About the Author:
I didn’t plan to be a writer.
Don’t get me wrong, I dreamed of being a writer, but it was one of those impossible dreams. Like being a rock star, or owning a spaceship. (I’m still working on the spaceship thing. If you have one, let me know. I’m serious.)
I planned be an artist—a painter—because that was a feasible career (and I really loved getting messy which is, like, a prerequisite for all artists). But fortunately, life doesn’t always go according to plan.
It all started with Nancy Drew.
When I was six years-old, while playing hide-and-seek at my grandma’s house, I climbed into a bedroom closet and stumbled upon a collection of Nancy Drew books. And when I say “collection” I mean horde. There were at least forty books in there. (Sure, we couldn’t afford to buy me a Care Bears lunch box, but Nancy Drew hard covers? Mandatory purchase. Whatever.)
Upon finding these blessed books, I was like, “Who is this sleuth girl who comes across a different mystery every single week? I must read more!” Needless to say, I was hooked. (Fun Fact: Ned was my first book boyfriend. My taste in book boys has changed rather dramatically over the years. *coughs* Will Herondale.)
After that, I became a voracious reader but still planned to be an artist. In high school, I was the girl who had her nose in a book and her hands in a bucket of paint.
After high school I went to Arizona State University, where I majored in design and wore more eyeliner and black clothing than a healthy person should. And it was during this epicly emo time in my life that my future took a turn.
I accidentally ended up in a creative writing course during my junior year—and by “accidentally” I mean, I failed to register on time and my adviser said, “You’re not taking college seriously. I’m putting you in creative writing,” like that was some form of punishment.
At first I was like, “Crap. I don’t TELL stories, I read them. Curse you, college adviser! Where the eff is my paintbrush?” But then…THEN…
Then I sat down and wrote my first paper.
And I cried.
Not because it sucked (although…meh) but because writing from the bottom of my heart had stirred something inside me—something starving, that I hadn’t even known was hungry—and I couldn’t stop.
I wrote short stories and comic books and poems and novels…I wrote anything and everything I could pull out of me. All the while I kept painting, even though this hungry thing inside me desperately wanted to be a WRITER.
But being a writer seemed impossible. And scary. And chock-full of potential failures. So instead, I put myself through school as a bank teller (bor-ing) and started my own design business painting murals.
Plan = Right On Track
Years went by—YEARS, people!—and I was still a closet writer. Until one day in 2011, I finally worked up the courage to send a little story of mine (titled Sophie & Carter) to a local publisher.
I told NO ONE IN THE ENTIRE WORLD that I did this. No one. It was the single most terrifying (and yet somehow exhilarating) experience of my life. I went home that day and updated my Facebook status to, “Do something brave today,” because that’s how I felt: Brave. I also felt nervous, sick, shaky, foolish, and scared out of my mind. But mostly, I felt brave.
Several weeks later I received a call from the publisher, and a few months after that Sophie & Carter was on the road to being published. *cue sappy music and multicolored confetti*
Plan = Blown To Pieces
I didn’t plan to be a writer, but I dreamed about it. And despite all my planning, my dream came true.
So do something brave today. You never know what might happen…
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