I have two insane younger siblings. My brother and I played games with our imaginary friends and convinced our younger sister to eat dog food. We also convinced her that we had another annoying little sister before her, who disappeared mysteriously mysteriously. My brother would hold his breath until he turned blue and passed out. My sister had colic. I ate my lima beans. Not a normal family by any stretch

I started kindergarten when I was four, because back then you could get in if you would turn five by December. One of my best friends was Adam, a deaf kid. I learned a bit of sign language, but forgot most of it by the next year. I wrote my very first book (Rainbow Brite and something something) and for a brief moment, was popular.

At twelve, I finished my first halfway decent piece of fiction, "the Search for the Pillsbury Doughboy" in which the narrator (mostly based on me) goes in search for the human incarnation of the doughboy, and winds up in jail because she got caught trying to poke the president. After I finished that story, I got a stuffed Doughboy. It's hanging in my closet. In that same year, I let the world know about the other people living in my head. Their names were: