“When did you know you wanted to be a writer?” someone asked me last week. OK. How about always.
As soon as I could read–and I was reading chapter books in second grade–I was completely hooked. I wanted to be able to do the magic that would transport others just as I was transported by books.
What did I read? Well, hardly any great literature at first. The Bobbsey Twins. The Boxcar Children. Bambi over and over again. Then it was the Hardy Boys, sometimes over and over again. And the beautiful Little House books. Escape. Adventure. Information. Delight.
For me writing and editing are unlike anything else in the world. I find myself huddling over a manuscript, gathering it to me like a miser hoarding gold, pen in hand, ready to strike out an offending word and replace it with the correct one.
When writing, the world just disappears. Last week I came to in the middle of writing my most recent blog. It was 2:55 p.m. and I was due for an acupuncture appointment at 3. I’d sat down to spend 15 minutes and suddenly an hour had passed. I rushed out the door muttering to myself like the White Rabbit.
Presumably this is what is supposed to happen when one is doing what she is supposed to do. I am so grateful to have my life arranged so that I can.