Check me out at five years old when I first started school. I liked to dress myself and rarely matched and I often wore my clothes backwards. Not that I didn’t know which way they went on, I just didn’t pay that much attention when I was getting dressed. I had other things on my mind like stories I’d test out on myself as I was going about my day, playing alone or painting a picture or listening to the teacher who was often talking about things I already knew in kindergarten. Most of the time, I told these stories out loud at a whisper, so basically, I was talking to myself. The other kids thought I was weird. They were right. I was. Still am.

Back then, it meant other kids acted quite mean towards me—calling me names, refusing to play with me, telling lies about me, and generally making my school life miserable. I retreated to the library, sometimes without permission, to find comfort and new facts in the stories there. I read books about ghosts, women who disguised themselves as men to fight in wars, Clifford the Big Red Dog, Curious George, and a host of other wonderful beings. But I was always looking for a way to solve the problem of being a geek—a book smart and people stupid kid who made the other kids hate her.

As I saw it God only made good people and I did my best to follow God’s example and love others as I wanted to be loved. After all, when someone told me they hated me, I told them, “I love you, because that’s what Jesus would do.” And I meant it. I’d pray right there that they’d be less mean to me and everyone they met.

But I wanted to do something more. And my idea was that if I became famous, other kids would want to get to know me. I figured that if they really knew me, they’d like me better. So, my plan, at eight years old, was to become famous. But I had one problem: what could an eight-year-old, from small-town Wisconsin do to become famous?