I am not really sure where to start. Since there is not too great deal in pile up in my life or early days related to my past and development in writing. I guess I could focus more on my progress and often, from some points of view, an odd experience with language. I say that mostly because my experience involves a lot of story telling and adventure; At least from what I can remember. My mother would always enlighten me with stories, mostly eerie, spooky, wacky stories. These tales of terror in all probability predisposed my mind’s eye a lot. Moving around at a young age and exploring the world around me probably contributed to my out of the ordinary acuity of reality and many of my strange adventures with the written and spoken tongue. Reading and learning for that matter, at least in my younger years, did not seem like my craze.
When I lived in Sarasota, Florida, where I was born, and departed from around the age of four, my first moment with books and the wonderful world composed inside started in my den size bedroom. My mother would show me her favorite childhood adventures stamped by various artists into thin books with classically blue, violet, pink, or blue cardboard covers. These first steps into fundamental literature usually spoke of stories about far off lands with magic sparks of witchcraft and mayhem. The path in the goal changed because my focus changed. I went from basic literature to the bona fide world. I was heading to Australia and eventually New Zealand and back to America. My journey away from the United States and back lasted about three years; two years in Australia and one year in New Zealand. My luck, born into a family of exploration and travel, landed me a ticket into a better and more diverse understanding of humanity around me.
I believe it influenced my reading style mostly because it helped me with my ability to imagine, more vividly, the world around me. Australia was also the beginning of my mother’s hauntings; her stories about late nights and strange hotels, spooky ghosts, and creepy crawlies. There were stories about super heroes and other interesting fun; meaning excellent action packed fun. A strange contribution and the only contribution I can think of, that influenced my writing at this time may have been the slight difference in schooling I was thrown into in foreign countries. It may have influenced my writing especially since my first experiences with learning to write began in kinder garden and first grade there. Surprisingly, or maybe not, I do not remember much of my family and friend fun in both of these countries, so much of the clear contributions to my writing and reading is this stage of my young life and blurry.
Some of my foremost influences, though, are much easier to remember when I came back to the United States. We decided to leave and head to North Carolina, specifically Charlotte. We rented a small apartment in a massive complex called Alta Forest. The influence of my reading and writing here can probably be seen in my adventures into the huge forest that intertwined its way through the complex. My friends and I had some crazy times in those forests. The imagination went wild in there, if you understand what I mean. Stories of hauntings, and disappearing houses were told. We built forts and had battles, we went down muddy hills on bikes, and rode around on anything we could find with wheels. Strangely most of what I believe taught me to read and write was not the acts themselves but, more my experiences in life. These explorations took me too places I had never been and showed me things I could not imagine.
There are too many stories to tell and general examples seem to paint my picture best. One chronicle I can think of, that may have had some influence happened in third grade. All I can recall about the teacher was some sort of tie dye jacket. But getting away from those details, this was the first year I learned to draw in three dimensions. I think, at least from what I can remember, I learned to write vivid coherent stories because of my new found ability to draw. The first small book I wrote because of these changes mixed up a vacuum and a rabbit in a tale; where the rabbit lived with his rabbit parents in a very rabbit like world. He had his rabbit parents and rabbit sister and just about rabbit everything. The rabbit’s days changed when he was sucked into a powerful innovative, yet secretly magical vacuum his mother had purchased.