The year was 1996. I was a confident six year old with a Little Mermaid backpack, My Little Pony lunch box, and a head filled with extensive knowledge. Maybe I wasn’t the most popular in my first grade class but I had a nice group of friends who put up with my creative genius. All in all I had a pretty damn good life.
The other kids were slightly jealous of my teacher’s pet status as I was highly intelligent for my young age. The pig-adorned classroom was filled with my perfect penmanship (as well as others, I suppose) and quick math skills (which were promptly lost somewhere around fourth grade). I was living the first grade dream, and my friends were riding on my coattails.
Then I got my first gig in the spotlight. My teacher noticed that I always had a notebook on hand; I was always scribbling down short stories (couple sentences here and there). She tasked me with writing a puppet show for a group of my friends to act out. I took to my blank pages and crafted a harrowing story of a pig and a dog who, against all odds, became best friends. My friends fought over the coveted spot of the pig and were quick to skillfully craft their Popsicle stick puppets.
The show went on without a hitch and we ended with a thunderous applause from the captivated audience. I was awarded a certificate for my achievement and was crowned with the highest honor of “Pigtastic Author.” To this day I still have that certificate and shirt with the ironed on pig in a dress. From there the fame only increased but I am always remembered my big break into the world of storytelling.