Going to try to dust off my skills a bit. pensy #1

I just knew this wasn't going to go well.  I was sitting at the table shelling peas, when I looked up at my mother of fourteen years, and said, “Mama, I’m going to be a writer.”  She stood there a moment, took off her glasses and wiped her specs with a new Kleenex.  Looking up on the shelf for her big stir spoon, she reached up, grabbed it while whirling around to face me and the blows commenced to land hither and yon.  Mostly yon, as I didn’t get to be fourteen by moving slow in mama’s house.  Once she wound down and came up for air, she put the Big Spoon on the table, then sat down and looked me in the eye.  She said,

“Boy, don’t you ever mention writing in my house again.  I’ll have none of that foolishness.  It starts out innocent enough.  Just want to write your name so you can cash a check.  Next thing it’s numbers and complex fractions.  No good will come of this Boy.”  Mama looked down at the table and then her red and raw hands.  It seemed Mama’s hands were always red from working.  Looking back up at me she shook her head and said, “Okay, how long have you been writing?”

I could never pull one on Mama when she had me in her eye like that.  Looking sideways at the big spoon, I decided truth was better than making up stories.  Although I think I can make up good ones, now wasn’t the time.

“Well Mama, I’ve been making up stories for forever and…”

In a sudden move the Big Spoon was back in her hand and she got me soundly before I could jump back (which I did, but a bit too late) and sit back down and face her

“Jesse Lane, you have always been a precocious child.  I’ve known all along that you are nothing but a story teller.  Now,” she looked me dead in the eye again and said, “tell me you haven’t been writing these stories down.”

This was not going well.  I’d been writing since I was nine, and had taught myself the alphabet and stuff like punctuation from Jimmy’s books.  Looking at Mama, but more at the Big Spoon, I tried to swallow but my tongue was like sandpaper and my mouth dry as desert dust.

“Well..  “ I croaked.  “I’ve been writing for awhile.”  Mamma arched her brow and continued to give me the eye.  Giving me no help, I was forced to continue.  “Uh, the last four or five years?”

Studying her forgotten kettles, she turned back to me and said, “Are you asking me if you’ve been writing for four or five years?  Why even bother asking me?  Of course you have.  Just like your Father.  He never left me for another woman.  No, he’s living in a fleabag walk up in New York City and tells people he’s a writer.  A Writer.  And what kind of writer do you suppose Mister all High and Mighty, ‘I’m a writer!’ is?  The very worst kind.  A Science Fiction Writer.  Now tell me Jesse Lane ‘I’m going to be a Writer!’ just what kind of writer do you plan on being?”

I knew this wasn’t going to go well...