WRITING

5.3331 Reasons Why I Write

Following a math/science path just didn’t add up

I’ve always felt off center. But I knew one thing. With a mom who stood up for herself and a dad glued to the news, I was destined to write.

My nascent scribbles, at first, fueled a lifelong love.

At the tender age of 6, I started “publishing” a neighborhood rag. “The Ramey Reader” covered everything: What our neighbors had for dinner Wednesday night; what time my Daddy got home from work; how many times in a week the Lombardis’ German Shepherd, Lupo, peed on the sheets hanging on the line.

I would print each story on college-ruled (Advanced? Nope — my cousin was three years older; I stole it from her book bag) paper with my №2 pencil. Signed each “scoop”. But I was generous, handing out recognition to my family, neighbors, and even school-bus friends who worked as primitive stringers for my publication. We ran with a potpourri: meatloaf recipes, homework woes, kickball shenanigans.

“The Ramey Reader” had little in the way of photography. My little sis would sometimes contribute her crayon scribbles, which I dubbed “modern art” in captions. I would snip photos that caught my eye from my Nana’s Good Housekeeping and McCall’s.

My Daddy would collect my renderings and take them in to copy on the brand-new Xerox machine at the office. I have no clue how many copies he made, only that I sold “The Ramey Reader” for a nickel. Enough, I reckon, to fund our frequent hangs at the Good Humor truck.

When I was 10, the Beatles arrived. My older cousins bought Tiger Beat, and then of course the monthly Beatles fan mags. My Mama said I was too young for Beatlemania and confiscated those precious pubs. My Nana carried on about “those boys whose hair is as long as yours”.

So how did I compensate? I got out Ye Olde College-Ruled Notebook Paper and my trusty №2 pencil, of course, and copied parts of the articles I liked. And gave myself bylines — called that, of course, because of the word “By” preceding the reporter’s name — for each story.

Gosh, “By Brooke Ramey” appeared a lot in those days. I’m surprised I didn’t get a little extra for publicizing these fanzines’ star-making efforts on behalf of the Fab Four. Or in trouble for appropriating the work of others.

By the time I was in 6th grade, my course was pretty well set. I was going to be a writer or a publicist for the mop-topped quartet leading the British Invasion.

I didn’t always stay on a straight path. Joined the staff of the high school newspaper. (And no, I didn’t show the adviser copies of “The Ramey Reader” to seal the deal.) Applied to and was accepted by the University of Missouri, home of the “Harvard” of journalism schools. Interned at a national magazine in NYC. Went back to my hometown after graduation and joined the staff of a big-city paper, and then moved to D.C. and did the same.

Along my circuitous route, I crossed the Great Divide and started a gig in politics. Took a position with a trade association in Downtown D.C. and did PR. And after a stint as a stay-at-home-mom, I was almost back where I started, as a high school publications adviser — student newspaper and yearbook — at a suburban D.C. campus.

So, yeah, I’m retired now, after 23 years of helping 16-year-olds craft headlines, formulate leads and chase the Big Stories. I’m so proud of their work, which garnered my students countless local, state, and national awards. My journalistas spoke truth to power and showed no fear. I’d like to think I fostered that.

And now here I am, a writer again, on Medium. Why do I write? Why did I stay in the game? Why do I still chase the occasional scoop and continue to ask interminable questions?

I stink at math and science.

By 4th grade, I was regularly failing math. I would do my “best” on a 20-question quiz and miss all 20 questions. Yup, I was that bad. I’m not sure why Mrs. Cathone at Roaring Brook Elementary School passed me on to 5th grade, where I failed science, as well.

I know my way around the Written Word.

Not to brag, but I’m a pretty OK wordsmith. And I’ve discovered over the years that there are so many more folks who Just. Can’t. Write. The Written Word and I have always been equal. Mrs. Cathone probably knew that I would succeed despite my mathematical deficits, while those kids acing their multiplication quizzes were destined to be schooled by someone like me for the rest of their lives.

I’m no stranger to controversy.

You know that person who keeps asking the difficult questions during staff meetings, the ones others are afraid to ask? That’s me. One principal I worked for, whom we dubbed “Mickey Mouse”, might even have been a little afraid of me. If someone can’t find her voice, I’ll supply the megaphone, and the words, if you need ’em. And if you want someone to mix it up, I’m your gal.

I’m a sucker for an excellent turn of phrase.

Whether it’s in my writing or the efforts of others, I love to witness how this cultivated craft evolves. I love to edit. There’s always a better way to say something. As my LinkedIn bio says, I’m “available to fix your semicolons, or to craft you a cute haiku.” Yes, indeedy. That’s me!

I can’t really see myself doing anything else.

I’ve been retired for four years. After organizing our lives and throwing away a ton of flotsam and jetsam, Moker and I moved 400 miles — in the middle of a pandemic — from our longtime D.C.-area home, to be closer to the fam. And what did I do when we’d settled in, unpacked all the boxes, broken them down, and hauled them to the recycling center? I joined the NaNoWriteMo effort, which led to a collection of essays that desperately needed to be edited within an inch of their lives. So I joined Medium and debuted in December with “Death By Costco”. Yeah, it’s too long and needs to be reworked and perhaps broken up into several essays. Or I could just junk most of it and start over. But Medium has been good for me. I have a lot to say, and this is a great place to say it.

I like to save the best for last.

OK, this nugget isn’t really a cause. More of an effect, which is why it earns the .3331 in my headline, above. I’m happy here on Medium. As I continue to hone my ever-evolving style, I have a collection of helpful Medium colleagues who are interested in seeing writers like me succeed. No, I don’t have the most “views” of the century, but I’m getting pretty good at the curious “curation” game. And yes, I’m earning a little scratch, even though no, I didn’t receive that mysterious $500 bonus that Ev seems to have bequeathed to quite a few of you in April.

But that’s OK. I’m happy where I am right now. Don’t be surprised, however, if I launch my own Medium publication someday. I’m thinking about calling it “The Ramey Reader”.