When I was a child, I loved to read. For me, it seemed the natural next step was to try and write. My first story, written sometime in elementary school as a project, was Glartian the Martian, a children's book about a character whose differences made him feel alone. Depressing, but with a happy ending, of course. My next attempt was a romance. I was all of nine or ten at the time. So, what did I know about romance? Nothing, which is why the story was so bad. Horrible dialogue and wandering plot.
My attempts at writing stories ended there. But, I still loved to write. Poetry. Papers. I derived pleasure from creating fragments and sentences to convey my thoughts.
Ten. Twenty. Years went by before I once again tried my hand at story-telling. Purely as a means of distraction and entertainment. Distraction from studying for comprehensive exams. Entertainment for my husband, who also loves to read.
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