Writers Anonymous

I guess it started when I was about four years old. Back then my oldest brother, Micah, was my hero, and I wanted to be just like him. His favorite thing to do was read, so I figured my favorite thing to do should be to read too. Only, I didn’t know how to read. To my four-year-old mind, the simple fact of being unable to read shouldn’t deter me from becoming an avid reader. And it didn’t. I picked up the Dick and Jane books that my brothers had used to learn how to read and I set my mind to it. Soon enough, I was out-reading everyone I knew: far exceeding anyone else at the same level. Except Micah.

From the very first “See Jane run” I ever read, I was hooked. Soon I was reading Junie B. Jones (the B. stands for Beatrice!) and Magic Treehouse in a desperate attempt to keep up with Micah. He flew right past me though, so I kept scrambling, and in the process I found something. 

Something like a key that opened the door into a world that was mine and mine alone. Only I got to say what was in it, only I got to say who could enter, and only I was the keeper of this world.

Micah could finish a four hundred-page book in a matter of a few hours. If he was left uninterrupted, he could finish The Chronicles of Narnia, Lord of the Rings, and Percy Jackson all in one week. Following his example, I did the same. Ignoring the outside world, I became engulfed in the world of whatever fantasy or sci-fi novel Micah had just finished. I would hunch over the book until my neck hurt, and then change positions and quickly return to the pages. 

So, by the time I got to kindergarten, I was already reading chapter books. When it came time to learn the alphabet, I would sit at my desk and let my mind wander to some imaginary world—the world that only I was privy to. I was the most well-read kindergartener my elementary school had seen. While the other kids were checking out the kindergarten-level books, I was given special permission to check out books from any section of the library, all the way up to the sixth-grade level. Only the brightest of the bright were given this privilege. Like me—and Micah. We were given our pick of the litter. 

And the most delectable books to my growing mind were the Harry Potter series. By the time I was ten, I had already read them three times through. I had memorized every one of Rowling’s spells: from wingardium levosia to lumos. I knew them all. From then on, it became a ritual for me to read and reread the books every year. I obsessed over the world that Rowling had built. I wanted to do the same.

It started very simply. When I read a book that I loved, I joined that world. Suddenly, I was a character pivotal to the plot; the story could not proceed without me. When I read Harry Potter, I became Lily Gregory: a powerful witch from Ravenclaw. When I read Michael Vey, I became Genelle Maurice: a mutant with the ability to manipulate electricity. When I read Anne of Green Gables, I became Eliza Enna: an orphan: kindred spirit to Anne. My imagination became a drug that I had to feed. 

And what better place to feed this addiction than the library? And who better to get my fix from than the librarian? Her name was Mrs. Peas. She was the archetype of a kind old woman and the perfect person to help shape my growing mind. Once a week—sometimes more—I would pedal myself over to the public library and check out a new book. Mrs. Peas would always be there to recommend a book or check out the book I’d had my eye on since beginning the book before it.

It was from Mrs. Peas that I learned to hone my imagination. Once a month she would host a book club, and it was there that I began to enrich my creativity. Instead of just becoming a character in the novels we read, I created stories of my own. Using a pen and spiral notebook, I documented each and every whim I had. When the book club read a fantasy novel, I wrote of fairies and elves. If we read sci-fi, then it was spaceships and aliens. Mystery? My characters became detectives and criminals. I became breathless in the wake of my own imagination.

Mrs. Peas there the whole time to encourage me. She was my dealer and I was just some junkie; a slave to an addiction. When I became obsessed with one particular series, she would already have the next book on hold and ready for me to check out. A Series of Unfortunate Events was my heroin, The Boxcar Children was my crack, Moody Judy was crystal meth. Once I had a taste, I couldn’t get enough. 

But my favorite part of the library was trying to beat my brother in the summer reading program. Every library has one to encourage kids to read, but for kids like me and Micah, it was more of a transaction. We were going to read regardless, so by participating we got prizes just for doing what we loved.

It wasn’t just Micah, though, who spurred me. I’ve always taken a keen interest in anyone who will block out the world in favor of a book, and there was one person in particular who became my idol. Her name was Lydia and she was my best friend’s older sister. Like Micah and me, she shared the same passion for ignoring other people. And reading.

I adored her. I took every chance I could, made up every excuse possible, just to spend a little time with her. It annoyed my best friend to no end, but I didn’t care. Just being around Lydia was one of my favorite things in the world. 

In trying to get her to like me, I took interest in everything she took interest in, especially reading. Her favorite books quickly became my favorite books in an effort to have something to talk about. And just as quickly I was creating brand new worlds. I added stories of spies and time-traveling to my ever-growing list of stories. By trying to impress her, I just fell deeper into the rabbit hole, until I was completely stuck. There was no way out. I was left scribbling about elves and princesses like a maniac for the rest of eternity. 

Eventually, I grew bored of only ever writing stories from worlds that already existed. My mind itched for something more. Overflowing with ideas and restlessness, I got to work on my first “book.” My ideas were weak and the prose was horrible, but from the moment I typed “The End,” I became as much a writer as I was a reader.