Photo by © Brandon Elijah Scott A popular question for most authors is “When did you start writing?”
For myself, I have miraculously retained a vague memory of my first literary days – if you wish to call them that. I was three or four years old when I first started writing… My mommy dearest, Christine, would fold sheets of paper together, placing a staple in the middle of the fold, then let me loose with crayons and markers (her mistake), eventually upgrading me to pens and pencils. We lived lakeside in a small township east of Columbus, Ohio, and she would setup the kiddie pool on the hot summer days, yet rather than partake, I was more interested in my stories. I ignored the pool and laid on my belly in the shade as I scribbled away. I wrote of kings, castles and dragons, and the neighborhood gossip (of unlikely but no less scandalous love affairs between neighbors), with the occasional account of what it would be like if monsters attacked or aliens came to visit the lonely shores. My mom, the saint, would read them with bubbling enthusiasm, her feet dangling in my forgotten pool. She always told me to keep writing. With love mom, R.I.P. 1960-2005.
For myself, I have miraculously retained a vague memory of my first literary days – if you wish to call them that. I was three or four years old when I first started writing… My mommy dearest, Christine, would fold sheets of paper together, placing a staple in the middle of the fold, then let me loose with crayons and markers (her mistake), eventually upgrading me to pens and pencils. We lived lakeside in a small township east of Columbus, Ohio, and she would setup the kiddie pool on the hot summer days, yet rather than partake, I was more interested in my stories. I ignored the pool and laid on my belly in the shade as I scribbled away. I wrote of kings, castles and dragons, and the neighborhood gossip (of unlikely but no less scandalous love affairs between neighbors), with the occasional account of what it would be like if monsters attacked or aliens came to visit the lonely shores. My mom, the saint, would read them with bubbling enthusiasm, her feet dangling in my forgotten pool. She always told me to keep writing. With love mom, R.I.P. 1960-2005.
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