On New Year's Eve, I write down all the things I want to happen in the year upcoming and then I stick the list behind my mirror. And guess what? For the past few years, most of those things have happened.
Now, my rational side says that this is because every time I look in that mirror, my subconscious is reminded of what it is I want and encourages me to work all the harder to get it.
But the other part of my brain knows it is magic.
—from Linda's journal
About Linda
I was born in Detroit, Michigan, and raised in a suburban house that looked like all the others on my street. Sometimes I liked that sameness. It made me feel normal, when I worried I wasn’t.
Other times, though, I wanted to be different — to shine, to have people see me as special. I tried ballet dancing and singing and playing musical instruments, but I wasn’t very good at any of those things. But writing stories was fun! And often people liked what I wrote.
At Oakbrook Elementary, I wrote lots of poems and stories. One story, SUPERBOX, was about a crime-fighting shoe box. That story won me a prize. Even better? I got to read it out loud to my classmates, who laughed at the funny parts and cheered when Superbox fought off the evil potato chip can that was his mortal enemy. Nothing made me feel more special than hearing an audience cheer for a character I had written.
So, I kept writing. All through elementary school and junior high I wrote short stories and plays and poems.
But then I learned something.
Not everyone will like every story you write. And sometimes, that will make you feel very bad.
I remember once, I wrote a story about how I felt on Christmas Eve. I described my excitement, that tingling sensation I got anticipating the presents I knew would be under the tree the next morning. A boy in my class thought one of the words I used was “weird” and that I was weird as a result. He laughed at my story and his laughter stung.
I began to write more nonfiction, mostly articles for my high school yearbook and newspaper. These pieces took thought and hard work, but unlike my stories, I felt like I didn’t have to put my secret heart into them. I could hide behind the words and no one would make fun of me or the things I wrote about.
I also started to worry that maybe I was not as good a writer as I had imagined myself to be. I started comparing my writing to that in the books I read. No way was I as good as that! (More about that sort of thing here.)
By college, I had turned my writing toward advertising and marketing, using my creativity to sell the creative work of others.
