In typical #ThrowbackThursday fashion, I want to talk about the moment when I first discovered I wanted to become a writer. It all started after I had read the book, “Haunted Sister” by Lael Litke when I was about nine years old. The book entranced me with this opening sentence, “It was raining on the day I died.” The funny thing is, I haven’t read that book in thirteen years and I still remember that line as if I had just laid eyes on the text this morning.
I must have read that book a dozen times during my childhood. Never before, had my mind been so entranced by a simple sentence. Up until then, books were mandatory – they were used for lessons and bedtime stories. Books weren’t transformative. Books weren’t compelling.
And then – my eyes laid focus on that simple sentence and everything in my life since then has been changed. It was from that moment, as I could feel the yellowed pages rubbing between my fingertips, that I discovered the magic of an artist’s words. I was lost inside an imaginative world where characters wholly existed, cradling me until I fell asleep, teasing me to turn the next page when my eyelids could barely contain them.
Suddenly, I knew – this was the impact I was destined to have on the world.
I had always had an interest in the written word. I would scribble plot lines or funny sentences etched into my notebook. Cohesively, those words would add up into my very first story just a few short years later.
It’s been thirteen years since the fateful day when I read that sentence. I remember like it was yesterday. Sitting passenger seat in my father’s Chevy – the engine purring, the car seat flaming up as the heater vents attacked the cold leather – and me, book in hand ready to dive into a parallel universe. In those years, as my style has changed, and my experiences have broadened, my love for creating stories has never wavered. It’s a love that’s as classic as a tale as old as time; it’s my backbone, my identity, my existence.