I’ve always been a storyteller. We all are, really, us humans. They say there have been civilizations that never used the wheel, but there’s never been one that hasn’t told stories.
I just happened to be someone who always liked to write my stories down. In pastel-coloured Hilroy notebooks as a second-grader: plotless tales that consisted mainly of describing and naming a family’s numerous pets. Then on my Grandpa Ed’s typewriters (he had many): slightly more sophisticated accounts of girls who experienced disasters the night before they were set to star in the school play (!). Then mystery ‘novels’ on my dad’s early laptops, which were massive and heavy and prone to overheating (the laptops, not the prose). After that, it was embarrassingly misguided teen romances — also on my dad’s business laptop, only these ones I felt the need to password-protect. One of those teen romances, which I printed and distributed to my friends, is sure to surface one day. I blush at the thought.
Fast-forward fifteen years, and I am one of the fortunate few who gets to do what I loved as a youngster as a big part of my day job. I get to tell stories for a living.