Who I am as a writer

Maybe this is a cliched beginning entry for any author. But I feel it is the best place to begin. I feel in order to really KNOW where I'm going, you have to know where I've been in my life.

My life began on January 7, 1981. I was born in a hospital in Frankfurt, Germany because my father was in the military, and they just happened to be stationed there. My life was a struggle from the very beginning. Mom found out almost immediately that I had two extremely large holes in my heart, and I had open heart surgery before I was even a year old! That's something, huh?

Then there was the issue of water on the brain. Mom and I were flown out to Denver, Colorado, where I was the first successful baby to recieve a shunt in my head. I made medical journals and everything! Apparently, this was a huge deal.

We found out when I was two that I had Cerebral Palsy, and Mom was even told that I wouldn't live to be five, and if I did, I would never walk. Boy were my doctors in for a shock. On the Easter of my third year, I walked to my mother for the first time.

You would think life was good after that. Not really. When I was seven, I had my first hip repair, to try and turn my legs out right. (Hard to explain, but basically, my legs were turned in a way that my knees were knocking. ) Along with that, they stretched my heel cords out.

I had to learn to walk all over again. And my mother did all of this on her own, while taking care of my much younger brother. My father had left her.

At the age of ten, I joined fifth grade, and it was there that the idea of becoming a published author first entered my head. My English teacher, Mrs. Turner often praised my imaginative short stories, and told me I Would be big someday. Not every student hears that from their teachers at FIFTH grade.

From then on, I was constantly with pen and paper, writing whatever nonsense came into my head. When computers entered my life, it got even more obsessive. (and I do NOT exxagerate.)

Life at home became nearly unbearable. Mom had remarried a man whom I had first loved, and then grew to loathe as I got older. He had me doing dishes and sweeping/mopping at the age of eight. If things weren't perfect, we were grounded. No ifs ands or buts. So I began to hide within my pretend world, and relish the time I got to spend, inventing adventures for me and my faeries to go on. (I still think I had Felix all along. Can't prove yes or no, however.)

I guess I never stopped creating after that. It became a coping mechanism for me. And in a way, I'm guessing it still is. Now that I'm 28, I can appreciate what my imagination did for me, and what other authors' imaginations did as well. I want to return the favor, and do that for someone else.