Many of you don’t know it, but I’m old enough to be your grandpa. Don’t let the hip, irreverent voice that I write in fool you – I’m old.

I’ve met a lot of writers – most of them say something like: “Oh, I’ve always written.” I can’t say that – unless I can count my graffiti on the sides of bridges or the walls of bus stop shelters. Some were complete sentences. No, I decided to be a writer at the age of 50. I think it was right after the tattoo, or maybe the ear piercing. I’m not sure. 

I was encouraged to write by my children, who were both in college at the time. Like most parents, I would send them a few dollars or a care package of essentials like Green Bay Packer clothing, cigarette rolling papers, bottle openers and Hostess Cupcakes or Twinkies. I’d write and include a fictitious story of how I obtained the loot. I’ll share one with you:

Dear Son,

Enclosed you will find the plunder from my current crime spree.

My haul from this caper was larger than the fifty dollars enclosed here, but I had to deduct the $28 that I spent on gas for cruising around town to find a proper victim. Now that I have a good location staked out, my gas expense should be far less in the future.

I now have a handicapped parking sticker. It will allow me to wait for my next target, eliminating the need to continuously circle the block.

Make this money last, son, because I won’t be able to strike again until my back heals. I hurt myself by lifting that old guy out of his wheelchair to empty his pockets.

Love,

Dad

These kids have a nose for discovering literary talent, don’t they?

So, because of their insistent prodding, I took a writing class two nights a week and was hooked. Since then, I write at least three pages every day – just like the Unabomber did.

I think the best part of starting my writing career later in life is that I won’t have to wait 20 years to be published like so many of you other, younger, writers will.

I’ll be dead by then.

(Originally written August 15, 2003)