Let me tell you a story from my childhood and why I use a pen name which does not have anything to do with quilting. I was nicknamed, “The Scribbler,” at a very young age, so young that my memories are more than a bit hazy.
I do remember my mother taking me by the hand to show me scribbling on different items, papers mostly, books, walls and even furniture. Unfortunately, an end table made of expensive walnut had markings all over it. Yikes.
According to my mother, the preponderance of evidence pointed to me. I get that terminology from watching too many Law and Order shows, but I’m digressing from the subject at hand.
I don’t remember actually committing these scribbling crimes. My mother would want an explanation and my standard response was, “I nots The Scribbler!” What else would a three-year-old say? Okay, once I remained silent because I had a vague recollection of holding something in my pudgy little fingers.
In my defense, I was never caught red-handed, or rather, pen-handed. The logical explanation was that there was a phantom in our house committing random acts of graffiti. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Let’s fast forward to the January meeting and the question about The Scribbler’s identity. Listen carefully. It’s a secret. I haven’t cracked under pressure before and I don’t intend to crack now.
If asked in the future, I’ll deny, deny, deny just like I did all those years ago. I’m hoping you’ll believe me because my parents didn’t. To tell you the truth, it gives me perverse pleasure to finally put the pesky nickname to good use.