|Posted on February 28, 2011 at 11:53 AM|
When I was younger, I used to . . . embellish events. Let's not call it lying. Lying seems wrong, hurtful, deceiftul, yes? But being hurtful was the last thing I wanted. I only wanted to be different, interesting. I'd make a simple bike fall seem like an adventure worthy of Indiana Jones. I added enough detail for it to be juicy, but no more than that; I did not want my stories to be tacky or obviously false. With time, my imagination developped. I read a lot. But I made up my own stories, I never took my ideas from someone else's books.
In high school, girls grow up, have crushes. I suddenly became famous for my 'dreams'. I'd tell my friends that I dreamt of them the night before and of their crushes. I don't know if they actually believed me but they adored the stories I came up with. I had my own little fan club.
One day, I was baby-sitting my neighbour's kids. When Anne came home she stopped me in the doorway and said: "You're so curious and imaginative. I'd see you as a writer. Wouldn't it make sense to put all that imagination to good use?" And suddenly, I had a goal in life. The years of passionate reading, of endless curiosity about everything, my love of writing in classes, everything now made sense. My destiny had been revealed to me. Probably, at some point, I would have put two and two together. But at the time I was enjoying too much the immediate gratification of recounting my dreams.
Now here I am, ten years later. I've written one book, as of yet unpublished but I'm doing up the finishing touches then sending it to a publisher. I'm practically finished the second book of my three part series. Take that, Indiana Jones