The profession of book-writing makes horse racing seem like a solid, stable business. -John Steinbeck
If you were to go back in time and tell the nine-year-old me I was going to be a urologist when I grew up, the conversation would go something like this:
9-YEAR-OLD-ME: (stares blankly) What’s a urologist?
YOU: Here, look at this Wikipedia article…
9-YEAR-OLD-ME: Eeew. That’s gross!
YOU: Actually, it’s pretty fun. You get to take out cancers and kidney stones, make people’s lives better…
9-YEAR-OLD-ME: But you have to touch people’s… (giggles) Besides, I can’t be a urologist. I’m going to be a writer when I grow up.
When I was a kid I used to live and breathe books. They were an antidote to an only child’s loneliness – books were brothers and sisters who never stole your clothes or messed with your stuff. They were a ticket out of my insular, central New York hometown, exposing me to faraway places and people. By the time middle school rolled around, I read almost a book a day, and my favorite day of the week was Thursday, when my grandfather took me to my place of worship: the local library. There, I would stare at the glossy plastic-coated spines, and devour the works of my favorite authors: Ellen Raskin. Susan Cooper. Madeline L’Engle.
I’m really bad at names. As he is only one month old, I sometimes forget my own son’s name for a second or two (it’s mommy brain, really it is). But I will never forget who wrote The Bridge to Terabithia, Taran Wanderer, and Fahrenheit 451. Some people dream of their name in lights; I dreamed of one day having my name on one of those glossy plastic-coated spines.