I’ve always been a writer.

Well, ever since that morning in the fourth grade when I lost interest in a mixed fractions lesson. By recess, I had completed a story about my dolls’ sibling rivalry. For the next few weeks, I often did some creative writing during arithmetic class. Mostly, I made up stories about the adventures of my cat. In one scenario, Tippy accompanied a friend and me on a trip to Rome where he solved a theft at a museum. (Did I mention that I had a rather bizarre imagination back then?)

As a nine-year-old during the Early Jurassic Period, I led a rather sheltered life. I knew next to nothing about World War II. So, of course, I set a story during World War II. The protagonists were identical twins who had amnesia. They were incarcerated in a prison in East Westphalia, wherever that is.

I have no idea why I dreamed up that scenario. (See last sentence in the second paragraph.) I must have watched some sort of television documentary about the war, or perhaps I read an article about it in one of my dad’s National Geographic magazines. I cringe whenever I think of that story; it seems so not PC today.

My fledgling fourth-grade writing career ended abruptly when Mom and Dad saw the D in arithmetic written in red on my report card. My parents strongly suggested that I put my writing aspirations on hold until I graduated from high school.

Did I? What do you think?