The journey of 1,000 miles began with but a single... crayon?
Well, it did for me.
Most writers will tell you that they've always loved writing. They can't remember when that spark of creativity became the raging bonfire of meaning and message that would light their way for years to come. Not me. I remember it like it was yesterday.
I was seven, I was in second grade, and I was bored out of my mind. I had finished the day's Language Arts quiz (and secretly flipping through my deck of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles trading cards) and had to sit idly by while the rest of the kids did their work.
Then it hit me! I would write a story. Would I write about the TMNT? Nah. Transformers? Nope. I wanted to write about something with some weight to it.
So I grabbed my red crayon (my pencil lead was broken and I had already made Ms. Bullock too mad to risk asking to get up from my desk) and I got to work scribbling a story. I don't know where it came from. I wasn't even sure what I was writing. But it kept coming and coming.
A while later I had written close to twenty pages in my crude, second grade handwriting about a boy named "Paco." He was a Mexican immigrant trying to find his way in his new city and his new life is shattered as his loving mother tells him she has been diagnosed with cancer. I had written my heavy, heady story.
Proud of myself, I walked up to the front of the class and asked Ms. Bullock to give it a read.
After I waited about ten minutes, and between her sniffling and tear-wiping, I asked if I could have extra credit.
The rest, as the cliche' goes, is history.
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