When the doctor grabbed me by the ankles, lifted me in the air, and smacked me hard on my bottom, I knew I would be a writer. After all, even though I was “a brilliant little boy,” to use my mother’s completely objective words as she lay there postpartum , the best that I could vocalize was, “Goo-goo-gah-gah,”an all-purpose phrase that served me well for many months, but did little in the way of reporting what that mean doctor had done to me.
And so I began to write.
“As soon as I saw his mask, I knew I was in trouble . . . .”