Dream Starter
I think I was 8 years old when I first found out that someone could be an author. I mean a real author--someone who could write books for a living (not that I knew at 8 that this was more than likely a meager living that also required a day job).
It was all a part of a school project. We had to write a story, illustrate it--and then the teacher would so graciously laminate the construction paper pages, bind it with three metal rings, and there we would have--a book. And this book would be submitted to Young Authors. And we'd have a day field trip to the local university where we would hear a real author talk about writing. Wander a room full of other kids' books--just like me. Oogle over their work as they would oogle over mine. Then we would clap and cheer as each one of us had our name called about our achievement of writing a story. Using our imagination. And well-- having our 5 seconds of fame as an AUTHOR. And that my readers, was when this dream of authoring and publication began.
Well actually it was before field trip day--it was when I started writing my story. And it is quite an amusing story. The assignment was (and yes, I remember it as if it were being told to me this very minute): Write a story from your imagination.
That's it. No word count. No length requirements. Nothing. In fact in that very moment I didn't even know I would be required to illustrate the damn thing either. So I wrote. And wrote. Every night for almost a week. And when we were all said and done, I think I had three, maybe 4 pages filled (it was that penmanship paper with the two solid lines for the top and bottom and the dotted center line). I was thrilled. Excited even. To share it with the class thinking they would be my only audience. And I was absolutely positive they would love it (yes, I was geek central and loved school. I am sure I got more than eye rolls. Even at 8).
I trotted into school--still unknowing my life would be changed forever, but definitely realizing this writing and making things up thing was really cool--and then we were asked to DRAW PICTURES to go along with our stories. What? I couldn't read it aloud yet? I was devastated for a whole 5 seconds, until I realized this meant I was able to go back into the world I created and like, DRAW the characters (the little girl, who--gasp--looked and acted almost exactly like me. And the dwarfs. And the trees. And rainbows.). So I drew. And drew. And 35 pages later, with the cut out pages of one sentence at a time, my hand hurt.
The next day I gave them to my teacher. Each of the 35 pages. One-by-one. Explaining the significance of the pictures to the words. She smiled at me (and I am sure was laughing at this perfectionist, brown-nosing child in front of her) and took my pages. Only to return them the next day. As a book. It was wonderful. I think I sat right there at my desk and read it to myself another 10 times before--yes, finally--I was asked to read it to the class.
And as expected they loved it. Not because of my originality in story telling--but because it was SO LONG. See, most of my friends and classmates' stories lasted maybe 10 pages. Tops. I almost tripled that... and had crayon blisters to prove it.
Then--we found out about the field trip. And Young Authors. And my epiphany of writing being a form of substance to live off of. And my love affair began.
p.s. Does anyone know the official website or origins of Young Authors? Web searches only land me on teacher or school curriculum pages. Isn't there something at the National level? Really. I would love to give back to this program in any way that I can. Hmmm. This just might merit a phone call to my second grade teacher... wouldn't Mrs. Coduti be surprised.
It was all a part of a school project. We had to write a story, illustrate it--and then the teacher would so graciously laminate the construction paper pages, bind it with three metal rings, and there we would have--a book. And this book would be submitted to Young Authors. And we'd have a day field trip to the local university where we would hear a real author talk about writing. Wander a room full of other kids' books--just like me. Oogle over their work as they would oogle over mine. Then we would clap and cheer as each one of us had our name called about our achievement of writing a story. Using our imagination. And well-- having our 5 seconds of fame as an AUTHOR. And that my readers, was when this dream of authoring and publication began.
Well actually it was before field trip day--it was when I started writing my story. And it is quite an amusing story. The assignment was (and yes, I remember it as if it were being told to me this very minute): Write a story from your imagination.
That's it. No word count. No length requirements. Nothing. In fact in that very moment I didn't even know I would be required to illustrate the damn thing either. So I wrote. And wrote. Every night for almost a week. And when we were all said and done, I think I had three, maybe 4 pages filled (it was that penmanship paper with the two solid lines for the top and bottom and the dotted center line). I was thrilled. Excited even. To share it with the class thinking they would be my only audience. And I was absolutely positive they would love it (yes, I was geek central and loved school. I am sure I got more than eye rolls. Even at 8).
I trotted into school--still unknowing my life would be changed forever, but definitely realizing this writing and making things up thing was really cool--and then we were asked to DRAW PICTURES to go along with our stories. What? I couldn't read it aloud yet? I was devastated for a whole 5 seconds, until I realized this meant I was able to go back into the world I created and like, DRAW the characters (the little girl, who--gasp--looked and acted almost exactly like me. And the dwarfs. And the trees. And rainbows.). So I drew. And drew. And 35 pages later, with the cut out pages of one sentence at a time, my hand hurt.
The next day I gave them to my teacher. Each of the 35 pages. One-by-one. Explaining the significance of the pictures to the words. She smiled at me (and I am sure was laughing at this perfectionist, brown-nosing child in front of her) and took my pages. Only to return them the next day. As a book. It was wonderful. I think I sat right there at my desk and read it to myself another 10 times before--yes, finally--I was asked to read it to the class.
And as expected they loved it. Not because of my originality in story telling--but because it was SO LONG. See, most of my friends and classmates' stories lasted maybe 10 pages. Tops. I almost tripled that... and had crayon blisters to prove it.
Then--we found out about the field trip. And Young Authors. And my epiphany of writing being a form of substance to live off of. And my love affair began.
p.s. Does anyone know the official website or origins of Young Authors? Web searches only land me on teacher or school curriculum pages. Isn't there something at the National level? Really. I would love to give back to this program in any way that I can. Hmmm. This just might merit a phone call to my second grade teacher... wouldn't Mrs. Coduti be surprised.
