story of my life

If I had become a Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter and died at a ripe old age, I know how my biography would begin.

One afternoon when I was four, I learned how to draw question marks. I found it life-changing as a skill -- there were such possibilities for writing when you could communicate a question. (Maybe this would be good if I were a famous copy editor, too.)

I cut up a sheet of paper into tiny pieces, took out my markers, and put the new skill to good use. When all was said and done, the scraps were covered with question marks. Logically, my young mind thought, there are people out there who need questions. And I can sell them to them.

So, the story goes, I went out to the street and asked passersby if they wanted to buy a question. (We lived on a somewhat busy road then, on the side with the sidewalk.) And then I chased a professor on a bicycle up the street, advertising my wares. And he chuckled and gave me a quarter.

I've also thought of a way to start that next pesky cover letter when I apply for copy editing positions:

Before going in to my college roommate's flute recital, I couldn't help but sneak in a pen into my pocket to proofread the program.