When I was about ten years old, I had a composition book. In it, I wrote a few chapters of a story about a girl who moved to Ireland and met a boy named Marty who was from another time period. It was kind of a time-traveling fantasy story. I thought it was rubbish, however, and threw it in the recycling bin in the hopes that no one would ever discover my garbage writing. This was a time when I was living with my grandmother. My parents worked full-time and she lived alone and had reoccurring strokes, so I was sent to her house to help keep her company and…