Post number 1 for the DIY MFA Book Club.
Today's prompt: My Zero Moment When I Decided to Become a Writer
My blue Schwinn cruised the neighborhood looking for juicy stories. Dogfights brewed at every turn. And today, that is all I remember of my illustrious beginnings as a writer. My dad read the first installment of my daily neighborhood paper and commented that it didn’t tell him anything. I was devastated, but I knew I had a lot of hard work ahead of me if I was going to be a writer.
By twelve years old, I was pouring my tender heart onto the page. Copious entries detailed giddy attempts at love and acceptance and self-awareness. My first slow dance to “House of the Rising Sun” evoked wonder that I was sure no one else had ever felt. That night, my burgeoning worldliness peeked through as the theme from "Romeo and Juliet" wafted through the woods. I begged us to pretend that we were in the forests of Uganda, the hottest place on earth, and Idi Amen would search us out if we didn’t hide together under the pines. Later, humiliation exploded when my dad picked me up and noticed there were leaves still stuck to the back of my shirt.
Those stories were forgotten until my daughter was twelve years old. During carpool, her car mates would take turns reading entries from decades earlier. How much had things changed? Who amongst them had experienced their first kiss or their first heartbreak?
Writing is a gift we give ourselves, and if we are brave enough, we share it with others. When I began writing, my emotions couldn’t contain themselves within me. I’m not sure much has changed since then.
No comments:
Post a Comment