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Why Mommy Grew Up to Be a Writer By Sherry Antonetti
When I was eight, my dad would buy comic books for us at the beach house. These were to be read during the heat of the day or "quiet time" as the adults naively called it. My brothers and I would snatch onto them the first day like they were liquid gold. Four days later, each comic having been read at least four times, we would begin to examine the letters to Archie and his pals, the advertisements for Grit magazine, t-shirt decals ranging from Playboy to "10-4 Good Buddy" to the Rolling Stones' icon, order forms for Sea Monkeys, and the "Draw Cubby" offer for the school for commercial art. I secretly pined to draw Cubby. I saved the address and practiced. I was certain the "experts" who evaluated my art would know if I traced the pirate. I would be dismissed as a copy cat, and not an artist if I did that one, so I worked on my Cubby. The rest of the week, quiet time was spent practicing.
Then, one day, the muse was with me. I had made it through the ears and the eyes, the nose was well formed and all the lines were clean, dark, and precise. This was a winner. I asked Mom for an envelope. I proudly folded my artwork and put my application together. Mom was amazingly tolerant as I asked her to address the envelope and stamp it. She even drove me to the post office. I would be drawing for Disney for sure within the next week.
The weeks passed and finally, a letter came.
Dear Aspiring Artist:
While your work shows great creativity, it does not meet our standards. We encourage you to consider signing up for one of our instructional courses in the future and wish you the best of luck with your future artistic endeavors.
That was it. They didn't even return my Cubby drawing.
I was beyond crushed. Mom bought me a Coke and told me not to be discouraged, that this was part of growing up, that the whole thing was a scam to get you to sign up for classes. I listened, sniffed, shut the door to my room, and turned on my record player to listen to "Ride 'em Cowboy"-- the only sad '45 I owned, for the next hour. Then I was mad.
The next year we went to the beach and Dad bought more comics. I dutifully blacked out the "Draw Fuzzy" ads so no other artist would be duped by their cunning contests. I warned my brothers, too.
The years passed and drawing became less a part of my life, but the creative juices seemed to dry up. I just couldn't think of anything to draw, I had lost the need. Twenty-one years later, I see the ads on the Internet say Make a Real Living as a Freelance Writer! click here! And suddenly somewhere out there, Cubby laughs darkly.
Sherry Antonetti writes freelance for the Catholic Standard. She also writes short humor pieces and spends most of her time raising her seven children.
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