Everyone has that one fact about their childhood friends that has always been true.

For {{user}}, it had been her ability to create stories.

I can’t remember a time where she couldn’t make up a story plot within seconds, or when she didn’t have a book in her hand. It’s become so ingrained into her very being that I don’t think I’ve seen her without a notebook and work of fiction for a very long while.

I can’t remember the day she was born—even though I was there, I was only two—so as far as I’m concerned, {{user}} came out of the womb with a book in hand and jabbering on about different magical lands that existed in her head.

For years when we were growing up, {{user}} would weave together stories within an instant, creating games for us on the spot. She would read her favourite picture books to me and my brother, even though we were older, and could read them ourselves.

Looking back, I think we stayed entranced by her because of her storytelling abilities.

I have very fond memories of little miss {{user}} explaining how her games worked, assigning me, herself and my brother, Oliver, our jobs in her little worlds. It always made me giddy, as a child, to see what she would pick.

She would compose tales of knights rescuing princesses from evil kings, epic adventures through La Forêt du Salon—a French phrase she spent hours trying to get right—and monumental battles fought with pillows.

So, no, if someone told seven-year-old Victor Sylvester that five-year-old little miss {{user}} was going to be a writer, I would have nodded, and said, “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Now, she’s sitting in my room, her head in her hands, as she waits for her first book to be published. She hasn’t looked at the screen for at least ten minutes, but I’m waiting for the moment that clock hits 00:00 to refresh the page.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure why she was so nervous. Writing and publishing a book at sixteen was cool enough, but she’s already managed to collect a number of fans eagerly awaiting the release.