Grade Four. Little Jeanie in her school tunic (slightly askew, as always. I have the same style sense today) and scary hair cut. Look at those bangs!
But did I care? I did not. I was a happy, happy child because I was, even then...
Some things do not change. The outside world of school and family and friends disappeared when I retreated behind closed doors to my little bedroom with its stack of books and paper. I read a lot, and when I wasn't reading, I wrote. Poems, stories, the first few chapters of novels. Pretend articles for newspapers. Letters to fictional characters. More stories.
So I grew up to be a writer, and I continue to write as much and as often as I can. It's not really something that I chose; rather, I think that writing chose me.
Any writers out there? If so, you know exactly what I mean.