There was only one job I ever wanted.
I didn’t get it.
I tried more than once.
Everyone smiled and said thank you for applying and we’re glad you would like to work for us, but, no, we don’t need you.
The newspaper, it seemed, could do quite well without me.
I knew from the time I realized the difference between a subject and a predicate that I wanted to be a writer.
Growing up on an East Texas farm, I read everything I could get my hands on and I got my hands on everything I could find that had a front cover, back cover, and a bunch of words stuck in between.
I spent so much time crawling through the book shelves at the Kilgore Public Library that I became part of the furniture, and one day, I looked up from the printed page of another Hardy Boy Mystery and had two thoughts that would forever change my life.
Reading stories is good.
Writing stories is better.