I could read and write by the age of 3. My parents were thrilled and greatly encouraged me. Before long, just like in Matilda, I had read every book in our house.
In every plastic little girl purse I carried, there was a pad of paper and a pencil. When Luke and I went to the grocery store with my mom, I could sit in the buggy the whole time reading and be content. I constantly made lists, wrote down ideas and goals. Every time I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up, I wrote it down. I would even make newspapers and throw them to my mom as I ran through our living room.
Throughout all of my ideas for careers — which included nurse, archaeologist, detective, and teacher just to name a few — writer or author was always one.
I don’t recall how old I was the first time I “wrote” a book, but I’m going to guess I was around 7 or 8. I had a Garfield notebook and the pages were in the shape of the cat’s head. I ripped out several sheets and stapled them together. I wrote the title on the first page: A Kid Named Kim and His Cat Tiger. I never finished that little attempt at writing, but I vividly remember starting it. Like it was very natural for me to just start writing.
When I was in middle school I would write short stories. In high school, I wrote poetry and started blogging to chronicle all of my experiences and record all of my thoughts on things. Of course, like any teenage girl’s musings, my blog entries in particular were very biased and blown out of proportion. But the desire to write never wavered.
In eleventh grade, I took a creative writing class as an elective and absolutely loved it. That was the first time that I considered writing as a real career. I felt a real connection to the art of writing, and thought that I was pretty decent at it.
When I started college, I decided to major in journalism and I wrote articles for the college newspaper. By my sophomore year, I was editor-in-chief. I loved writing and editing. It was exactly the kind of world I wanted to exist in.
And now, ever since I’ve been out of school, I’ve continued to write. Just like when I was a little girl, I write down every idea I have and there are loose lists everywhere in my apartment. And just like when I was a teenager, I still keep a blog and record all of my thoughts about things. I like to be constantly writing something, even if it’s just the grocery list.
But, for the first time, I’ve actually completed my main goal. I’ve finished what I started when I was 7: I’ve published my first book.
I wrote my book last year and have been editing and designing the final product since February. On Saturday, August 23, I officially hit the Approve button on the publisher’s website. I’ve been on a high ever since.
I’ve had several friends purchase a copy, and friends that I haven’t talked to in years show support. It’s been an overwhelming few weeks to say the least. I am blown away by the outpouring of love and the seemingly instant willingness to buy something I made. I really could not be happier.
All of this is to say, nothing is completely impossible. Go for your dreams. Even if they take twenty-five years to materialize.
Thank you to everyone who supported me along this journey and continues to support me. My dream has been realized. I am so grateful.