Under a spreading oak tree, the village wordsmithe lived. She would spend her nights knee deep in pencil shavings, typewriter ribbons, crumpled sheets of legal size, thumb drives and spent ink cartridges. Late into the night sees her weaving sentence after sentence into what she hopes ultimately to be a cohesive and creative story that would impress a publisher enough to put her in print! Oh, God, if I could just be in print. To have my own copyright and library number! This was her dream!
As a kid, she loved books and reading! She loved the way words could make one see and feel things, otherwise not possible! Her Mom had taught her to read when she was younger than most; and before she ever went to school. All she ever wanted, was to be another Hemingway, or Caldwell, or Asimov!
Unfortunately, though the ideas were there, the words came to her pen only reticently. The problem? A teacher in sixth grade had used writing as punishment. And written punishment she received! Tons of it! It wasn’t until her big brother finally went down to the school and instilled the fear of bodily harm to said teacher; that she was finally freed from the punishment that she had been subjected to for so long. No one really knew why the teacher was so mean to the little girl; but everyone supposed it was because she was much smarter than the teacher. She had read so much by sixth grade, that the library was constantly searching for new titles and more authors for her to read. And, even though the class and had driven the wicked teacher completely and irrevocably mad, and subsequently tortured her to death behind the rectory; the damage, however, had been done. Any thing that required writing, or picking up a pen, pencil, using a type writer, computer, or even texting on a cell phone could cause her to become nauseous and change her heart rate. Her temperature would climb and cold sweats ensued. Colors flashed in her eyes as she began gasping for breath, retching spasmodically until finally, barely conscious in the fetal position shaking violently; she would eventually recover, in a dark closet with her precious cat named Flibbertigibbet, and a bottle of really good Tequila.