Member-only story
Born to Write
I was born a writer, and so I must identify and respect matters of universal curiosity. It’s reasonable to be curious about the poor in ways not at all patronizing. After all, “poor” is always a relative term. Those of us born poor are continually reminded that the United States is the best place to occupy that status.
Despite my best efforts to interrogate my 72 years of memory, I cannot see back in time to when I did not have the urge to put words on paper, which is where we put words in those primitive times. I can date my first publications to 1962, a piece of fiction in a Bristow High School literary magazine and a piece of nonfiction in the Tulsa World about a tour of the Tulsa International Airport with the Civil Air Patrol.
The fire to be a reader lit by my grandparents spread to an urge to produce writings of my own. I considered the people who produced the writings I wanted to read to be doing noble and noteworthy work, important work. I thought if I could do what they did I would be important. It didn’t take long to feel the power flowing down my arm through my pen, sometimes from my heart and sometimes from my brain.
There! I’ve solved it, almost. I was not using a number two pencil and a Big Chief tablet when I was first writing. I was using a fountain pen that had to be fed little plastic ink cartridges and a spiral notebook. That puts the time as late…
