A friend on Facebook recently posted something she found from our kindergarten or first grade class. It’s a list of our class with what we wanted to be when we grew up. You have the normal array of cops, doctors, teachers, sports stars, and then there was me: “typewritter”. Spelling error and all, thanks teacher.
I don’t remember being asked this or seeing this ever. But somehow, even back then, I knew my true interests. I’d like to think I knew that I couldn’t grow up to be an actual typewriter, but I love typing and writing so I guess something got lost in translation.
Like most kids, I changed my mind a lot on my future plans growing up. In no particular order, I wanted to be an artist, a dolphin trainer (despite not knowing how to swim), a horse trainer, and owner of my own bookstore. It wasn’t until I was looking at colleges, after starting my first novel at 13 and writing countless stories, that I was like, “Duh, I’m a writer!”
But I guess somehow I knew it all along.