I'm not sure how old I was, but for a clue there is the fact that I had not yet learned to write in cursive. You guys remember that? Our educators spend considerable time teaching us to print, then one day they say.
"Hey, we're not gonna do that anymore. Let's try this." Back to the memory. I wanted an office. I cleaned out my side of the closet, a feat I accomplished, I'm sure, by tossing its contents out onto the floor. Then, I said "MOM!" Ah, the miracle worker appears and I inform her I must have a desk for my new office. She brings me a box which we turn upside down. Presto, I have a desk. Paper and pencil came next and did I mention I hadn't learned cursive yet? Printing is tedious and I have no patience for it, so I just scroll loops...sort of like cursive l s or e s, which I string across the page in unbroken prose. This probably occupied me for all of ten minutes, but the seed had been planted.
I think writing must start with reading. Many moons ago, probably kindergarten, there was the reading hour, I expect, just before napping hour. The teacher would read from a book. I loved it. A couple of years later I came across one of my favorites she'd read and stuck my own nose in a book. I tried to find out who wrote it, but failed. The book was titled
"Chris" and was about a boy who earned money hunting crows and other animals that bounties were paid for. You see, at the time this book was written some animals were considered pest. The animals, not the boy. Mom (you know, the miracle worker) noticed me reading and that lead to
Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys, Tom Swift SR. and Tom Swift JR. and so on. Let's not forget comic books.
So I became a reader. When did I become a writer? Fifth grade, maybe fourth,we were assigned an essay to write. The idea of writing something intrigued me. At home I began constructing my masterpiece. I remember little of it, except it compared forests to cities, and the woodland creatures to city dwellers. I turned it in and waited breathlessly for my review.
F- COPIED!
There must be some mistake, I thought. After my fellow students had filed out of the classroom, I confronted her. She seemed perturbed that I would question her judgement.
"I just don't believe you wrote this. I showed it to other teachers and they agreed someone your age couldn't have written it."
She showed it? I'm already thinking like a writer. That elation lasted only seconds. I wasn't old enough to realize my very character was being assaulted, but I knew it was bad.
"Do you mean I read it somewhere?" I asked.
She sighed and gave me a stern look.
"I mean, you didn't write it."
So there it was, branded a plagiarist and I didn't even know what that meant. I took the paper home and handed it to mom. We had some pretty good storms in Texas, but I'd never seen anything like her reaction to the ugly red
F-COPIED. (I have another blog about the 'Power of Mama' you might want to check out.)
I wasn't privy to their meeting, but the paper was regraded, the
F-COPIED removed and replaced with an A. I think someone else graded it though, because for the rest of the year I received nothing but the evil eye from that teacher.
So, was I a writer then? No, but the seed now had sprouted.
I think the first time I considered
MYSELF a writer was when I read something I'd written, and it read like I hadn't
tried to write it. Some of you will relate to this, for the rest, I cannot explain it further. Am I a good one. Who decides this? Certainly not me, for I am far to biased. I'd like to think I am, but ultimately it's in the hands of the reader. Where it began.
