It’s my birthday! Coincidentally, I get to celebrate it at home in Portland. I haven’t been home in a year, and I’ve been unbearably homesick.
Today I’m going to participate in an awesome blogfest called Origins. For this fest, you write about how you first started out as a writer. I love telling this story, so I consider this fest a birthday treat.
When I was eight years old, my grade-school teacher asked us all to write “a book.” We had to type them up, format the pages, illustrate them, and make a cover. When we were done, she got them bound.
My story – The Haircut – was about a girl who was jealous of her twin sister when she got a rabbit for Christmas. They fought over it until the jealous one threatened to cut her hair. (Their long hair was symbolic of their relationship, so this was a betrayal.) They made up and in the end, the girl got her own rabbit for Christmas.
(In subsequent books, the rabbits were kidnapped because they turned out to be aliens with magic powers. I did a lot of genre hopping back then.)
Instead of just letting us take the books home, my teacher had us put them on the shelves with all the other books. During story time, we could read what the other students wrote. My classmates would approach me and compliment me on my book. I decided, “This is so much fun, I want to do it for the rest of my life.” And I did.
The rest is history.