Fiction-writing seems like a strange obsession for someone who hates to lie. I don’t even play poker because bluffing makes me uncomfortable. But since I was a kid, I’ve been obsessed nonetheless. When I was younger I wrote cheery stories, like one about a girl who got encephalitis from a mosquito and died. Others were classy, like the one about Bingo Sherman, a dog who lived with his pet human, Darlene. I wouldn’t remember any of these masterpieces if my mother hadn’t ferreted them away. My room was known to eat things.
Here’s the first documented story I ever wrote, at age 4:
Flopsy was a bunny. She was all white. She lived in a cage outside and there were bricks around her cage so she couldn’t get out. He owner wouldn’t take care of her anymore because she scratched him. She was sad because it was an accident and she didn’t mean to. And an old woman came by Flopsy and she said that she would take care of Flopsy, and she did. And Flopsy’s bowl was empty and the old woman filled it. And Flopsy already got a new name — Flopser. And then she ate all of her food.