My family immigrated to Canada when I was about one year old. In those early years, we did not have much money. Our home was a simple rented apartment, which was rather poorly furnished. There certainly was not enough money for expensive outings. As a result, our weekends were filled with simple pleasures that we could do for free, like picnics, bike rides, and my favorite—trips to the library.
Thanks to the library’s children’s section, I fell in love with stories—silly ones, moving ones, and even educational ones. I would have my parents read the books that we borrowed over and over again until we needed to return them, or I would page through them myself, imagining the stories in my head, even though I was too young to read the words.
When I was about five years old and finally started to read on my own, I had a curious thought: I knew we could get books from the library or buy them in store s if we had the money, but where did books come from?
I asked my mother this question, to which she replied that the stories I loved were created in the imaginations of people called “writers” These people then wrote them down so they could be s hared with others.
Four decades later, I still remember that moment. It was as though I had been struck by lightning. Then and there, I knew my purpose in this world. I would be one of those writers. I would create stories and share them with the world.
注意：1. 续写词数应为150左右；
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As a young child, I began writing by making up stories about animals or my toys.
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After a few years of constant writing practice, my hard work eventually paid off.
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