where nothing else was growing

It was 1978.

They all wanted to know

why I sat around drawing pictures

of aliens and spaceships and reading

R. Crumb comics instead of studying

or making friends or joining the Cub

Scouts or Little League.

God forbid.

That's when the psychologists got involved.

But they were frustrated by my shrugs,

my I don't knows, and my lack of eye contact.

Psychiatrists were strongly suggested, along with

Ritalin, private schools, boot camps, religious

instruction, and extracurricular activities.

My mother wanted to take away my drawing

pad and my comic books.

My father said if they took them away from

me, then I'd really need a shrink.

So they left me alone.

And I started writing.

Today I still sit around writing and drawing

pictures and reading comics and some people

still wonder why I spend so much time doing

those things and think I need to see a shrink.

Over the years I've learned to just smile and

nod at these people and tell them how intuitive and

insightful they are rather than arguing with them.

Then I'll go home and write a story about them

going to see a psychiatrist.

And if they're lucky, I'll write a happy ending

for them.

If not, I'll just end it like I end most of the stories.

Unresolved and with an ellipsis at the end...