Ruthie becomes a writer
Today, with no sentiment whatsoever, I recalled my first experience as a published author: When I was seven, the Cleveland Plain Dealer printed my story about the Easter Bunny in the children's section.
Saturday mornings were fearful times in our household. The mother monster [MM] reacted badly if her brood of three made any noise and awakened her. I learned to sit quietly in my bed and write until MM arose. I distinctly recall the satisfaction of holding that fat, blue, laddie pencil pressing hard to print my words. My roommate, a sister younger by 18 months, chose to draw with broken crayons on coarse gray bogus paper.
No part of me recalls how that seven sentence story went from my bed to the newspaper, but I do know the action empowered me with the realization I was a writer.
The Brood:
Saturday mornings were fearful times in our household. The mother monster [MM] reacted badly if her brood of three made any noise and awakened her. I learned to sit quietly in my bed and write until MM arose. I distinctly recall the satisfaction of holding that fat, blue, laddie pencil pressing hard to print my words. My roommate, a sister younger by 18 months, chose to draw with broken crayons on coarse gray bogus paper.
No part of me recalls how that seven sentence story went from my bed to the newspaper, but I do know the action empowered me with the realization I was a writer.
The Brood:
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