I wrote my first story in 8th grade in a spiral notebook with college ruled lines. I did it in pencil, so that I could erase things when I needed to, and I carried that notebook with me everywhere that year.
I never meant to start writing. This might be a repeat, but my best friend that year was creating a story using everyone in our class as characters. She did something with “me” that I didn’t like and she refused to change it when I asked her to do it. It frustrated me so much, that I decided I could write my own story where I could do what I wanted.
Ha! Even back then my characters held the reins, but that’s another topic. 
What was my first story about? Two teenagers falling in love. There was angst and family drama, and yes, even at that age, I wrote my h/h having sex. I’m sure if I took the time to read my first effort now, I’d be utterly appalled, but hey, I was a kid and no one except my best friend has ever seen that story.
The book is unfinished. I never even made it through the entire notebook. I’m not sure why I stopped. Maybe I didn’t know what to do next or maybe school was over for the year or maybe I didn’t know how the story ended. Shrug. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is this is what gave me the writing bug. This was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.
Of course, I strayed. It was easier not to write, especially as a kid. Each time, though, someone came along to get me back on the path. I can look back in my life and see it happen again and again, and that’s nearly freaky. I mean we’re not talking once or twice here, we’re talking a good half a dozen times if not more. It makes me wonder, but that’s another topic, too.
My final nudge on to the writing path came in 1999. I haven’t stopped since, although there have been times I think about it. I’m horribly busy all the time. In essence, I have two full time jobs–writing and the Evil Day Job. I run on coffee (or I did before I quit cold turkey) and vitamins and never get enough sleep. I use all my vacation to write and revise, when once upon a time I used to travel to exotic and fun destinations. And despite this, I keep thinking, wow, I want to tell this story and when am I going to find time to tell this one, and man, I don’t want to wait to work on this proposal.
Writing just might be a stronger addiction than the coffee, and to think, it all began because my friend wouldn’t change one little thing in her ongoing story. I’m not sure whether or not I should thank her if I ever run into her again. 
