I have loved to read books, and write stories, books and poetry, ever since I was little. My mom said I knew how to read by the time I was 3--thanks to pre-Elmo Sesame Street and some discarded Dick & Jane books my dad picked up from a school or library.
I think I plagarized my first story when I was in 1st grade. I just substituted dog for cat (after all, I only had a dog). My teacher and mom sat me down and explained that copying was wrong. I needed to use my own ideas and my own words. Message received.
I remember writing a letter to Charles Schultz (ok, so he's a cartoonist but let's not nitpick). I got a letter back. I think it was a real letter too. Can't find it. One of those treasures I hope I have somewhere, not having realized the value of such a piece of paper, although I was tickled to have gotten it.
In middle school, I was enamoured with the
"Soup" series of books by Robert Newton Peck. Imagine my excitement when I found he was going to speak at our school. ON MY BIRTHDAY. I sat in the front row of the auditorium, wriggling with excitement. As a part of his rehearsed talks with students, he asked about birthdays. I nervously stood up and probably flushed with excitement and not just a little nervousness when he pointed to me and asked me to come up. Robert Newton Peck and the entire room sang happy birthday TO ME.
My passion for writing grew--and I never forgot that day. In high school, a story I wrote won not only a school award but an award for the state. My very first paycheck for my writing. I think it was like $50 but it felt like a million. I went to Authors in the Park, which may exist to this day in Central Florida, to recieve my award and get to meet, once more, Mr. Peck.
My story was published in an anthology that I received that day. I thought, what better way to commemmorate this turning point in my life than by having Mr. Peck sign it? However, when it was my turn to meet him in line, after gushing about how I'd met him years earlier, and wouldn't he please sign the anthology? I got reality thrust in my face.
"I'm only signing copies of my books that are purchased here today," I was told flatly.
I was crushed. The author I had looked up to, worshipped even, showed me what I thought was the cold reality of authors. It took the shine off that day, and tarnished my earlier memory of him.
Fast forward to last year, when I joined Goodreads.com. As I started learning my way around the site, I "friended" some people I knew from Twitter who probably were the ones who introduced me to it. I looked around, added books I owned, and thought ok, this is nice.
Then I realized you could friend authors and they could friend you back. NO WAY. Seriously?
Then I started entering contests to win advanced copies of books. Free books--before the public gets them? Whoa. And I began to find a different outlet for my writing--book reviews. I have a journal to jot down books I've read over the years, and a separate one to give a one sentence reaction to it (yes I love journals). But now I could write reviews for people to see....even....the authors? Yeah just a bit of a power trip.
Eventually I had authors asking to friend ME. Then came the ebooks from authors. And towards the end of 2010, books were sent to me (I PROMISE I AM STILL READING...I may devour a book but they need to be read and enjoyed like a fine wine or Godiva chocolate). Just today I was sent 2 volumes of e-books by a new author who I think will be a huge hit.
And it hit me...the giddiness, the excitement...while my writing has changed to blog entries, fanfiction, role playing and book reviews....I've found a calling. A passion. True, a passion I hope that will eventually become a career, even if only part-time--after all, with my chronics, there are plenty of medical bills to be paid, including those for my son (more on those on my main blog headacheslayer.blogspot.com).
But that same fresh wonder at emailing with authors is the same feeling I had as a kid. Cracking open a book that few are priviledged to read before being sold to stores, it's a thrill.
I always felt a sense of disappointment that my years of writing--as well as a college degree in English Lit/Creative Writing--had lead to what I thought was a dead end except for some odd writing bits here and there, all unpaid.
But now, those dreams are back. It's good to feel like a kid again.