Over 16,529,186 people are on fubar.
What are you waiting for?
Before I knew how to tell time, my mother gave me a timer. When she wanted me to come home by a specific time, she would turn its dial to whatever amount of time she was allowing me. It was about the size of a half-dollar, and she had somehow attached it to a shoestring. I would either put it in my pocket, or wear it around my neck. (Yes. A timer on a shoestring around my neck. My dorkdom is born…). When my time was up, it made a loud buzzing sound as it turned back to 0. Mostly what I remember about it is that I worried that I would lose it and not know when to go home.
In an attempt to manage my anxiety around the Timer Issue, I did what any other square-peggish child would do: I wrote about it. Thus begat one of my earliest novels (though not the first).
I think it’s both funny and odd that I had this compulsion, or whatever it is, to make sense of things through writing for as long as I can remember. I still do this in my spiral-bound notebooks, and invariably I find clarity in the writing process itself. I write other “types” of things, too, but they come from different places and give me different flavors of satisfaction.
I’m also not sure what it *really* did for me at the time. Clearly, well-crafted as the plot was, the tension-ridden climax could never play out in real life quite that way. Perhaps what was beneficial was just the creative process in action, and my own anxiety provided inspiration, as it would for any writer.
My early love for books is also revealed, I think, because I made separate pages and stapled them together into a book, rather than just writing this gripping story on a single page. I should mention that this followed my first novel, The Little Boy Who Had an Elbow in His Ear (the inspiration for which I suspect was largely plagiarized) and the philosophical non-fiction work, All About People.
Age 5-ish (Easy now! My mom saved it!)
