I've always hated English. Not the language - although I do prefer French - but the subject. You know, figurative language? Analytical essays? Shakespeare? Actually the only part of it I didn’t dread was the novel-studies. Sure the analysis and evaluation is never enjoyable, but the simple fact that for a few blissful days the only homework you have is reading? That's heaven for me. Even when the book was something I wouldn’t usually seek out at the library, reading has always been an enjoyable experience for me. I guess that’s why I decided to write a book; and a children's book seemed the perfect way to go as I've always had a startling imagination (I guess you have to when you grow up being ostracised from your peers). From the first day of kindy, the other kids knew I was different. Whilst every single other boy was playing with toy trucks and hitting each other with blocks, I wanted to sit with the girls and brush barbie's hair. Even the girls stopped letting me play with them once we got to about third grade; I guess by that time they had realised that although I behaved like them, spoke like them and played with the same toys, I was still  a boy. And boys are icky. 

I could deal with the loneliness, even though I had no friends I knew that my mummy and daddy loved me, and I could sit in the corner and read a book with no problem. With no one to distract me and nothing else to do at school or in the afternoons - whilst everyone else was running around at the park or on play dates with their friends - my grades were outstanding for such a young age. Everyone else was practicing nursery rhymes and I had just finished the Harry Potter series for the third time. I was quite content with my routine - not happy, but close - until the bullying started.