why can't you just quietly pick your nose like the rest of us

You're not going to believe this, but in fourth grade I really liked writing.

And maybe I was decent at it, or maybe just because I liked it, or maybe because he was worried about how I was spending my free time, my fourth grade teacher assigned me to be Class Storyteller. It was supposedly a part of a district-wide writers/slave-laborers program, and the requirement was that every two weeks I would write a short piece of fiction and read it to the class.

If I can take a minute to make fun of a nine-year old, those were probably the worst stories that have ever been written in the history of the world. I remember one particularly rough morning my teacher reminded me that I was supposed to present in five minutes (after Recycling Tip of the Day), and I answered "Oh right of course! Could I take a second in the hall to practice reading it? And also could I borrow a couple blank sheets of paper and a pencil?" I don't know how other Class Storytellers were faring, but things were ugly in Room 18.

I still remember my fourth grade room number because we had a really catchy song about it. Every time I can't remember something important I realize it was probably supposed to go in the part of my brain that's being taken up by my fourth grade room number.

On a slightly-more-successful Class Storyteller day I read a tale about a suburban boy whose dog went missing over a school vacation. He spent most of the story looking for her, speculating about her kidnapping/death/murder/escape, only to find her in his backyard in the last paragraph, with a new litter of puppies. I hated dogs as a child, but had sat down to work on my writing assignment immediately after watching a similar plot on a made-for-tv movie. At the end I asked the classmates who were still awake if there were any questions.

One girl (probably Margaret) raised her hand. "At the beginning of the story you said that his dog went missing over spring break, but then a couple days later at the end of the story he said that he needed to find her soon because summer vacation was ending. Why is that?

I gave her a look that said "At the beginning of your sentence it seemed like you were complaining about the problematic logic and general disregard for congruent details in my story, but at the end of the sentence I realized you haven't written a story, but you're still complaining about mine. Why is that?"

And out loud I said "Good question Margaret. Does anyone else have a question?"

I don't remember being Class Storyteller for very long.