Learning to Spell My Name by Shelly Reed Through elusive verse I return to this mystery of publication, attempting to break the spell of my mid-western anonymity. I don’t write any better as a redhead than I did as a brunette. Editors joke that I should, but I don’t know a damn thing about farming, wildflowers or the PTA. I have taken time to memorize mint tea, sandalwood, new age music, rice cakes and Frank O’Hara, but who cares except my three-year-old daughter who keeps asking me to help her write her name. Like the clean after-coolness of a swift shower, she is enchanted with me. © 2001 Shelly Reed. All rights reserved. Home