Writing/A Prose Poem

Mrs. Kindley,  my 7^th grade teacher likes my story. She reads it aloud to the class. “One day I’ll see you in print,” she says.

The next year I take a journalism class.  “Who, what, why, when, where,” make perfect sense to me.  At the parent/teacher conference, Miss Gazette tells my Dad, the journalism major, “your daughter should pursue journalism.”  Dad calls me “a chip off the old block.” 

Our school newsletter features a section called “Tidbits.” My friend Buddy and I gather info and create articles every month.  Not hard to find gossip in 8^th grade. 

That Summer, I decide to create a newsletter for the neighborhood.  I call it THE NEIGHBORHOOD NEWS.  I search for newsy stuff.  I meet Mrs. Pryor who shares fun community gossip.  She invites me to stop by any time.  

I rush home to the Remington.  I clack out two vertical columns on 81/2 X 11 paper, pleased they look like newspaper columns.  With carbon paper, I create several copies, gather them, ring doorbells and distribute my bulletin.   

After several weeks I ask Dad, the journalism major, questions about writing and newspapers.  He answers them at first, but then becomes impatient…..finally says, “don’t bother me with your questions.” 

It feels like a slap.

Confused, I ask no more questions, my curiosity stumbles, my interest wanes.  So does THE NEIGHBORHOOD NEWS.   So does my writing. 

Years later, I learn Dad never used his journalism degree.  He couldn’t get hired as a reporter and worked odd jobs.

He never pursued his writing again.