How I Became a Writer (At Least for a Day)
Our board chairman was a bird hunter and a member of a hunting club outside San Antonio. I’d been his guest several times, but this time was different. Instead of a college student, we had the head guide, a distinguished looking gentleman best described as the Marlboro Man. He was tall, lean, square-jawed and impeccably dressed in high brown boots and sharply pressed khakis. He was the total package.
My host told me our guide was also an accomplished artist—primarily a sculptor—whom he planned to commission to create something for the upcoming retirement of a colleague.
As we tramped through the brush, our guide told us about his new toy, a beeper for his pointing dog’s collar that sounded when the dog stood still. That way, even if the dog was out of sight, you knew he’d found birds. The flaw in this plan soon became apparent, however: The guide was hard of hearing. He kept turning to ask us if the beeper was beeping.
I whispered to my host that a beeper was an odd toy for a hard-of-hearing man. He asked me if I planned to write about it. The guide heard him and turned to ask me if I was a writer.
The question took me by surprise. Normally, I would have said “no” without thinking. But an artist was asking. He deserved an honest answer, but I didn’t know what the honest answer was. I stood there frozen, trying to decide. Finally, my host answered for me, saying, “Yes, Bob’s a writer.”
I was glad to hear it. I didn’t know if it was true, but I was pleased that he thought it was. So that’s how I became a writer, for that one day at least.