I have always known I am a writer. Always. Here’s an example:
In third grade, I was supposed to write a book report. I hadn’t read any books worth doing a report on, so I wrote a book report on a book I would have like to have read. I made it up. All of it. All I remember about it was there was something about fairies and ponies in it. The teacher never checked on the title, the author, or anything else. I got an A+ on the paper, too.
How cool is that?
But the night before the last day of school, my conscience starting tweaking me. Badly. After my dad left for work that morning, I crawled in bed with my mom to tell her the awful, dishonest thing I had done. She told me I needed to tell the teacher. On the last day of school. Oh boy.
Except when I got up for school a little while later, I noticed my stomach was covered in red spots. Sure enough, I had the “three-day measles.” I couldn’t go to school and confess my transgression.
I have come to terms with what I did. You know why? I write fiction.