Writing is Hard Work

One Summer morning, a long time ago, my sister, Betty, and her friend, Richard, decided to write a book. I think they were about nine or ten years old.

It took them a long time to gather the writing supplies they would need for their important undertaking; a fat pencil tablet, two stubby pencils honed to a fine point with Mama's sharpest paring knife, a huge eraser with so many initials inked all over it, you couldn't tell that it used to be pink, two bottles of home-made root beer, and some delicious looking chunks of cheddar cheese, just in case they got too engrossed in their writing to stop for lunch.

After stopping to inform my younger sister, Carol, and me, that we were not to bother them for anything,they threw a ratty old Indian blanket over the top and carried the box out under the apple tree. They were going to write a book and must have absolute quiet and privacy to accomplish such a marvelous thing.

Betty and Richard didn't come back in for lunch. Carol and I peeked out the window at least a hundred times to watch them scribbling away with their stubby pencils, stopping frequently to erase, and then scribbling again. Their faces reflected the turmoil they were experiencing in getting their book down on paper.

We were excited for them and could hardly wait until they allowed us to read the story,(Actually, neither Carol nor I could read yet, but we knew Mama would read it to us.) Our sister, the author! We were already basking in her reflected glory.It must have been about 2:30 in the afternoon when Betty and Richard came back to the house. They carefully placed the box with their writing supplies on the dining room table, and went into the kitchen for something to eat.

"Writing is really hard work." Betty said.

"It sure is." Richard agreed.

"May we read the story?" Mama asked. "It must be a very special story to take so long to write."

Richard reached into the box and pulled out the tablet. Mama opened it and glanced down at the first and only page, which had been written, erased, rewritten, and erased so many times that the paper was now decorated with a score of tiny holes.

"Billy walked down the road........," Mama read.
With a puzzled look, she turned the page over, but there was no more story.

"How do you like it, so far?" Betty asked. Mama, of course, kept a straight face and said,

"It's really full of suspense." Mama said. "I can't wait to find out what happens next."

We never did find out what Billy saw or what happened to him on that road. Betty and Richard decided that they had had enough of authoring, dug out their skates and spent the rest of the afternoon zooming up and down the sidewalk in front of our house.