I was eleven years old when I handed my sixth grade teacher my masterpiece. It was called, "The Life of a Newt (or A Salamander Story)." The truth was I was bored one rainy weekend, wrote the story, drew some pictures, and decided to hand it in to my teacher to see if I could get extra credit. If it relieved some pressure so I could play more basketball, all the better.

When I returned from recess, my clothes disheveled from another game of basketball, my teacher asked me if she could submit my story to some group. I really wasn't paying attention. Hey, if I got extra credit for it, sure. I agreed and I didn't think more about it.

Several months passed. I sat in my class, the school year almost over. We said the Pledge of Allegiance and heard the usual announcements over the P.A. system. Suddenly, my name came over the speaker. "We want to congratulate Matt Kunz for winning the Nevada Young Writer's Magazine competition.

My head cocked to one side. "What did they say?"

A classmate leaned over. "What'd you do?"

I shrugged. "I don't know."

My teacher later explained to me that the story she submitted won the competition for my age group. Having now been published, I had been accepted to take creative writing courses at the University of Nevada Las Vegas with the other winners. It sounded fun, so I accepted.

Having just turned twelve, I was the youngest in the class. The other kids and I listned to the teacher explain creative writing. We learned improv techniques for writers. We wrote poems. We created characters. We experimented with action and reaction beats. We pretended we were news journalist. Finally, for the grand finale, the class would act out a play on the UNLV theater stage, a play that one of us would write.

When the teacher asked which of us wanted to write the play, I asked, "Does the writer have to do anything once it's written?"

"No," the teacher said. "You will have done your job. The actors will then be responsible for following the script."

It occured to me that if I wrote the play, I could relax and maybe get away to play some basketball. I raised my hand. "I'll do it," I said.

With the mission accepted, I hammered out enough words for a script. It was about ten pages long. I gave it to the teacher, leaned back in my chair, and considered my work complete.

As the other students worked their parts, one of them, a young lady, approached me. "Hey, you know this story needs a heroine. Macho heroes are overdone. Why don't you rewrite the script and make me the lead character." I considered it, and went back to my script.

A short while later, a male student, tapped me on the shoulder. "I've been thinking. While they cast Bob as the main character, the lead really should be Eric, the role I'm playing. Why don't you rewrite the script with me as the hero?"

These actors began to get on my nerves. "I'll think about it," I said.

Later, Bob, the oldest student and the play's lead, came over to me. "I heard some of the other actors tell me you were going to rewrite the script and make them the lead character. That won't work. None of them can act like I can. You need to keep the script as it is, only write in there that I get the girl. You know, the part that Ashley is playing." His eyes drifted toward Ashley on the stage.

Oh, brother, I thought. All these creative writers had turned into premadonnas. "I'll rewrite the script," I said.

"Great!" Bob said. He returned to the other actors. As he whispered into Ashley's ear, I took a pen out and crossed out the last few pages of the script.

The next day I arrived early to class, being sure to get there before the other students. I gave the teacher my new script.

"Why'd you change it?" she said.

"It had to be done."

The teacher skimmed through it. When she read the end, her eyes widened. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"They need to learn a lesson."

She nodded. As the other kids filed into the room, the teacher alerted the class to the changes in the script. Bob turned to me and winked. Then he smiled at Ashley. As the new script was passed to the students, however, Bob's jaw dropped. "Hey, he can't do this!"

"He's the writer," the teacher said. "That's the way it goes."

As the actors said their lines in the next rehearsal, I sat powerfully in my seat and awaited the final moment. All their characters met their demise in a plane crash. No one would be the hero. Having flexed my creative muscles, I thanked the teacher. With the summer semester over, I returned home to play basketball.

A few days passed when my mother called me into her office. "Matt," she said. "I was reading your play, and I have to say I am concerned at the violence. I mean, you killed everyone off. Is there something going on?"

I had to think quick. "It's all those HBO movies Dad watches."

She yelled out the door. "George!"

Down the hall, my father replied, "What?"

"Turn off that HBO!"

While my mother and father discussed the social effects of cable TV, I snuck into my room and I didn't write another story until High School.

Such is the life of a writer. I've since written several books, given speeches, ran a blog, and started a podcast. Below are the books I've published (and I had a blast writing them!). Click on any of the covers and it will take you to the book's Amazon page where you can learn more. Further down, you'll see where you can find my podcasts as well as information about my public speaking.

Stories are the fabric of our lives. They say we either have great times or great stories. But great stories can be great times. Either way, we win!