I’ve written before of my first moment in which I was consciously aware of my desire to be a published author. I was in first grade, riding in the back seat of our family’s dark green ’71 Pontiac station wagon. I had my Big Chief tablet in my lap, a big pencil in hand, and I was writing about adobe houses of the Pueblo and Hopi Native Americans. I asked my mother, as she was driving, if I could submit a handwritten manuscript to a publisher and would they publish it (translated from however I might have said it as a first grader). My mother answered, “Yes,” doubtless the way most parents, driving with children in the back seat, answer questions: sound that ends in an interrogative tone, met with a tossed out response with a fifty-fifty chance of being the right answer. But that was all I needed.
susangannon on I Am Still a Writer
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