I was a chubby-cheeked five-year old, living an expat’s life in Pembrokeshire, Wales. In a large sun room, I came across my great-aunt’s old Underwood typewriter. It changed my life, it gave me a mission. Other children played hide-and-seek. Me? I couldn't wait to get to the machine that set free my imagination.
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not laying claim to any kind of War and Peace prodigy. In fact, if I recall correctly, I’d often change my entire plotline and/or character name simply because I couldn’t find the zee on the keyboard.
Hard to say, chicken/egg, how it all worked out, but I wasn’t necessarily a popular gal. Our family moved a bit, so that isn’t a big help in terms of fitting in. And I just loved to write and read and read about writing.
In 5th grade I discovered Shakespeare and formed a little group of fellow nerdlings and we petitioned the school to allow us to do plays during recess instead of being bopped in the head with a dodgeball. I believe a note was sent home to my parents. The school officials weren’t sure A Midsummer Night’s Dream was appropriate reading material for 10-year-olds.