I made my first book when I was 4-years old.
I saw it again for the first time just a few years ago. My mom had kept it safe all those years, tucked away in the bottom of her jewelry box.
It was a tiny thing made from a single piece of paper, cut down into tiny pages, folded over and “saddle-stitched†with a sewing needle. Appropriate for something spawned from the brain of a 4-year old, it was the story of a frog. A picture book. The captions were written in my mother’s handwriting.
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I continued writing books and drawing comic books throughout kindergarten and the early years of elementary school. Several wire-bound notebooks were filled with horror stories and the adventures of an assortment of super-hero characters. The kids in my class particularly loved LASAR MAN.
5 notebooks of Lasar Man stories later, somebody finally told me I was spelling laser wrong.
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