I don’t know why I began writing. I started when I was nine years old. I was a weird kid. I would just stay in my room, typing. I found this old typewriter up in the attic. I dragged it down to my room and started typing little, funny magazines, like Tales to Drive You Insane and Tales to Drive You Batty – just funny magazines, and short stories. My mother would be outside my room, saying, “Go outside and play. What’s the matter with you?”
I’m in there, typing. “I can’t. I’m writing a novel.”
I’m nine years old. I don’t know why I thought it was so interesting…
So, I’d do these little magazines, and I was a very shy kid – very shy – and not social at all. Maybe this is one reason I just stayed in my room, writing this stuff. I would bring it in to school and try to get attention from the other kids. I’d bring these little magazines, and I would pass them around to my friends. The teachers would always grab them and say, “Bob, please. Please stop.”
When I speak at schools now, kids always ask me, “Did your teachers encourage you to write when you were a kid?”
If I’m being honest, I just say they tried to get me to stop.
