When I was a kid in preschool and daycare, I liked to draw. I wasn’t particularly good at it, but who is at that age? I never kept anything I drew, and never really wanted to. That wasn’t the point. It was a form of play. While I got along with other kids, I was always more than happy to sit at a table and draw.
Mostly, I drew Star Wars spaceship fights or World War II fights and made explodey noises. It was a way to play in my own imagination. It was a way to tell a story, if only to amuse myself.
As I got a little older, going into elementary school, I picked up on comics and at first had aspirations of becoming a comic book artist. The more I drew, though, the more I realized I really wasn’t getting it. My hands aren’t that steady. I’m not great at drawing straight lines or even remotely serviceable circles. I tried a couple of “how to draw” books, but eventually I figured I didn’t have the talent for it. Since then, I’ve met professional artists who’ve impressed upon me how anyone can get better, and how it just takes practice, but that doesn’t change my past. I gave up on drawing. I didn’t give up on playing in my imagination or wanting to tell stories. I only shifted methods.
I have much to be thankful for: a wonderful girlfriend, a good family, health, awesome friends, a great city to live in, two freakin’ amazing cats. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank you, my readers, for giving my work a chance and then supporting it as you have. I’m making a better, happier living as a writer than I have at any other profession in my life, and that means the world to me.
Because of you, I basically get to make a living doing the same exact thing I did as a kid. Maybe I use a keyboard rather than crayons or pencils, but I’m still sitting at a desk, telling a story, and making explodey noises to amuse myself.