I taught myself to read when I was four. Even before that, though, I was enamored with writing. My mom likes to tell the story of how I would ‘read’ the newspaper when I was two–while holding it upside down. I knew how to read by the time I went to school, and I was in a special reading class with one other kid in the first grade. We both read several levels higher than the other kids, so we were pulled out and sat down in a room on our own. The details are cloudy, but I seem to remember that we were allowed to read pretty much whatever we wanted. So, less a class and more an independent study.
I read the Little House on the Prairie series, which was one of my favorites. Laura Ingalls Wilder. I read each book several times and was enamored by her life on in the wild. It wasn’t until much later that I realized that she was an unreliable narrator (every story she told was how great she was and how much more clever she was than everyone else). I cannot blame her because why wouldn’t you center yourself in books you’re writing about your life?
I did some Googling on her when I got older, and it was grim. She became a Republican, decrying social safety nets, even though her youngest sister was on welfare. That really put a damper on my enjoyment of the books, I’ll tell you that much.
I also decided to read the dictionary when I was in the third or fourth grade. I got bored around I, but that didn’t stop me from calling my bullies ‘unintellectual imbeciles’. Hey, cut me some slack; they were really mean. Then, in ix grade I decided to read the longest book I could find. That would be War and Peace by Leon Tolstoy. I got halfway through it before giving up when I couldn’t keep the names straight. Everyone had a half-dozen nicknames, and I had no clue what was going on. I also read The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne and hated it. Why did Hester Prynne get all the crap for sleeping with John Proctor? And why is she so adamant about protecting him? And, yes, I know that’s part of the purpose of the book. Didn’t stop me from hating it.
I started writing creatively when I was seven. I don’t remember any of it, but I’m sure it was brilliant. I wrote a murder mystery in fourth or fifth grade, complete with very shitty illustrations. Look, drawing is not my forte. I can’t be expected to be good at everything. But the story itself was solid and indicative of my mentality–revenge is best served.