It’s funny the things you think are possible when you are a child. I lived in a world of my own making where anything was possible. In reality, the country beachside town where we lived, the city in which my grandparents lived, and the highway between the two of them constituted my whole world.
Jobs were something people’s parents had, and I didn’t have a concrete vision of what I wanted to be. I played at being Cinderella when organising my toys, or the Little Mermaid when swimming in our pool. I was good at cross country running, at playing hockey, at tennis. I would write ten pages worth of story at school when only one was required.
It wasn’t until I was twelve years old that I knew what I wanted to do with my life. In class, we had been given a theme to write a story about, and everyone’s stories from that assignment were submitted into a local school writing competition.
I spent all of my free time either writing stories or reading books. There was constantly a stack of borrowed library books teetering in my room. But it wasn’t until my story from that class assignment became a finalist in that writing competition that I put two and two together and realised that writing is something I could do as a career.
While writing isn’t my main source of income, it is still something that I enjoy. I’ve seen some of my stories published, and I am constantly aiming to make my twelve-year-old self proud!