Honestly, I don’t know when I started to write. It was early. I have a distinct memory of sitting on the toilet as a kid, scribbling in a black and white memo book. A story about the few friends I had, fighting various monsters. I wrote stories about a group of imaginary friends that would help me and my brother fight the forces of evil.
I knew the simple truth about myself. I write. My mother was busy through my early childhood, raising two sons on her own, but as an avid reader, she knew a writer when she saw one. She kept that first notebook and passed it along to me when she was done holding onto the small box of my belongings.
It was a universal constant that followed me throughout life. When I met my best friend in high school, he would be the first one to know, outside of my family, the little secret that I held closely. I only chose to tell him because he was so brave with his creativity. On my very first visit to his house, he showed me his talent. He draws. It was only natural that I tell this fellow creator that I write. We’ve geographically drifted, but I still meet up with him once a year, and we share ideas.
I was braver during the beginning years of the internet, so my wife knew my secret, long before I would have told her in person. Somehow, she was alright with this and still became my friend before agreeing to marry me. She helped me to hone the craft and made me begin to believe that what I was doing was worth sharing with others.
So, I evolved, so many years later. “I write” became “I am a writer.” I sent out queries and portions of my book to publishers. I got rejected multiple times, but I wasn’t about to stop writing, because I don’t understand how. It’s a part of my brain that has always been.