A Writer Riddle with a Twist

As a child, I worked  in a boot-blacking shop

And the place made me quite cratchitty.

Society was bleak.

The rats did squeak,

But debt prison held no curiosity.

—

I vented frustrations in magazine form

Then picked up a paper to write.

Completed a book.

Expectations forsook.

And with Grip, my writing took flight.

—

I laid myself down in a coppery field

To spin tales no one forgets.

Chimes for your ears.

For one hundred years.

And they haven’t gone out of print yet!

—

Who Am I?

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