• Everybody has something special they do when they’re upset. Some people scream and make a fuss. Some people just go to a corner and sulk. Most people grab a big bowl of ice cream, sit in front of the T.V. with some friends and complain about how fat the latest celebrities are getting (well, most girls, anyway). I used to be one of these people – until I started to write. But before I tell you that story, I need to tell you this story.
    The first time I ever thought about being a writer was in preschool, and not for the reason you would think. It was because of the typewriter. The big, black, clunky old typewriter that sat in the corner of the playroom, unused and unwanted. While the other children played with the toys and blocks and coloring books, I would sit with the typewriter and press the keys. I loved the sound it made as I pressed each key, and the little “ding!” at the end of each line. The smell of fresh ink and old paper floated around it in a cloud, intoxicating anyone who came near, especially curious little girls like me. And it’s perfect, ebony lacquer shone like a new penny, except for one chalky white scuff in the bottom right corner from when the teacher had dropped it the first day she brought it in. I loved that scuff – it gave the typewriter character. The things I wrote on that typewriter made no sense, but still I showed my parents my works with pride and pointed enthusiastically at the nonsensical sentences. When I’d graduated from preschool, I missed that typewriter so much. That is, until I didn’t. Within one week of the new school year I had forgotten that typewriter. And my dreams of being a writer were forgotten as well. Those dreams have only recently been resurfaced. To be exact, they resurfaced on January 12th of last year, as I walked into my fourth period English class on a dreary afternoon.