My name is John M. Becker. In my fantasies, I am the world’s highest paid writer, if not the best. I won’t say I’m there now, but my life is starting to take shape as a sweet dream coming true.
My earliest memory of writing was decades ago, in first grade when I hated doing homework because studying back then never appealed to me. At the back of my mind, my mother has given birth to the laziest boy alive. Should I’ve known that school will give me more headaches than washing dishes at home, I would have appeared in my father’s dream and ask him to postpone the consummation of their lovely marriage until I’m ready to flex my muscles. Of course, that was not an option.
So my teacher, thinking I was her ultimate pet peeve, met me after class saying, “Mr. Becker, write me a 500-word essay else you’ll stay in detention the whole week.”
“But, miss. What should I write about? Can we just make it fifty? Five hundred’s too much.” She turned away when another teacher grabbed her by the elbow. She shouted, though. “Anything. Johnny, I need that tomorrow.”
Hence, I ended up writing her what I tried to call an essay, for lack of choice. My title was “10 Reasons Why John M. Becker Doesn’t Do Any of His Homeworks.” I made the title long enough to reduce that 500 limit. I never knew it was that difficult to come up with so many words in just a night.
Again, I was a chubby first grader whose handwriting is so big and out-of-line. But I managed, and to my surprise, I enjoyed it. From then on, I decided to have a busy life with writing.