The first book that I “wrote” was a short story about Superman. My grandmother had sent me a set of stickers in my birthday card, and I immediately set them to work on paper, drafting a story around the poses. My attentive mother wrote the story down for me, as I was probably about 3 years old at the time, and this began my marriage to writing (I would never call my relationship with writing a “love affair”—it’s much deeper than that!). By the time I was 6, I was writing prolifically; during in-class writing time I would write 10 pages on that dusty green recycled paper to my classmates’ 1 or 2 pages. I loved to write. By the time I was 8, I adapted one of my stories into a play and directed my 3rd grade classmates in a production. My mom typed up and copied the script, and made the costumes for the play. This was the beginning (I feel it was the beginning, but of course, it started from the moment I was born) . The beginning of so much quiet support from my mother.
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