From the age of six, I knew I wanted to be a writer. What I was going to write, I did not know. Somehow, to me, it did not seem to matter, so long as I could put pen to paper and tell the world how I felt about something, anything. I had always loved to read even at that age.
I wanted to be one of those special people who put all of those words on paper: words that took me to places far and near, words that made me laugh and sometimes cry, words that were strange and new, making me wonder if the author had simply made them up.
Writers must be interesting people, I thought. To this day, I still believe that. They must keep thousands of rules of grammar, usage, and style in their heads – – – the tools of their trade – – – all mixed up with the minutiae of everyday life.
They have to know how to spell, even if they use a dictionary occasionally to check a word here and there. Most of all, writers must have a natural curiosity about people and things, a curiosity that makes them always ask why. So, becoming a writer was what I intended to do.
End of Part 1