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. 

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"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!"

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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.

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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. 

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When she's finished, she smiles at me. I spend the next few decades figuring out what just happened. I keep drawing. 

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And I keep writing.

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