I've always wanted to be a writer. When I first learned to read a world of adventure bloomed in my mind. I read voraciously up to the point where it bothered my family. My mother especially. My mother was not shy and introverted like I am. She was bold. Outspoken and extroverted. She had no fear. She was definitely not nice to say the least. She let it be known that me reading and staying in my room was not acceptable. She would come in my room when I wasn't home to go through my books (I probably had hundreds) and throw them away. Along with toys. Any diary was peaked into and if I wrote anything unacceptable (mostly if I wrote about her) I had hell to pay. I being a child, wanted my mother's approval so when I decided at 9 years old I wanted to be an author I wrote a short story about a black lab named max and excitedly let her read it. There was no "I'm proud of you" moment. She puffed her cigarette and handed it back to me and said in a emotionless tone "it's good" to me that was her saying"wow Whisper! I love your writing keep it up" so I skipped happily away to start on the second novel about max. After awhile of this my mother said one night as she was cooking dinner "you can't be an author. It won't happen. You won't make any money. Why not be a vet?" I felt crushed and looked at my stories and wanted to cry. I just didn't understand why I couldn't be an author like R.L Stine and Judy Blume. Why couldn't she be a supportive mother?
I didn't let her stop me from writing though and for the next few years I wrote stories about dogs, cats and little kids that wanted dogs and cats. All the while my reading level improved as my math did not (lol) I read every child book you can imagine. I won third place in the spelling bee contest in fourth grade. I won reading rewards from the town library. All the while my mother let me know in every way possible that she didn't want me to be a bookworm, didn't like how shy and anxious I was.