a few fireworks, a choreographed youtube dance, or just an inflatable-arm-flailing-tube-man. It always feels so…. daunting. Which is why I’ve probably been putting this off for so long.

First, a little bit about myself.

I was that kid who only got in trouble at school for one thing- drugs. Just kidding (I actually won the D.A.R.E. essay contest in 5th grade. I know, pretty fabulous). No, I got in trouble for something much more alarming: reading during math class.

I was such a rebel.

I read during lunch, walking to class, on the playground, under my desk, and every time I had even a nanosecond between finishing an assignment and when the teacher handed me another. Yeah, I was that kid.

I was the sole cause of the “you must be moving/exercising at all times during recess” rule, because I would hide in the hot plastic slides with a book. Don’t worry though, I made a treaty with the teachers so I could walk the perimeter of the playground and read at the same time. I’ll never be able to thank them enough for the valuable skill of walking while reading without running into things.

That's me sitting at the top, immersed in my favorite pastime. And that would be my best friend below. We really haven't changed much.

That’s me at the top, immersed in my favorite pastime (rockin’ that turtleneck). And that would be my best friend below. We really haven’t changed much.

But reading was only half of my passion, though it probably consumed the most time. The other half involved daydreaming. And when I put those daydreams on paper, I got to call them stories. The books I devoured were kindling to my imagination. I wanted stories, and I wanted my own stories.

The first time I stood in front of my class and read aloud from something I wrote, something purely from my own head, and watched as my classmates grew still and their eyes grew wide, and even that kid who was always in trouble hung on my every word, I knew.

I knew that this is what I wanted to do with my life.

I wanted to weave words that would captivate an audience, leave them breathless, give them something to hope for. I wanted to get lost in lands that existed only in my head and then invite people to join me.

It may have taken four years of college with the wrong degree (because a degree in writing isn’t “safe”), and letting myself believe the teachers who said I would be an author, but I’m here.

I’m in the last stages of writing my first full length novel with plans to publish this fall. Finally, I’m where I belong, getting serious about my writing, becoming the author I always knew I was.

This is my story.

An end of year note from my First Grade teacher.

An end of year note from my First Grade teacher.

 

 

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