I’ve loved stories ever since I could remember.
(Yes, that IS satin giftwrapping ribbon on my hair. Apparently, my mother thought it was a nice accessory to go with my dress.)
I remember that I looked forward to every Friday in school, when our kindergarten teacher Mrs Soriano would tell us a story right after recess. But she must have run out of stories one time, because she told the class instead to take a nap. I was so disappointed.
I must have been quite vocal with my protest, because she asked the class if anyone had a story to tell. I raised my hand and said I did, so she let me come to the front of the class.
On the spot, made up a story about this poor boy who was forced to steal because his mother was very sick in the hospital.
Try hard as I might now, I cannot remember how I ever ended the story, or whether Mrs Soriano even let me finish telling it. I also cannot remember whether my classmates liked my story at all. They must have — after all — preferred to take a nap, instead of listening to my senseless babbling.
