When I was eight I wrote an essay, certainly for some fascist language arts teacher, which I began with the phrase, “I was born at an early age …” I thought it witty. She thought it C-level work, the grade not professional rank, and it’s a good thing, too. If I’d gotten praise for my smart-aleck-ness early on, it may not have developed into a full-blown case of smart-assism, something of which I’m very proud.

It was then I knew I wanted to write for a living. While I wasn’t sure exactly what I would write or for whom, or even if it would be any good, crafting wordiness into indecipherable babble would be a major part of my life’s calling.