The first sprinklings of water that was given to my writing was in 2008, when I wrote my first book. It was five chapters long, and illustrated with my eight-year-old hand. I called it What is Under the Bed? In the story, my closest friends and I all go on an adventure in another world underneath my bed. The sun was green; lunchboxes filled with food grew on trees; and the native people, a variety of tie-dye colored elves, gifted us with bicycles.
After “publishing” my book with both my school and local library, I began scribbling down ideas for stories in worn notebooks. Some of the titles I came up with were Miracle Leaves, Pillow Friends, The Bag of Lollipops, The Hidden Place, Faded into the Woodwork, and That Book She Left on the Mantle. Each page sports an outline and brief notes in my messy handwriting. Flipping a little further reveals my practice of describing characters. Some have never been written, but in my mind, I can still see the face I described.
These stories were never written. A few I began, whether by hand or typed into the computer, but I never finished them. All I knew was, I loved to create.