Spooky Little Girl: My Origin Story as a Writer

I knew I wanted to be a writer at the tender age of seven years old.

It was the fall of second grade when we were tasked with writing a short story for class. I was filled with pure delight while my classmates all groaned. My excitement stemmed from the previous summer when I had officially read every book in the children’s section of my little seaside town’s tiny library. I remember the day I swept into the library and was met with the librarian wearing the look of a woman out of options. She told me to check out the adult fiction as nothing was left to read. I felt a strange tingling sensation wash through me. I had been given permission to venture into the rows of thick hardcover books full of stories I had yet to discover. It seemed like fate that I would gravitate right to Stephen King. I plucked the thickets, and the most sinister-looking tome there was - IT.

For the next two weeks, I did nothing but read, devouring that beast of a book. My mother nearly went mad, trying to get my attention. My eyes went red and puffy from lack of sleep. I finished the last page in the middle of the night. My heart was racing with a mixture of joy and adrenaline. Tears welled up in my eyes from the kaleidoscope of emotions that pulsed within me. I was transformed into some new being and would never be the same small girl I was before.

So, when my teacher assigned us to write a short story, my hands trembled with manic joy as I put pencil to paper. As most children do - even the great Stephen King, who has written in his memoir about doing such things as a child - I recreated a short version of IT as my own story to turn in. I envisioned the lavish praise my teacher would shower down on me once she had read it as I turned the assignment in - very reminiscent of the scene from A Christmas Story when Ralphie turns in his Christmas theme.

Sadly, I was sent to the school psychologist instead of the delicious accolades I fantasized about. My teacher was concerned about my mental state after reading my submission. She thought I was a spooky little thing.

Most children would probably catalog this experience as something negative and see it as a sign they should turn away from short story writing. But not me. As I sat there listening to the counselor ask me about my home life, and if I had experienced any upsetting events in my small existence, I felt a rather pleasant thrill snake through me. I realized that my words had upset my teacher. They had made her feel things.

I was hooked.

From that day on, I knew I wanted to be a writer. The ability to make others feel and think things from my words was an addictive concept. To this day, I still relish that my words have certain effects on others. When I write now, I think about that one girl reading my story who is feeling what I felt when I was her age. That is who I write to and for.

Here’s to all the spooky little girls out there, scaring the crap out of their teachers.