The only thing that explains my existence is the changeling legend. I sprang from ordinary parents (perhaps Muggles?) who fomented a gene-pool nuclear meltdown that brought them the mercurial, eccentric offspring who terrorized their domicile for the next couple of decades. They never did figure out what makes me tick.
Neither has anyone else, self included, and it's probably a good thing-surprise is a vital element in a vibrant life. I hope never to discover what I'll be when I grow up. Which only proves the changeling theory.
Having lived my life beyond the pale, I've developed a strong taste for not fitting in. By training, trade and passion, I'm a writer and have made a life, if not much of a living, of scribing thoughts and observations onto various forms of transmogrified plant life and tidily aligned electrons. Wouldn't trade it for the world (but might for real money, or a '67 Jaguar XKE, or a big Michelangelo). I've my share of academic credentials and professional accolades, but don't trot them out much.
Many know me as ListMom, she of the iron cursor and abundant hugs. I own the 4Pens listserv-that's "PPPP" for "polite, peripatetic pen-lovers' paradise." "Peripatetic" refers to subject matter: We hop like a frog on a hot griddle from topic to topic, often whipping out one-liners and very bad puns, but we always have fun, and always come back to pens.
Ah, yes. Pens. Denizens of my earliest memories. Vivid toddlerly recollections of squirting my father's grey pearl Sheaffer Balance at the wall. It's doubtless fortunate that I don't recall the parental response to such creativity. (Off-the-wall artistic endeavors still occupy me now and then.)
Living dangerously, Dad put dip pen in my hand shortly after the Sheaffer incident and commenced to teach me calligraphy, an art form over which I still swoon. I've done it professionally, but no longer can (drat), so have reverted to the Shavian principle: Those who can't, teach.
Add that to Dad's print shop (no better high than printers' ink and fondling paper), my Official Outsider status and an inborn love for the look, feel, shape, sound and meaning of words-my fate was sealed early on. Don't think I've ever been without an FP, even if only a Sheaffer school pen; I can't imagine life without smooth, wet ink flowing sensuously onto good paper. 'Twouldn't be worth living.
Now in my prime (or that's what they call it), I've reared three fine sons who'll become productive members of society (or they'll be sorry); lived in six states (did hard time in California and North Dakota); written two novels and landfills of drivel; chronicled decades of small-town life; photographed some really neat stuff; built a Web site; and lots of other things. I'll talk about 'em on request. Just don't ask what I wanna be when I grow up.
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