When I Grow Up...
When I was in second grade, I wanted to be an author when I grew up. I had known this for some time (relatively speaking since I had only been alive for 7 years and literate for 1), but I finally made the declaration to my mother one night after a supper of warmed up goulash. She was pleased with my ambitious career choice, I think, but less than pleased about what I had to say next: "And, tomorrow is Career Day at school. And I have to dress up. Will you help me?"
How does an author dress? Police officers wear police uniforms. Business people wear business suits. What do authors wear?
It was dark out and bedtime was looming, so we promptly gathered her all of her Ladies Home Journal magazines and J.C. Penny's catalogs. We had our work cut out for us, and it was getting late. Each armed with a pair of friskers scissors, we began cutting out pictures of items that reminded us of authorship. We cut out pictures of pens, paper, books, desks, desk lamps, swivel chairs. We cut out pictures of coffee cups and pictures of women with buns in their hair. We cut out words in article titles like "Read," "Learn," "Make." We attached the pictures and the words to one of my mom's knitted red cardigans using big silver paper clips. I did not look like an author. I looked like a mobile. But it was 11 o'clock at night, and I needed to go to bed. The next day was career day, after all.
The next day I put on the oversized sweater and went to school, but no one knew who I was supposed to be. Tony wanted to be a farmer and Jocelyn wanted to be a nurse, and everyone could tell. No one could tell what I wanted to be. I didn't look the part of an author. And I still don't.
How does an author dress? Police officers wear police uniforms. Business people wear business suits. What do authors wear?
It was dark out and bedtime was looming, so we promptly gathered her all of her Ladies Home Journal magazines and J.C. Penny's catalogs. We had our work cut out for us, and it was getting late. Each armed with a pair of friskers scissors, we began cutting out pictures of items that reminded us of authorship. We cut out pictures of pens, paper, books, desks, desk lamps, swivel chairs. We cut out pictures of coffee cups and pictures of women with buns in their hair. We cut out words in article titles like "Read," "Learn," "Make." We attached the pictures and the words to one of my mom's knitted red cardigans using big silver paper clips. I did not look like an author. I looked like a mobile. But it was 11 o'clock at night, and I needed to go to bed. The next day was career day, after all.
The next day I put on the oversized sweater and went to school, but no one knew who I was supposed to be. Tony wanted to be a farmer and Jocelyn wanted to be a nurse, and everyone could tell. No one could tell what I wanted to be. I didn't look the part of an author. And I still don't.
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