The first time I showed tendencies of being a “maker” I was probably only four or five years old. I took apart the doorknob of my bedroom. Not because I was locked in or anything but because when I turned it the latch went into the door, and I wanted to know how it worked. I laid all of the parts out carefully on my bedroom floor (I had disassmbled it using a paperclip and a penny), and I couldn’t actually get it back together. But it was a start.
I grew up reading, hungrily, voraciously. We had more books in my house growing up than…well, anything, really. I had three bookshelves in my room. It was a paradise of words, and books led to writing. It was all really downhill from there.
By the time I was a teenager my parents had introduced me to comic books, role playing games, painting mini-figs, and Rocky Horror. I mean, I spent a year trying to get people to call me Jessica and convincing my parents I should be a blonde because after all their geekdom I just wanted to be normal.
Just thinking about all this as I spend a Sunday watching Buffy and thinking about my roots.