I am not a goal-setter. I do not sit down, pull out a notebook labeled Jordan’s 2004 Hopes and Dreams Planner and write, “I am going to accomplish this by doing this.” To me, setting specific aspirations is as useful as organizing my sock drawer: I will just pick out something random anyway. My “goals” are usually run-of-the-mill ambitions that could be bought in bulk at Banality General: graduate high school and college, have a family, finish the big assignment, or brush my teeth. I hardly ever set a goal that requires development or additional work; I am a procrastinator and quite fond of the words, “I want it now, darn it!” But every once in a hyperbolic millennia, a raging obsession grabs a hold of my apathy, strangles it, then says to me, “You’re gonna do this, and you’re gonna accomplish it by doin’ this. Ya undastand?” I nod meekly at my raging obsession, then quickly open up my metaphorical Hopes and Dreams Planner. A clearly defined goal I have listed at the moment is to become a published author.

My first creative writing experience occurred in the second grade. I was one happy little eight-year-old when my class was allowed to go the computer lab for an entire week to write stories. This was supposed to improve our keyboarding skills or some such nonsense, but I could really care less about the QWERTY school of thought. I sat down in front of that prehistoric IBM, my mind centered around one blossoming seed of a muse: I had just seen the cinematic marvel that is Splash, so I was on a very intense mermaid kick. “Oh, I know! I know!” I thought giddily. “I will make it like Splash, only she’s ten!” Ten-year-olds were so sophisticated and mature, the story would be more exotic. “And she doesn’t know she’s a mermaid!” Oh, this was getting exciting. “And . . . and . . . she turns into a mermaid when she’s in a bathtub! And she tries to get out and—” At this point my thoughts started to come out through my index fingers. I was on a roll. Plot point after plot point appeared, along with some stilted dialogue and dramatic ten-year-old mermaid angst. I continued writing my epic even after our special week was up, sneaking onto the class computers during free time. I even drew illustrations on notebook paper. I was very distraught when I realized all my second-grade files were deleted at the end of the semester.

Skip, skip, skip to my — fourth grade year. I attended a gifted and talented class at Klondike Elementary. Our first major writing assignment was a contest centering on the Feast of the Hunter’s Moon; winner received “two free tickets and an official pin!” My teacher handed out a manila paper with the following prompt:

“I got so excited when our birch bark canoe came with in sight of Fort Ouiatenon! The canoe slid to a stop by the bank of the river and when I looked up I was amazed to see . . .”

I took this home, set it in front of my computer, and started typing, this time with all my fingers originating from the home keys. I started off with my spunky heroine, Lissy, seeing a beautiful copper-colored horse tied to a tree. Lissy pets the horse, then all sorts of not-fun things happen. It only gets good when Lissy gets lost in the woods outside Fort Ouiatenon and has to stay the night with a Native American woman by the name of Frances Redmoon. I used a lot of non-conjugated French, and the ending is rather abrupt because I developed carpal-tunnel syndrome from all the typing. But I am still rather proud of Lissy: Great Adventurer of New France, if only because it was the first time I used characterization, not the bland formula of “Plot – BAM – Talking – BAM – Plot – BAM – Plot-plot-plot.” There’s still the problem of me stealing the main character and her horse from a popular historical fiction series, but we’ll delve into my days as a fourth-grade outlaw some other time.

Then came fifth grade and my obsession with science fiction and fantasy. I wrote one story that was eerily similar to Harry Potter, one that involved a boy being transported to an alien spaceship through a library book, and one that had something to do with a fairy disguised as a pregnant woman. Most of these I wrote at three o’clock in the morning, which might account for their oddness. I was very prolific, producing fifteen stories at the least, but I have banished them all from my memory because of their blatant psychosis. I like to think of it as my “Stupid Period”, like Van Gogh’s “Blue Period”, only not.

By the time I started sixth grade, I created stories on my own, without schoolwork to stimulate me. I picked up flyers at Barnes and Nobles about a company, Iuniverse.com, which published books for a fee of $100. Oh! I thought. I will just have to write a book with my rabidly ingenious author friend Valeri , then! Val and I furiously set about outlining a plot. We played the Sims game, consumed exorbitant amounts of Skittles, and poured over fantasy art books for inspiration. Her stereo pounded with wispy Celtic hymn music, girly pop, and Enya. After a weekend of this brainstorming, we developed a rough plot. We devised a system: I would write a chapter, email it to her, and she would add on. This type of writing is common in the internet writing community; something called “interactive fiction” or “interfic” for short. Readers should note that interfic doesn’t work. We eventually went off onto a tangent about a minor character’s magical abilities and eye color and never returned to full-steam-ahead. Our in-depth plot outlines are probably stuffed into a sketchbook somewhere, and whatever text we had must have been obliterated in a computer crash around the fall of 2001, although the first thrillingly ominous chapter still resides on the site FictionPress.com. After that adventure, I was burnt out on creative, voluntary writing, and did not return to it until this past summer. One night, while staring at a blank diary page, I was possessed with the sudden urge to write something fake again. First came the idea, then the opening sequence, then the eventual climax . . . I had started putting together the parts of a real novel. Planning is a kangaroo bound in the right direction! The majority of readers may ask, “What’s the direction she’s talking about? She’s been rambling so long I have forgotten the point of this story.”

The point of the story is that I am well on my way to actually writing a bona-fide book. I have nine – count them – nine pages so far. (If these nine pages were in a book, they would really be eighteen pages . . .) After all the things I have learned about exposition, the story begins with “I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my tooooooes . . .” Then there is the matter of character development: “Nicola scrutinized the thing. It was definitely a boy. His short dark hair was soaking wet. In fact, everything about him was wet. His ugly and unfashionable clothes were completely sopping. Ugly people were so amusing.” The main character, Nicola, will become a strong, compassionate, and generally sane person. How will I accomplish this? Through the time-honored method of a plot device, a la the Magic Mermaid Bathtub™! Yes, well, I am only on the rough draft.