The coolest thing happened about a week ago: A lovely eleven-year-old fan left a five-star review of my new book, Good Luck, Fatty?!, at Barnes and Noble. Which got me thinking about why I write in the first place (as an indie author, it’s certainly not for fame or fortune!).
The main reason I write, I decided, is that I love to read. Reading is magical. It takes us places we’d never otherwise go. Reading makes us laugh and cry, shake our heads and roll our eyes. It lets us try on other skins and walk around in them for a while. It makes us more human.
Writing, to me, is a high calling. I take it seriously (although I frequently write about less-than-serious topics). Because when a reader picks up one of my books, they are placing their trust in me. And I always strive to be worthy of that honor.
So, to that lovely eleven-year-old who was kind enough to leave a review, I’d like to say: thank you. You are the reason I do what I do.
(Now, for a little comic relief, a picture of me at eleven years old. Note the delicious velour v-neck sweater; I had a wardrobe full of those things in 1983!)