once upon a time there was a boy who wanted to be a writer. his ideas were so special that it scared everyone including his mother so he tucked his specialness way inside and waited and waited. and all that time he did not write.
the story waited too.
finally when the boy was a man and he almost died, he thought he would tell his story. but before he could tell it he fell into a deep sleep.
when he woke up he was in a strange neighborhood where strange people looked at him from beyond closed doors and partially curtained windows.
the police came, and picked up the boy on account of his suspicious behavior according to the community.
identification, they said.
the boy pulled out a wallet.
it wasn’t his.
how did that get here? he said.
the police arrested the boy.
then the police put him in the car and took him downtown.
i haven’t done anything, said the boy at the police station.
see. i have my OWN wallet as well as this weird one that came to me — i don’t know how…
the police rolled their eyes.
we say you wrote THIS, said the judge. he pulled up a piece of paper written in a beautiful script.
but said the boy I can’t even WRITE in script. See, I can just barely sign my name.
he signed his name on a piece of paper.
but the signature was beautiful and looked just like the incriminating piece of paper.
well, in THAT case, said the boy as they threw the book at him. I might as well write whatever the hell i want..
he caught the book as the judge threw it.
and then he spun a tale.
Stephanie Barbé Hammer Writing (Un) Real 