The Writer

I don't know, exactly, when David became a writer. Maybe he was born that way. I, however, didn't meet him until he was four years old. I do know that, by four, he was already a writer.
Don't get me wrong, he could neither read nor write by the age of four, but he had stories in his head, and he could dictate. Dictate is what he did - for hours and hours and hours.
At that time I was working as a nanny for the Pedigo family. David, as I said, was four, and his brother Jonathan was eight months old. My son, Steven, was eight months old as well, and I spent my days learning and growing with these three little boys.
I must admit that Steven and Jonathan learned early independence and developed a keen sense of mischief because much of my time was spent transcribing the stories that flowed out of young David's mind. I dare say that, at four, David was more prolific and more productive than Eliot, Hemingway or King. He had no distractions, no responsibilities, no burdens and no other focus. Every event in his life became a story, and he had a natural love for experiencing his words on paper.
So, for years, while Steven and Jonathan poured water into vents, peeled wallpaper off of walls, destroyed Lego masterpieces, and mixed potions in the toilet, David dictated and I recorded his words.
Those words were put into a file, and now, seventeen years later, they still exist. The words of four year old David did not dissipate into the wind, they exist, and always will exist, because David is a writer.