Born in Jackson, Wyoming, I really found myself in a mess. If you’ve ever been to the minimally populated state, you’d notice there is nothing there. And Jackson Hole, Land of the rich and tourists, gave nothing for the poor broke teenagers to occupy their time with.

      I had two choices. Get drunk, or find some form of hobby to exercise my days. As I hate people and alcohol is hardly any fun alone, or in general, clearly it had to be number two.

      So, after wasting about 12 years worth of television, I got down to it.

      For some reason, I hardly recalled wanting to be a writer, however, in vague clips of memories, I know I always did.

      I remember in the third or second grade, my friend said she wanted to be an illustrator, and I said I would be the writer for it.

      I remember taking Young Authors way too seriously. Perhaps because I always lost and, being in Wyoming, where there are about ten people in the state, it’s kind of sickening to lose to the other two submissions.

      I remember a life long goal of wanting to be the youngest kid to ever publish a book.

      Which I failed at obviously.

      It was eighth grade when numerous contributing factors collided to get my act into the appropriate course.

1.)    We were reading The Outsiders, written by… a sixteen year old girl?

2.)    I just heard about Eragon, written by a fifteen year old boy.

3.)    My vague friend began writing on her own.

      So, obviously, I had to beat them down because clearly I could do the same thing, and, quite frankly, I was running out of time.

      I wrote a book. Crisis Striken.

      It changed titles many times, characters changed names. I ended the story, then decided to continue it, accidentally killed off the same character twice, and finally determined that I should probably stop it.

      The summer of my fourteenth year, I finally watched Shrek, having refused long before because it stole The Emperor’s New Groove—my favorite movie’s—lime light. That admittedly brilliant ogre inspired me, and within the months before school started, I finished, The Makings of a Fairy Tale.

      I didn’t bother getting it published at the time because I was far too aware it needed a great amount of editing, and I really wanted to continue on with my next book.

      ‘Cause, let’s face it, writing is a lot more fun than revising.

      Since that point I’ve created one book a year.

      You do the math.