About Anthony M. Briggs Jr.
Author and Illustrator
Fourth grade. Sitting at my desk, leaning on an elbow, drawing in the margins of a page. The teacher is holding stack of papers, short stories we all turned in yesterday.
"Class," she says, excited. "You all did well. But there is one story I simply must read to you, it was so good. I hope the author won't mind. It... well. You'll see!"
I don't care to hear who got her so amped. I keep drawing as she begins to read. But those words. There is something strange about them. I have to put my pencil down and sit up. Everyone in the class is paying full attention, laughing, shivering at certain parts.
Those words sound so strange. It's the first time I've ever heard anyone read aloud something I wrote. It's the first time I've ever seen random people react to something I wrote. It's the first time someone other than my mom said what I wrote was good. All I can do is stare. At the teacher. At my classmates, thoroughly entertained.
When she's finished, she smiles at me. I spend the next few decades figuring out what just happened. I keep drawing.
And I keep writing.