The first stories I wrote were about my stuffed animals. I think I was eight, but I’m not entirely sure.
Winnie the Pooh? Not quite.
At this age I had a taste for action, and I liked Star Wars and Lord of the Rings. Therefore, in my stories my animal heroes wielded laser swords and used magic powers against hordes of giant spiders and enormous trolls.
I don’t know how much has really changed. I write novels for adults now. I know how to spell properly, how to build tension and create imaginary worlds, and most of the time I think I’m a good writer. Then again, I can’t help but feel that my best work comes from a place deep inside. This place is the part of me that never grew up.