Tag: writing

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The Saint

Influenced by the TV program The Saint – do-do-do-do-dah-do, I wrote a short story in grade school that the teacher, much to my horror, chose to read aloud to our class.

As she read, I shrivelled till near under my desk, mortified. The class fell into a death like silence until you could hear a pin drop.

It was a story about someone knocking on my bedroom window at night, which turned out to be a branch blowing in the wind. I know, I know, but hey, I was in grade school when I wrote this – a pre teen.

She was nearing the end of the story when the school bell rang and everyone, including the teacher (except me) jumped out of their skin! The teacher put her hand to her chest and gasped Oh my!

Fellow classmates zoomed out of that room, and the teacher apologized to me that she hadn’t finished the story.

That day is forever etched in memory.

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Author

Author

It is a long time ago now, but I remember this photograph well.

At the time this was taken, I was an avid photographer, to say the least. I took pictures of everything, and in return, people took many pictures of me, perhaps in revenge! I made photo albums, those horrid self stick pages, good grief! And I would add captions that proved to be, sometimes, unpopular.

The above, with that caption, set me up for mockery.

At the time I was stunned by the backlash, because I was in no way trying to be pretentious, at that age, I didn’t even know what that meant. I was just simply stating a fact. Sure, I had lots of creative interests that I wanted to pursue, but I was a writer first and foremost and I didn’t doubt myself at all. I never questioned it. It was an activity I did every single day. I wrote hundreds of stories. I thought everyone else knew who they were too and should just say so.

Yep. Pretty pretentious!

That was the day I started shrinking from who I am. Over time, my real self was nearly totally eroded by the well meaning and maybe not so well meaning direction of others. As a result, I was miserable most of my adult life. I never successfully integrated into any field of endeavour, failed at every employ and relationship I had, and was LOST.

If you can remember who you are, live it. It is not that it is never too late, but why spend any of your precious time and life trying to be something you are not. My adult life was just one big embarrassment because I was a jagged square peg trying to fit into round holes.

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Spring

Desperately waiting for spring.

For now I immerse myself in doing colourful pictures for our next children’s book, the bright inks making a snow white-out day somewhat more tolerable. I try not to look out the window at the grey drab dress of the day. Instead, I’ve got a comical moose to paint to make little ones laugh.

The winter put a serious mood on me, so I fight back with my inks and colour pencils. The delight of my life is to create and give flesh to my friends inspired poetry.

As the days get longer my spirits lift, despite the fact winter does not want to go. This has been a long winter. Very long. The cloud of gloom is rising, and there I still am, underneath, happily writing and drawing, waiting to open a window and usher in green.

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Treasures Lost

Tucked off to the side in a mundane looking office building was a small library. This was a magical place. My Mom would frequent there and bring home science fiction for me, with the strict admonition to “not tell your Father!” How she selected such books was a mystery until I was much older. The stories were not fantasy, but future scenarios based on believable technology. Many of them had a profound and lasting effect on me, so I remember those stories to this day.

I loved writing, and banged out some pretty wild stories of my own on an old, sticky keys, heavier than a boat anchor, Underwood. When I was old enough, I made my own trek to that library and fished out much needed facts and other research for my imaginings.

My Mother had been a secret writer, hiding the fact from a disapproving husband. That’s how she knew such great fiction, she’d been reading it herself! But she vehemently denied this, claiming she disdained science fiction. However, all those books had been carefully chosen, they were the best of the best, I never read any crap.

Unfortunately, my Mother either abandoned writing altogether, or destroyed her work. Her later years were spent devouring murder mystery novels, she was insatiable. She only confessed to being a writer then, but no amount of coaxing could persuade her to write one single line for me. A treasure lost.

Like so many other things, late in life, I have only come to appreciate the gifts my Mother gave me. The love of books, libraries, reading, research and writing came from her. Thank you Mom!

My Father was a non-fiction writer, but he never published his works. I discovered them in his paperwork long after his death. He had a fascination with geology and had literally written an entire text book on the subject.

Two treasures lost.

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Something to Say

Once my Mother suggested I write a newsletter and I replied “But what would I write about? to which she shot back “Since when did you lack for something to say?”.

She was right of course.

But I come to today’s writing and find I don’t have anything I want to say.

I have the reassurance however that no one reads my blog, so why worry?  Except, I love to write, no wait, it is beyond that, I have to write.

It is a compelling force that never lets me alone.  I write about anything and everything all the time, or the same thing over and over.

It took me months to shred all the angst filled journals I used to fill with ink, and I have filing cabinets overflowing with stories I’ve written in long hand.  Yes, I write everything in longhand, just like my Dad.  And just like him I have my favourite utensils; his was a mechanical pencil on foolscap, mine a black pen on ruled paper pad, affixed to a clipboard uncomfortably balanced on my lap.

I do not enjoy the ease of typing on a computer, which I totally do not understand since I love typing on my typewriter.

As a youngster I typed out my imaginations on a gigantic Underwood, it was magic with its long stemmed jamming keys.  It would be fabulous to have that back!  I evolved to portables and then electric, until they stopped making typewriters.  I found my stories sounded different when done on a typewriter.  Pen in hand became my preferred choice when computers arrived.  I write them out, then put them on my laptop.  However, I must confess, last year I purchased an electric Smith Corona for $15 at a Thrift Shop and have been happily pounding out a story ever since!

So why write a blog?  Indeed, especially one like this with no point?  Well, it is something I’ve wanted to do since my Underwood days.  Have my own column in a magazine.  I had a lot of topics to discuss then.  But today I’m not so opinionated.  Now I have my own spot in the internet universe.  I have little idea why such a thing is so compelling, and I’d prefer not to understand actually.

I started off with something in mind, and that was my retirement but I see this blog is evolving, and leading me somewhere.  I don’t much care where.  I suppose once I am at my where someone will read it.

It is not important.  What seems to matter is I delight in doing something that is totally my own once a week.

Maybe next week I’ll have something to say.