As mentioned in a previous post, my mother recently found some of my early writings from the age of about 7 years.
Reading them now, I’m struck by what a morbid child I was! So many stories involved my main character (usually a strange young girl) dying at the end. Or at least getting seriously injured.
It guess it makes sense that I became interested in Stephen King and Dean Koontz as I got older!
Still, I have a feeling I was working through something tragic. At around that time, we lived in Denver, Colorado. There was a boy my age that went to my school. He lived just down the street.
He died from leukemia. His name was Ricky Knight. Although my mother’s parents died when I was too young to really understand what was happening, this was the first time I had encountered death up close and personal. And it wasn’t the death of a pet, or something “normal.”
It was the death of a child. My own age. I was shocked. I had no idea that such a thing could even happen.
I can only imagine I must have been trying to process this unbelieveable thing through my stories.
My next post will be one of those stories.