Unfortunately, I am not a superhero. This tale will be short and without radioactive spiders or kryptonite. But it belongs to me, and for some reason that makes the dearth of superpowers alright.
It began on a rainy day in fourth grade. My teacher, Mrs. Applebaum, made us all write short stories for our school's annual writing contest. Mine was about a cat who could talk, who whisks her owner off into a magical land inhabited by talking cats. It was awful. I was nine. Mrs. Applebaum told me that my story definitely had a shot at winning, with what I recognize now as a kind but patronizing smile. I did not win the writing contest, nor the medal they handed out to the winner.
And on that day, I decided: I will prove them wrong. I will become a writer.
Fourth grade redemption, here I come. Young Cass will be shaking her fist in triumph inside of me the day that my debut novel gets published.
No, but for real, guys: I like to write. I like to get lost inside of the words, to spiral, spiral, spiral down until me and the story are one and the same. I am currently hard at work on my debut novel, an as-of-yet-titled fantasy novel. I tweet (twitter.com/ihartcass) and I blog and I bang out that word count.
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