Twelve

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My scribophilia began very early. As a kid I would sprawl out on my belly, printer paper on the carpet (the kind with perforated edges and holes along the sides, remember those?), penning and illustrating my own picture books.

Getting a little older, I started to focus on more serious literary work, writing a story about talking whales. I single-handedly supported the spiral-bound notebook industry with that thing.

The day I turned twelve years old, I ignored my own birthday party to start writing what I believed would be my magnum opus. (Isn’t that such a writer thing to do? “Nah, you guys go on, Ima hang out here. Alone. In the corner. Typing furiously.”) The story was called…

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