I wasn't always a writer. In fact, I was a non-writer, a serial quitter of diaries. If you were to rummage through the "Kit's Pack Rat Box," you would most likely find over twenty different notebooks inside. Each would have approximately five pages of illegible chicken scratch, the remaining sheets left forgotten and blank. It wasn't because I didn't have anything to say, for I was a child rarely at a loss for words—tall tales and quips were my specialty. It had to do with three things:

1. I didn't yet know the purpose of "writing it all down;"
2. I thought my imagination was too wild to share; and
3. I realized I had a bit of living to do before finding the right story to tell.

My grandpa once told me that I could do whatever I set my mind to, with help from the right people. As always, he knew what he was talking about. I've been fortunate to have the right people by my side all my life, but not just in the traditional sense. Encouraging parents. Supportive sisters. Invigorating friends. They have been so much more than roles played and spots filled. They are creators, designers, innovators, and builders, helping to mold me—mold my stories. My very own sculptors.

I didn't grow up planning for a life as a writer. Instead, I dreamed of becoming a professional Matchbox car racer, narrator of Barbie soap operas, Build-A-Bear Workshop helper, Pokemon trader, Tech Deck announcer, sideways-pencil-dive judge, and an architect of Lego kingdoms. My third grade self often spoke of becoming a Hollywood starlet, and if the bright lights faded out, I would live out my days as a forensic scientist. It took dissecting a frog in eighth grade to realize C.S.I. was propaganda. It wasn't real life. 

I haven't fully moved on from my nonsensical ideas but rather found a different place for them to live. Those pieces of me can exist in my stories, through my characters who make those parts real. Stories have become my atom, those basic units that make up my life. In honor of that, I want to give you a piece of my own. I'm not going to tell you what happened after—where I went to college and everything that followed it. Those are things easily found on a LinkedIn page. Instead, I'm going to tell you who I was as a kid and how it took me a while to get it right. We sometimes forget about those things, those discoveries that only a child can make. My revelations played a large part in my first novel, so they are the right place to start.

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I was a ragamuffin kid. No matter how much my mother tried to clean the dirt stains out of my clothes, brush my unkempt hair, or convince me that patent leather shoes weren't the bane of my existence, I was determined to show her otherwise. I wore clothes that didn't match and cut my own hair when my parents weren't looking. As the youngest in the family, my job was to prove why that dream of a fourth child should be quickly forgotten. There were two tricks that worked like a charm—one, taking off my clothes in public places, and two, eating all of my mom's lipsticks. 

I started out as a die-hard tomboy, mainly because I wanted an excuse to wear Airwalk shoes and Jnco jeans. But I'll never forget the day that I finally broke down and asked my sister to "turn me into a girl." She dressed me up in one of her butterfly shirts, the one with the most glitter—a detail she didn't neglect to point out. I made sure she knew it was a BIG deal that I had agreed to wear it. My official coming out to society happened in Ames, the store that usually had at most five patrons at any time. Perfect. Turned out, there was a random sale on freshwater fish that day. Apparently, $2.00 sunrise guppies trigger Black Friday-like behavior in a small town. I also found out that no one noticed or cared about my lone exodus out of elastic sweat pants and alien shirts.

As is true for most disproportioned pre-teens, middle school was tough. I tried to fit in by wearing choker necklaces that resembled fake tattoos. Gel pens became my utensils of choice. And I made up my face with what seemed like literal paint. This is what resulted:

• I suffered from the constant sensation of strangulation;
• I learned state exams shouldn't be completed in lime green. Apparently, it doesn't show up as clearly as it does on the back of your hand; and
• I adopted the not-so-fond nickname, "The Mask." No one told me you are actually supposed to wash off liquid foundation.

Interestingly, as much as I tried to conform, I still hoped for something out of the ordinary. Even after taking those large steps towards becoming a real girl, I hadn't found that special friend, my own personal Hobbes. I'll never forget the Christmas during fifth grade when I discovered a tiny picture frame in my stocking. My mom thought it would be a nicer filler, just like the Belly Dancing Kit (no pun intended) that I also found at the bottom. It was small, too small to hold a normal picture. She noticed that I didn't have any pictures of friends propped up in my room and said it would be a good place to start. It didn't come with a picture inside, making it more obvious that I didn't have someone to fill it with. I would often look at that blank picture frame, sitting in the cubby on my bedroom wall. The longer I stared at it, the more I began to see it differently. Sure, I wanted friends. But I also wanted the right friends—just like Grandpa told me. I discovered I didn't have to fill it with just anyone. I could wait to find someone who understood me the right way and accepted me, recovering tomboy and all.

And so I did. It marked only the beginning for me—of not settling for an insincere friendship, unequal relationship, or unfulfilling career. It was a small moment with an incredibly large impact. 

That is how I view stories. They allow me to take a simple object and give it meaning. If my stories can offer you anything, my desire would be exactly that—to give you something of meaning. Hopefully my book can sit on your shelf one day, and each time you look at it, you will start to see something more, something different.