Updated: Aug 31, 2021
I’ve been writing for most of my life.
I wrote my first “novel” when I was 9. It was a tale of unrequited love.
A girl liked a boy, but he was in love with her best friend.
This was a tale I wouldn’t become more intimately connected to until I was 14 and my serious crush Danny fell in love with my best friend, Javier. I think I cried every day for 2 weeks — Wondering if I could ever love again. (Spoiler alert: I did).
I was obsessed with romantic stories.
Likely because I watched my mom absorb romance novels by the dozens.
She was known to devour a book in a day, and I thankfully picked up that trait of voracious reading.
I have never known such glorious leisure time as when I would spend afternoons pouring through Judy Blume books stopping to circle words I didn’t know and dog earring what I felt like were scandalous pages to return to later.
My mom also shared with me her love of soap operas and every day when I got home from school, we would watch our favorite one together. Shout out to General Hospital who prepared me for insane drama well before I entered middle school!
The time we spent together watching stories about amnesia, evil twin sisters, thwarted murder plots, and salacious affairs might seem inappropriate, but this experience shaped my personal development (and life!), and it was one of my most favorite things to do with my mom.
She turned every episode into a conversation.