I was a writer before I knew I was a writer. Confusing? Let me explain.
I was writing stories from the moment I could hold a pencil and spell more than just my name. I would tell stories constantly. Tall tales at the dinner table. At school. When our family bought our first word processor (am I aging myself here??), I plunked myself down between my siblings writing their research papers and tapped out my first book—the story of a flying pig and a greedy man who wanted to capitalize on it. I started a family “newspaper” called the Katana Crier where I would summarize the week’s events in a packet that I literally printed out five times and stapled together, then delivered to each member of my family while I danced around the house singing Carrying the Banner! (I was also a huge Newsies freak, if you can’t tell)
I started writing my first novel at age 28. I finished it when I was 29. I sold it to my first publisher a month and a half after I typed The End. And I was published before I turned 30 with my first novel, SOUL STRIPPER.
So when did I know I wanted to be a writer? I always knew. It was a part of me for as long as I can remember. I should have paid attention more to my gut. I should have listened to that little whisper in my soul that told me I should be writing long before I started that book when I was 28.