I guess the first step is to declare that you do. “I want to be a writer.” There. Easy. Well … not so easy. The first thing the authors of most books about ‘becoming a professional writer’ try to do is scare you away from the very idea of becoming reclusive monsters like them, complete with horror stories of broken families, heartbreak, total ruin, nervous breakdowns, paltry incomes where they had to eat ramen every day for a month, and other frustrating situations. And if that fails to deter you, they still leave you faced with a tough, life-altering decision.

I actually decided I wanted to be a writer one day when I was mindlessly flipping through TV channels at my wife’s parent’s house. (For the record, I almost never watch TV.) But anyway, there was this interview with J.K. Rowling on. It was the day before Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was going to hit the shelves. A large chunk of the world was trembling in drooly anticipation for their copies. I remember there being a … let’s call it a ‘suspicious modesty’ … about her as she bounced from question to question. But the interviewer was incredibly savvy at slipping in difficult questions making them seem like innocent follow-ups using the ‘foot-in-the-door’ technique, and, before she knew it, Rowling was transported back to her past. She found herself talking about her beginnings; writing the first Harry Potter book on a typewriter in an upstairs apartment, weeks away from being evicted. About how she came up with the idea for the book randomly on a train ride one day, with just a name at the tip of her tongue: “Harry”, and a vague idea that he would attend some kind of magic school. About how the rest of the story came with a lot of hard work and conviction. It was amazing. Then, I found myself wondering how many times I had dismissed my own ‘Harry’ ideas. And, most importantly, I remember thinking, “If she can do it, why can’t I?”.

But then a Deathly follow-up question creeped up on me. And it was: “What do -I- have to offer to the world of literature?”

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When I was little, I used to read and write. Not in the sense of “I could read and I could write”, but more along the lines of “I did read books on a regular basis and wrote original stories, too”. I remember reading serial detective novels all the time, and trying to tackle The Collected Works of Sherlock Holmes when I was eight (but found it was too complicated). I remember getting lots of free pizza through the Book-It! program. I remember actually thumbing though the dictionary and thesaurus during breaks in second grade. I remember being able to type quickly without looking at the keyboard by the middle of third grade, and typing rather complicated multi-page stories by the time I was ten years old on Word Perfect in DOS 3.1. I remember the first time I got a return of zero mistakes on a spell check. I remember researching Greek and Roman mythology in dusty old encyclopedias with tannish-brown stains all over them. I even managed to get a poem into a minor publication for young authors by fourth grade, and the town newspaper also printed it.

But, somewhere along the line, I decided video games, anime, music, comic books, and movies were better ways to spend my time. I became convinced that books were plagued with long-winded explanations that never seemed to get to the point.
Maybe it was hormonal.

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