Unlike a lot of my indie author colleagues I don’t recall writing many stories as a young child, but there was one in particular. A good friend of mine reminded me of a writing exercise we did in the third grade. We had to start off the story with Jack and Jill going up the hill and then…. you were to make up the rest. Mine went something like this:
Jack and Jill went up the hill and then Jack pulled out a gun and started blasting!
End of story. Who or what was Jack’s antagonist and what was his motivation? I don’t recall that either.
But I do recall always having a book in my hands and reading thanks to my mother. I grew up in a small suburb south of Seattle called Skyway. It was a rough neighborhood then and a ghetto now and you probably shouldn’t go there at night. Maybe not in the daytime either. Note the flash fiction story above that my nine year old self wrote. Things got so bad they even tried to change the name to West Hill but it will always be Skyway to me.
It wasn’t all bad. As a kid my mom used to take me to the small brick library at the top of the hill. It had this cool little daylight garden out back where you could sit outside and read underneath Japanese Maple trees that would change color in the fall. There was mysterious white magic in that library and adventure at my sticky fingertips. All I had to do was find a stack of books and a quiet corner to crack them open to escape.
Today I still enjoy the escape of a good book and now I enjoy the challenge of writing them. I hope they help you escape, too, if only for a little while. Thanks for reading.