First, there was reading…

I’ve loved books as long as I can remember. I see Bookstagramers and BookTokers share the book that made them fall in love with reading, but I can’t do that. There were far too many at such a young age. Both of my parents read to me a lot. I would even get small books they used to keep by the cash register at the grocery store checkout. You know, where all the candy and gum is. Once, I even got out with one after my mom told me no, trying to hand down retribution after I’d thrown a temper tantrum in the store. But the woman behind us didn’t know about the temper tantrum. She only saw a toddler who wanted to read, not asking for a toy or candy, and that’s a good thing, right?

In an attempt to grasp on to part of her intended punishment, my mother decided she wasn’t going to read it to me that day. Unfortunately for her, toddlers are fast, and she was slowed by the groceries she had to bring inside. By the time she got in, I already had my dad reading it to me in the middle of the living room. Sorry, mom! Suffice to say, that love for books never died.

Writing, now that’s another story. I had the love of words, but writing developed negative connotations for me. I loathed writing papers for school, hated researching for them. In high school, when my friend, and fellow bibliophile, suggested we write a book together one day, I thought it was too daunting. No way did I have that kind of patience! (Of course, I didn’t tell her that).

But I did like writing smaller, more manageable things from time to time. A short story about how my neighbor was probably a serial killer, or the one where I became a famous singer (no, you don’t want to hear me — I promise), a poem here or there, even a history project I had to do about Coney Island. When I wrote about things that were creative or interesting, that was a whole different world. But that wasn’t something I really thought about until later.

It took some time, a lot of time, to develop the confidence to start writing books, though. My college papers were shit, and I struggled to write ten pages. How the hell was a going to write a 400-page novel? I wasn’t good enough.

Then again, those papers were almost always written the night before they were due, and they always got good grades despite what I considered poor effort on my part. So maybe I was being too hard on myself. Maybe they weren’t really as shitty as I thought. Maybe they were alright. Maybe they were even good. And maybe, just maybe, my novels will be too.

Thanks for joining me on the journey to find out!