Miss Erin's post about her first book inspired this one.
The first time I knew I was going to be a writer was when, in my Creative Writing Class (in seventh grade, I was about thirteen or fourteen), we were assigned to free-write a horror story. It could be about anything-people with no eyebrows (scary to me!), ghosts, or in this case-murdering zombies stowed away on the titanic.
Now, these zombies weren't just any zombies. They were ugly. And mean. And they were desparate to murder an innocent girl named Emma by killing her friends one by one and snatching away her one and only love interest with a potential early-twentieth-century hottie.
And as soon as I really got into the story-and the characters-I found that I just couldn't STOP writing.
After two weeks of telling my teacher "I'm just not done yet!!!" I finally caved and told her I was making it into a novel.
She was totally cool about it-she let me use her computer to type up its pages and everything. And she never criticized it-ever. And on the day when we were supposed to read our horror stories aloud-an experience I wished to skip-she didn't make me do it.
Although, you know, I told her I had a severe case of strep. But I think she got the point.
Of course-I ended up not finishing that novel. Something which I regret doing. But hey, I still have the original hand-written copy of THE BLANK TELEGRAPH (every time someone was about to die-the zombies would send poor Emma a blank telegraph; not that they, the zombies, would stoop to just killing someone, no-these were highly intellegent Zombies; and well, also-I wasn't sure what a telegraph was when I was thirteen, really, so there you have it).