Brooke Hamilton

I spent the day reading Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone and driving Dad around. Tomorrow is his surgery for the other eye and after a few more weeks of chauffeuring him around, he’ll be able to drive again. As I read Harry Potter, I thought about ideas for my second book, once I finish the first. I want to do something that my nephews will want to read when they’re older, maybe a young adult series set in Hamilton, Ontario with magic.

As a writer, I’ve had to come to terms with the idea that I’m just not that intelligent. I try not to let it show in my writing through vigorous, ruthless editing. Maybe once upon a time when I was younger, before my mental illness struck and before the drugs and the alcohol were consumed, I was bright. In high school I took mostly gifted classes, even though I never tested as gifted, and I had gifted friends – still do. And my aspirations are grand, for a dumb person. But I’m no where near as clever a writer as J.K. Rowling, or other authors I admire like L.M. Montgomery, Tamora Pierce, Madeline Miller, or Lev Grossman.

I have a plan to become a better writer. It involves a lot of daily practice and regular reading, as well as fitness and as near to healthy a diet as I can manage. I’m going to do my best and after all, what more can I do?