Brief Author Bio:

When I was in elementary and middle school, I hated writing. I didn't necessarily hate writing in and of itself, or even the school assignments for which I was writing; I hated printing out my reports, because it meant that my mother would soon be sneaking up to request a "tiny peak" at my essay. Of course I would relent, and fidget awkwardly while my mother read over my paper. She would inevitably find something grammatically or dictionally -- or sometimes even factually -- sub-par, and send me back to the computer to make it better. At the time I felt this process was torture, but now I appreciate this process because it taught me about the writing process in a way that no teacher or textbook ever could. I grew to enjoy sharing my work with other people, and my mother's careful criticism has even made it difficult for me to receive positive reviews from my friends: although their benevolent support is exceedingly invaluable to me, my mother's editorial scrutiny has instilled in me an eternal quest for improvement that can only be guided by the literary critiques and challenges of my less affected peers.

It was actually a literary challenge that brought to my thirteen-year-old mind the realization that writing could earn more for me besides good marks in school. A day lazing in front of the family computer culminated in the discovery of a writing competition for teenagers, the grand prize being -- among other things -- a brand-new Michael Jordan edition Palm Pilot. As anyone old enough can recall, Palm Pilots were going to be the Next Big Thing at the start of the new millennium: small enough to fit in your pocket, but powerful enough to do pretty much everything a modern Black Berry can do -- except for make a phone call and access the internet. And the fact that I was heavily interested in basketball at the time made this grand prize a Double Whammy: one of the greatest technological devices available, AND it was named for one of the most well-known basketball players of all time? There was no way I could pass it up, so I sent in a short story about a little girl discouraged about her soccer abilities, and the encouragement she receives from her mother. Although the Terms and Conditions of the contest required parental consent for entrants under the age of eighteen, I didn't tell anyone I had entered the contest; I had pride, even then, and I didn't want it bruised by any resignedly sympathetic remarks should I have lost. I therefore checked the little box denoting parental consent without consulting my parents, submitted my story, and -- as most teenagers do -- promptly forgot about the whole thing entirely.

Several weeks later, I was cornered in the kitchen by my parents. Both my mother and my father were wearing expressions I had never seen on their faces before, so I did as most children do and assumed that I was in trouble. When my parents asked if I had recently entered a writing competition, my assumption was confirmed: I thought that maybe there was a law disallowing children from entering such contests without parental consent, and that I might be going off to jail for lying about having this permission; maybe there was no law, but the people hosting the contest contacted the parents of each entrant to make sure they really had permission to submit a story, and my parents were going to ground me until Doomsday. I therefore admitted to my deception and apologized passionately, trying to explain just how COOL was the grand prize so that they might sympathize before sending me to jail or my bedroom.

In the middle of my expostulations, my father laid on the table a piece of paper that had been folded thrice, as if it had been recently extracted from an envelope. I didn't touch it, fearing it was some sort of letter from the police demanding that my parents bring me in for confinement. A short period of silence later, my grinning father said simply, "You won the contest."

It took a little bit for me to fully appreciate the meaning of what my father had said. Those same expressions that I had seen on my parents' faces were -- I imagine, since there were no reflective surfaces in the immediate area -- mirrored in my own as the emotions fought for dominance inside me: suspicion of a prank; doubt that I was anywhere near talented enough to have earned anything more than an honorable mention, much less the grand prize; surprise that I HAD won, over countless others up to six years further in age and education; guilt for having deceived my parents; relieved that I wasn't in trouble for anything; pride in my newly proven talent as a writer; ecstasy at winning; pleasant satisfaction that this talent was recognized by more than my mother, and was therefore real; and breathlessness as my world expanded at the realization that I had just EARNED something with this talent, and could possibly continue to do so, if I wanted.

Over the next several weeks, I was interviewed by a reporter for an online article, I received my prize, and -- best of all -- I saw my story published on the World Wide Web. The whole experience felt surreal: one afternoon of boredom had lead to recognition and publication. I kept telling myself, "This can't be real, I'm only thirteen!" while another voice in the back of my head whispered seductively, "Yes, I'm ONLY thirteen; if I continue with this, imagine what I will be able to do when I'm twenty."

Seven years later, I am twenty years old, spending a lazy afternoon of boredom on the computer. A lot of things in my life have changed: my parents divorced, so my mother congratulates my achievements on her own; I completed high school and am continuing my education at college so that the skill I had at thirteen has improved, and is still under construction; my friends and family have taught me not to allow my pride to keep me from sharing in my excitement and anticipation, so whenever I enter a contest now -- writing or otherwise -- I have their love and support. Despite these changes, many things have remained constants, including the [now broken] Michael Jackson edition Palm Pilot I won in my first writing contest, displayed proudly on a shelf in my room as a reminder that however good I am now, I can always be better.