In elementary school I was part of the gifted writing program, a motley crew of painfully eager mouthbreathers and turtleneck-wearers. Even then, I felt protective of my territory as the foremost creative writer of the eight-year-olds. I would listen to other kids read their stories about horses and think, “Amateurs. A pony would never behave that way — where’s the motivation?”
There are two take-aways here: I was a pretentious asshole as a kid, and there’s nothing I’d rather do than write every day.