One of the questions I hear quite often, and probably one most authors are asked, is, “Why do you write?” Or, “What made you start telling stories? How did you get into writing?”

I’ve answered that question a hundred times at least, and
depending on my mood, I may have answered it a dozen different ways. Recently,
I received a message on Facebook messenger asking that question or something
similar to it. This time I stopped to really think about it.

Most of you have probably heard me tell the story about how
I started writing a YA novel back in high school. The Good Life was the title. It was a stupid book, really. It was
all about this handsome teenager who moved to his dad’s old town. All the girls
liked him, all the guys hated him, but he was a martial arts badass so he could
handle any of the guys who dared try and bully him.

I handwrote the story in red spiral notebooks broken up into
six parts. I passed those around to some of my female classmates, and they
loved it. Somehow, I kept track of all six parts. When I lived in Chicago, probably
around 2007, I pulled those notebooks out of a box and tossed them into the
trash bin.

That’s a true story, and that is what started me off on my path
to becoming an author.

However, after giving it some serious thought, I realized that was when I began to write down my stories, but that wasn’t how I began storytelling. So I’ve accidentally lied about that. I owe you all, and I owe myself, a much better explanation.

The truth is, it started back in San Diego, California, when
I was probably eight or nine years old. I’ve talked a lot about my shitty
childhood. If you know nothing about it, read my other blog posts, and I’m sure
there will be many more to come. I spent a lot of time grounded, sent to my
room, and I don’t even remember why. This post isn’t about all the unfair
treatment I received as a kid. It’s about how that part of my life sparked my
creativity.

I didn’t have a whole lot of toys back then, and what I did have usually came as a result of my constant trading with some of the other kids living in our apartment complex. I remember making up stories, the same way most kids do I suppose, while playing with my tiny M.U.S.C.L.E. action figures. I used a Frisbee as a wrestling ring and would create stories for each character. I even gave each one his or her own ring entrance song.

When I played with my G.I. Joe toys, I hated the fact that I
didn’t have any girl characters. How could I have a love story in the fake
movie I was creating if I didn’t have a woman? Of course, I would never ask my
asshole step dad to buy me a doll. That would be downright embarrassing. Besides,
I didn’t play with dolls. I played with action figures. So, I did the next best
thing.

I had this one bad guy action figure. He was part of team
Cobra and I remember thinking he seemed really feminine. He was skinny, had a wimpy
looking mask covering his mouth, and wore a helmet. So, I always pretended it
was a woman under that mask. That allowed me to create love story, and better
yet, have sex scenes.

Yeah, I was a perverted little shit.

After being grounded for an absurd amount of time for a
little kid, and when I say grounded, it wasn’t this modern version of the word
where kids aren’t allowed to touch their cell phone, tablet, or PlayStation for
a couple of days. I mean I was kept in my bedroom all the time and could only
leave to use the bathroom, do my chores, and eat. When it was dinner time, I
was only allowed to stare at my plate. I couldn’t even glance at the TV. Then
it was right back to my room. Since it was summertime and I didn’t have school,
I thought I was going to go crazy inside my room.

But then I stumbled upon a Sears catalogue, and that
completely changed my entire life. Sounds nuts, but it’s true. Armed with a
pair of scissors, I created a whole world unlike any I’d ever lived in. I cut
out a loving father with clean cut hair who always wore polo shirts and khakis.
Most of the time he stood with his hands in his pockets, always smiling, and
always proud of his kids.

I found him a wife who was beautiful in her daytime clothes
and sexy as hell in her lingerie. There was even a swimsuit version of her. She
was the perfect mom. She could bake a mean meatloaf, loved to play board games,
and oftentimes stood with her arms folded in front of her chest in a confident,
strong manner. She would never let anyone take advantage of her or her kids.

The kids I found in that catalogue were happy. There were
brothers and sisters, and they were always smiling. They had nice shoes, cool
clothes, and smiles that always seemed like they were about to laugh when their
picture was taken. Their house had the best TV I could find in the catalogue. They
had an awesome boom box (yeah, that’s what we called stereos back then) and
every toy imaginable.

The next-door neighbor was a hottie. She had a great family
too. Her husband would get together with the first husband. Their families
would have barbecues and hang out around the big above ground pool I’d cut out.

These paper people were so thin. There was nothing to them
really. Yet, they embodied so much more than any real person I’d ever met in my
life. In a world where it seemed nobody gave a shit about me, I had my own
version of life, and I continued building onto it until I’d cut up every
fucking page in that catalogue.

My name is Chris. I played with dolls. And I’m a better
person because of it. Hell, I think I might have survived because of it. That’s
how I began storytelling.

If you’d like to read some of those stories I tell, check out my book page with the list of all my books by clicking HERE.