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Always believing my upwardly slanted penmanship was an indication of some disease, I tried to correct it. I used a ruler under my pen; drew faint penciled lines; and even turned my paper 45-degrees to the left. Nothing worked. I was stuck with thank you notes, addresses and signatures that were low on the left and traveled one-half inch uphill to the right. A nice lady administering a psychological test told me my slanted script indicated how hopeful I was about the future. She elaborated that I had a sense of responsibility for my own behavior and believed in myself. I was, she declared, an optimist. Too young and still mired in the murk left-over from childhood, I did not fully comprehend what she meant.
Along the way, I learned to type so that my book reports and nonsensical short stories and poems were perpendicular to the top and bottom of the paper. In high school, my writing skills branched into parody and satire. Once I wrote a take-off of Poe’s poem The Raven in which I lamented having to do homework “evermore.” The teacher liked it for its witty twist. My parents weren’t pleased because they believed the parody indicated a flawed character – a preference of listening to my own drummer's beat rather than conforming – a trait which remains intact to this day.
In college, I was delighted with my ability to churn out term papers. With a few hours research and an afternoon of typing, I could produce a twenty-page paper. Oh the joy! No more necessity for scribbling blurry thoughts all through the night.
Throughout my life, from childhood to adulthood, I seemed to never tire of the stories my grandmothers told me about their experiences. Although deceased for many years now, I cling to their tales as the Peanuts character Linus cleaves to his security blanket.
Which brings me to today. My novels have three qualities: They are uplifting tales, loaded with humor, and steeped in yesteryear.