They say that you know what you want to be by the fourth grade. If that were the case, I would be a pediatric Russian ballerina surgeon who flies army helicopters.

So how does a tree-climbing tomboy from a rural community become a writer? I give part of the credit to being forced to use my imagination. I did not have a television in my home until upper elementary. We were not allowed to sit around playing video games. My parents were firm believers in children working hard and playing hard. The hayloft became my hospital. The barn swallows enemy fighters (I especially liked when they dove on the cat).  The picnic table became my stage. I played spy around the town darting in and out of doorways, through culverts, behind bushes, finding ailing creatures along the way to mend and nurture.

But as night fell, I became a reader. I remember staying up all night with a blanket over the dining room table, flashlight in hand, reading Thorn Birds which I had so stealthily confiscated from my mother's bedside. Of course I also read the encyclopedia--the entire set! My favorite volume was "M", although I have no idea why now.

And at school to my great delight, I discovered that we actually got a grade to make up stories. Our teachers would hand out papers shaped like elephants and stars and Christmas trees. I dutifully filled three or four elephants with my stories and I proudly clung to each one.

Later on, I would enter writing contests in the local paper and for several years running, would win both first and second place with my entries. But with teen angst, my stories went to the side and poetry--deep dark poetry--about hypocrisy and death and lost love and the stupidity of the older generation--took its place.

When I went on to college, I majored in English and worked in the college libraries. After a few years of teaching English, I went back to become a librarian so that I could forever be surrounded by my most prized possession: the book. I wrote freelance articles on the side for several years, but fiction was my passion.

And now, that I am seasoned in life (I refuse to accept middle age), I can no longer ignore that fourth grade child within me who is demanding that I write. Everywhere I go, I see a story. Every person I look at I see a character. So maybe that old adage about fourth grade is true. Of course if it is, my son will grow up and build wooden shoes.