When I was a kid, I felt like an author. I wrote book after book, stapling together pages from old invoice pads or receipt books that my dad would bring home from work. I illustrated my books. I gave them away as gifts. There was no doubt in my mind that I would always be an author. I would have a house filled with books and I would write all day.
And then somewhere along the way, doubts began to creep in. So I went to school for writing...who cares? Lots of people want to be authors...what made me think I could do it? What if I didn't have the chops? The drive? The stamina? Who could write a novel anyway? Even if I could do it, who would want to read it?
But today, as I sit in my house full of books, gearing up to work on a new revision of my novel, I have this picture hanging above my desk. My younger self, grinning at me, whispering "I know you can do it!"
Me, circa 1982ish: