Why I am an Author.

     When I was a kid, and by kid, I mean when I was under the age of readability, I was a storyteller. I told whoppers! I don't really remember the stories, but I knew who told me their start and who helped me with the middle and end when I needed. It was my dog, Rover. Yes, I really did have a dog named Rover. I didn't name him that; he was named by my sister Andie. Rover was a little younger than me, but wise; so much wiser than I was. He knew things; told me things, and I was to tell my mom. That was his game all along. He wanted something, so he'd tell me, and I was his patsy.

     I decided at a very young age that I would write Rover's stories and try to give him credit, but he wouldn't have it. He insisted that the stories I was telling were my own.  It took me a while to understand, but I assumed correctly that my dog was actually an operative for the Central Intelligence Agency, and he simply didn't want to be outed. He didn't mind if his stories and tales were told by another; it wasn't about fame for him. He wanted the intel out among those who needed to know. 

    Rover, a mixed-breed Beagle and Dachshund type, convinced me that I should be an author, not a writer. He told me that writers write, but authors auth - and they are loved and admired for their craft. A writer, he said, would be employed by someone, whereas an author would be self-motivated, self-employed, and free. He told me, of course, that authors put the free in freelance, and I absolutely trusted his knowledge on that particular piece of brilliance. 

    Doctors, Rover told me, have too many duties; they are expected by too many to do too much, and though yes, it paid well to become one, it wasn't worth it. Take the whole wearing clean underwear thing, for instance. Doctors, I was told, are responsible for checking and seeing if a patient is, in fact, wearing clean underwear when they come into the office. There was a box on the form that had to be checked one way or the other; I did not want to do that. I refused, in fact. 

    I told the dog, my dog, I told my dog Rover, that I would hire nurses to do that job! They could tell me, or just check the appropriate box, but I didn't want to check myself. You can bet, however, that I always wore clean underwear if I ever went to the doctor's office. My mother had a lot to do with that chore, I'm sure, but nevertheless, the fact remains that I wore a clean pair every time, and my boxes are all checked if you go back and check the records from the early 1960s. Done!

    Rover passed in 1978, at the beginning of the year. He was just over 15 years of age. Wise to the end, that one. I was just a teen when he decided he could no longer stay with me, but he was precious enough to tell me that when I grew up, as he knew I would, he knew I would write. He told me that my imagination had grown considerably since the days he first began to train me. He told me that when I would fall asleep each night, he would read my journals, and he could tell that my skills and talents had improved. He made me feel worthy and wanted, even appreciated.

    So, when I finally did grow up and decided to go to college, I did not take any medical training courses; not for me. I was into English Literature, Creative Writing, anything dealing with words, not instruments or math; math was nothing but a four-letter word in my life! There may or may not be those who could have benefited from me becoming a physician, but I can't help that. I believe my chosen profession has its merit! I am an author, and though I do other things to make money to pay my bills, it is the authing that I prefer to do. 

    Thank you, Rover. I will see you when I get there.

Photo Credit: Pinterest.com...this isn't Rover, but he looked a great deal like that.