The first step of my writing journey that I can remember was in first grade. In fact, the only reason I have any recollection of first grade is because I underwent the scarring experience of having my writing slowly branded by the hot iron of conformity, also known as Mrs. Killcoyne, the first grade teacher at Kensington Elementary. My first-grade writing journal was filled with the stock sentences that I learned were expected of me: “I like Pizza.” “I like Legos.” “I like Star Wars.” One day, with a jolt of creative inspiration, I wrote a vivid paragraph detailing the subtle and delectable intricacies of my mom’s homemade apple crisp. The scents, the sights, and even the sounds of the golden cinnamon apples were all highlighted in what was to that point my most creative endeavor. But alas, in my frantic and joyful moment of self-expression, I didn’t leave large enough spaces between the words. My teacher was not pleased, and I had to erase it and start over. That, combined with the nightmarish screaming that occurred whenever Mrs. Killcoyne took a student into the hallway, is what I remember about first grade.

My mother, a strong advocate for creative writing, had me pulled from that old philistine’s class within a week. I was then enrolled at the Sparhawk School, which was at the complete opposite end of the learning spectrum; in fact, it eventually devolved into a sort of hippy commune for children. Here we had recess for almost half of the school day, during which time we were encouraged to make discoveries for ourselves. On my first day, sprawled on the floor, I wrote my first short story, “The Ghost of Terror,” about a friendly neon pink ghost that haunted the school. There was nothing more important in the Sparhawk curriculum than creative thinking.

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