First of all, I’m making an effort to go by Michelle D. Sinclair to differentiate me from the historical romance author who spells her first name Michele.
My mother (Melodie M. Davis) has written several non-fiction books, and growing up, people used to ask me if wanted to be a writer like my mom. I wasn’t a rebellious child, but if anything got me going, that question did. No way did I want to be a writer. As far as I knew, writing was the stuff they made us do in language arts class: “My Favorite Vacation” and “My Best Friend” and other topics of that ilk. Hand-crampville with a side of snores.
Reading was a different story. Every year, I beat the pants off the summer reading contest hosted by our local library, racking up titles like other kids racked up Nintendo conquests. And this wasn’t just a summer addiction. When it was chore time, I hid in my room to read. When it was time to drive somewhere with the family, I spent so much time in bookland that when I got my learner’s permit, I didn’t even know how to get to church–a trip we’d taken every Sunday of my life. I still haven’t quite lived that one down.
The clear division between my love of reading and my hate of writing got obliterated in the spring of eighth grade, when I read Anne McCaffery’s Dragonflight. If every writer’s goal is to fire the reader’s imagination, then Ms. McCaffery did her job in spades. I have the most vivid memory of finishing the last page, looking up from the book and thinking, “I can do that. I want to do that.”
And I’ve been aiming for the skies ever since.