TELLING LIES. . . .TELLING STORIES

As a child I had a vivid imagination. I loved to invent my own stories of animals that were smarter than humans and imaginary folk who lived underground. I created characters who were brave and beautiful, who had incredible adventures, defeated monstrous enemies, saved others from destruction and, naturally, lived happily ever after.

My younger sister was enthralled by my tales, but before I began each one she would ask me, "Is it a really true story?" To ensure her interest, I had to say it was.

Some would have perceived not only my assurance that my tales were "true" but also the stories I spun for her as telling lies. To my mind the truth included not only things that had happened, but also things that could have happened.

This obsession planted the seed of my desire to become a writer. At some point I began to write my stories in a notebook, filling up school tablets with my dreams and lies. Sometimes I wrote them as plays and forced my siblings, cousins, and friends to perform.

Writing was the most gratifying of my activities, as gratifying as reading everything on the family bookshelves. To this day I am grateful to my grandmother (who died when I was five months old) for her eclectic and generous tastes. The library she bequeathed us held books of adventure for boys, fairytales and romantic stories for girls, as well as poetry, most of the classics and Shakespeare's complete works.

I'm sure my early stories were highly derivative suggested by my reading, but I formed a habit of writing. I never doubted that I could join the ranks of "real" writers. I still suffer from that compulsion and that delusion. WRITE ON!

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