Eight Moments in the Life of the Writer: Number 5

Next, I immersed myself into the world of a writer further still as I grew accustom to brooding in isolation.  While other fourth graders gathered with their friends to play kickball, four square and wall ball, I hunkered against the hot asphalt and cool orange-red bricks.  I fancied myself Harriet the Spy or Amelia as I scribbled furiously in my Amelia notebook my mom bought for me at the Bookfair.  The playground duty thought there was something oddly wrong with me.  Repeatedly, she tried to engage in conversation with me.  Asked what I was writing or reading.  After a few curt answers as I glowered at her through my bangs and hair-bow, she stopped trying.  Of course, there wasn’t anything wrong me!  Well, at least not because I was a skinny, scowling, quiet ten year old. Sitting contentedly in 15 minute intervals carving out, “I HATE WHEN MADDIE writes SCRIBBLES IN MY NOTEBOOK!  SHE THINKS SHE CAN WRITE AND IT’S SO ANNOYING!” I learned another lesson of writing: It’s important to be comfortable alone with your thoughts.