Given how passionate I am about writing, you might think that I always wanted to be a writer. Nothing could be further from the truth. Thanks to my mother, I grew up loving to read, and books were always an important part of my life. But I hated writing. English was among my least favorite subjects in school (only gym class was worse) and, through my first thirty years, I did everything possible to avoid creative pursuits.
Whatever happened in my early childhood to so turn me against self-expression is long forgotten. Looking back, though, I can see that I was destined to be a writer. I can see, too, that my Muse began her cunning, undercover campaign decades before I succumbed to what some have called the “incurable disease of writing.” Was my fate already sealed in Grade 1 when my composition “The Monster Snowplow” won such kudos from my teacher that the gold-starred foolscap half-sheet bearing my childish scrawl remained pinned to my playroom wall for months? Or was that just a teaser for a more potent symbol? I doubt that my fourteen-year-old self linked the Hermes nameplate on his first typewriter to the eponymous winged-heeled messenger god. Now, however, it’s easy to see the hand of my Muse in that. I even see her hand in whatever it was that crippled my creativity. Without the journey from total shutdown to unconditional surrender, there could have been no MoonQuest and no Voice of the Muse, and one of the overarching themes of my work would never have been.
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