Blake Atwood in a cliché author pose.
The story of how our lives now intersect begins in a book, as it should.
As a child, I was awed by Aslan, entranced by Encyclopedia Brown, and bowled over by Calvin and Hobbes.
As a teenager, I fell for the classics: A Tale of Two Cities, Crime and Punishment, The Count of Monte Cristo. (Two of those are still among my all-time favorite books.)
I was the odd kid who read the dictionary and relished the rare moment to display my sesquipedalian tendencies.
Except I never really spoke up.
But I would read and I would write.
Yet I never wrote anything of length, and I seldom let anyone see what I’d written.
Until senior-year English in high school, when a teacher called out my talent in four simple words: “You’re a good writer.”
I hadn’t thought I was much good at anything until then.
To be honest, most days I still wonder.
But I also know that even impressively accomplished writers face that doubt. It’s part of the profession.
Encouraged by her words, I pursued an English degree (with a religion minor) at Southwestern University in Georgetown, Texas.
Post-college, I worked at a bookstore and then at the strangest job I’ve ever had: as a proofreader for the Texas Senate.
In the basement of the Capitol building in Austin, I worked alongside four other English nerds to proofread bills and laws. (For the Texas history buffs, that was 2003, most notable for 50 Democratic leaders fleeing to Oklahoma.)
Following that fascinating time and work, a church where I had long played drums hired me. I was eventually granted the (self-given) title of Director of Media and Communications.
In all that time, at best, I dabbled in writing.
While it was part of each job I had, it was a minor part.