I went through that period in my teens and twenties when I thought I might be good enough to be a writer. I used to work in a department store and I would take the bags used for packing purchases and tear them down the seams, fold them inside out and write stories on the blank insides. I remember finding a folder filled with paper bags with all this crap written on them and that's when I realized I had to buy a computer. Or at least a notebook.
I would write letters to the editors of the local newspapers and get that heart-attack-inducing thrill when I'd unfold the paper to see my words printed there next to honest-to-God news stories. One day there was a call for me and the voice on the other end told me she'd read one of my letters and was moved enough to find my number and call to tell me. She asked what else I'd written or published, and I told her that I hoped to publish something some day, after I graduated from high school.
So yeah, I like to think about what I write, like it matters. Sometimes I care enough to go back and look at the words and listen to how they sound in my head. But sometimes I forget to even spell check. I used to think that writing was a discipline, but over the years I've decided it's just luck. Some people get to be writers and some don't. The words don't matter so much.
So as you can see, I've been lost in memories this week, thinking about my past. And then this picture sparked another memory. You see that face (it links to a bigger version-you might need to copy/paste the link), I wrote a poem once and drew a picture just like that, but the face was the Earth, but with a big eye like that and a tear spilling off. And this was the poem:
I would write letters to the editors of the local newspapers and get that heart-attack-inducing thrill when I'd unfold the paper to see my words printed there next to honest-to-God news stories. One day there was a call for me and the voice on the other end told me she'd read one of my letters and was moved enough to find my number and call to tell me. She asked what else I'd written or published, and I told her that I hoped to publish something some day, after I graduated from high school.
So yeah, I like to think about what I write, like it matters. Sometimes I care enough to go back and look at the words and listen to how they sound in my head. But sometimes I forget to even spell check. I used to think that writing was a discipline, but over the years I've decided it's just luck. Some people get to be writers and some don't. The words don't matter so much.
So as you can see, I've been lost in memories this week, thinking about my past. And then this picture sparked another memory. You see that face (it links to a bigger version-you might need to copy/paste the link), I wrote a poem once and drew a picture just like that, but the face was the Earth, but with a big eye like that and a tear spilling off. And this was the poem:
You give yourself a pat on the back for discovering the world had developed a crack so you put a pan underneath to keep it from leaking on your carpet. But as you looked up into the crack, you saw the crack was looking back at your nice, clean carpet.
Meaning some people think that the world's problems can be ignored and that you can protect yourself from them. But you can't; the problems will always find you.
So anyway, I'll try not to remember too much stuff any more. It's just sad when some old man sits next to you and starts to reminisce about the old days. Unless he says he had a three-way with Jack Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe, then you listen real good. But sorry, I don't have any cool stories like that. Unless you can prove you're at least 21 years of age.
