Words, words strung together to create a vision, something that people can relate to or picture in their mind through their own experience. Creative Writing was the hardest thing for me because it wasn’t something I could understand how any other person could see what I was seeing, how I was feeling. It might have been just being young and not having enough confidence in myself and sometimes I think it was the person teaching the class just not offering the right feedback for me personally to correct my mistakes.
Writing is like gymnastics. The scoring system is completely subjective based on the eye of the judge. Blink during the routine and you missed the flawless execution of an tumbling pass. Not being able to relate to the subject matter might also have been my problem.
7th grade English was taught by an amazing guy. With all of the hormones flowing and stupid pranks being played by people just learning to relate to one another, he kept his cool. During March Madness he set up this contest where each person wrote a short story on any topic and read it to be voted on. Winner goes on, loser sits back down. My story was about a young girl in a white bathing suit jumping off a diving board. It was full of teenage innuendo and obviously the boys all voted for me to proceed. I have no idea today if the story was any good, but I laugh thinking about reading it several times, making small additions while waiting at my desk, hoping to be the last person standing. I wasn’t, but it was fun. I didn’t experience that again until college.
That was a story about persuading my parents to let me get my ear pierced. The irony being that the earring was dangling from my lobe as I wrote the thing. We looked at it as a phone conversation written as fiction. I don’t even remember the Grad Student’s name who was stuck with us freshman, but she did encourage me to write other things.
Since joining this community 6 odd months ago I’ve written about the daily struggles of dealing with having lost my daughter. It helps because when you combine that with her mother couldn’t deal with certain things and left, some issues me and some her, I get to have some of the talks I should have had with her. I just have them in a much more public forum, airing my thoughts and fears in a way that at times scares me to acknowledge.
I find it hard a hell to write these things. My brain exhausted sometimes, other times the memory of something [like that english class] makes me smile. Having spent last night in the room of someone long since gone, remembering what it looked like 25 years ago brought back so many emotions. Her picture is on the dresser, but nothing about this room is the same. The furniture is different, the smell as well. But I sat on the floor and remembered what is was like to be 15 again. Doing homework, listening to music, all if it was right in front of me like it had just happened.
They always say you can’t go back, it won’t be the same. Well that’s obvious, but for a little while last night it was worth the memories of how it ended just to remember the memories of how it all began. I think my mother knew that when she asked if I could stay there after leaving the hospital. There was never any doubt I could, but I think she knew I needed it. I guess that can be the next posting. Me sitting in that room, enveloped in memory and so grateful for it.
[Lary’s note to anyone who saw yesterday’s posting. Thanks for reading, we went with a White Chocolate Raspberry Torte thing from the Putney Co-Op in Vermont! Driven down for the occasion! My girl would have loved it…]
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Land of Confusion.”