After lots of brouhaha, it was believed finally that I had indeed penned the poem which went on to win me a Scrabble game and local acclaim. That year, I wrote a story and my teacher said “This is really good.” Before that I had written a poem about Martin Luther King that was, I guess, so good no one believed I wrote it. Of course I got in trouble for lying but I didn’t stop until fifth grade. I loved lying and getting away with it! There was something about telling the lie-story and seeing your friends’ eyes grow wide with wonder. Not “Once upon a time” stories but basically, outright lies. I loved and still love watching words flower into sentences and sentences blossom into stories. I chalked stories across sidewalks and penciled tiny tales in notebook margins. (It was not pretty for me when my mother found out.) I wrote on paper bags and my shoes and denim binders. I remember my uncle catching me writing my name in graffiti on the side of a building. I used to say I’d be a teacher or a lawyer or a hairdresser when I grew up but even as I said these things, I knew what made me happiest was writing.
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