When I was 6, I remember reading the New York Times upside down, aloud, to show off to my delighted parents. I wrote a dramatic short story later that year about an earache, with the word ‘suddenly’ in the lead and a crayon drawing of an ear with lightning attacking it for the cover art. I had an affinity towards the written word. They said I would be a writer when I grow up. I recall not liking that idea as much as I liked the idea of being any number of other dream jobs typical of boyhood; firefighter, cowboy, astronaut, race car driver. And I spend the next 20 years resisting that notion, resisting ever learning the formal rules of grammar as well as I should, wandering through business school with little interest, feeling the honest satisfaction of blue collar work while mopping up a boxing gym at the end of the day. And yet, somehow, everything’s lead up to this moment where I have a comfortable job writing without having ever planned for such a thing. Thinking about things like this, I feel powerless against fate.
Suddenly! haha. It sounds like the kind of short story Malcolm likes to write. Except his would be about biting big dogs or falling off the garden ledge.