Welcome to another Friday at the Writing Essential Group!
Here in upstate NY, we have been having several days of single digit temperatures, perfect weather to stay inside and read a great book. Or write.
Today, for some unknown reason, I was remembering when I first began to write—beyond the ABC’s and writing my name and address. I believe I was about ten years old, in the 5th grade. My teacher, Mrs. DeMallier, was young and recently divorced (I knew this because she spoke of it on occasion). She had long dark hair and wore short skirts and let us bring in records to play at recess. We all thought she was wonderfully unconventional.
We studied poetry, and one day we were asked to compose a rhyming poem for homework. I went home, turned on the radio, and lay on my bed (where I did my best thinking and all of my homework, much to my mother’s chagrin). I had no idea what to write about as I scribbled random words and phrases across my notebook pages. Eventually I managed to cobble together some words:
Flowers silent during day
Catch a breeze and then do sway
Patterns different, colors bright
Often make a lovely sight
Sometimes wilt and even die
Making people want to cry
One of nature’s promised ways
Getting sunlight from sun’s rays
I read it out loud in class the next day, and was proud when it was included in a class anthology made of brightly colored sheets of paper that I believe my mother still has in a box in her closet.
After that school year, I took a summer class in Haiku. I continued writing, poetry and short stories, off and on for years. One of my aunts even typed up my first short story, “The Boathouse Mystery”, and placed it in a bright red folder for me. I was thrilled to be “published”!
In high school I was in the poetry club and worked on the poetry anthology for the senior class. I submitted my poems (and artwork) for the anthology anonymously because I wanted to make sure there was no question that they were accepted or rejected based on the work itself. I did include my name with one poem, and after the anthology was published, was surprised when a male English teacher, whose class I had never been in, wrote me a note telling me how much he loved my poem, thanking me for sharing it. I was stunned to think an adult would appreciate anything I had written.
—And so began my love for writing. Unfortunately, I did not write much after that for many years. I got busy with boys and college and things I thought were more important. How I regret that now; it’s been difficult for me to gain back that discipline, to sit alone with my thoughts and write from my heart.
Slowly, I have been finding my way back. I still have things that must get done, a family that needs me, and a little dog to care for, but I’m learning to make time for me. The time that I have available to write, however small it may be, brings back memories of happy times from my childhood and reminds me that it’s never too late and you’re never too old to share a little piece of your heart and your soul.
Does anyone else remember when they first fell in love with writing and words? Can you share a memory about it?
I’ll look forward to reading your thoughts and feelings that you choose to share today.
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Comments: 14
The weather here is in double digits below zero. The mercury in our thermometer went into hibernation at -24F. We don't expect it to revive before the weekend.
My experience was the opposite of yours. I took my first short story to my fourth grade teacher who told me in no uncertain terms that it was the worst thing she ever read. She was right of course, but being right is not always the best thing to be.
I write a little better now, mostly be virtue of having developed a thick skin. Not only can I endure the sharp critiques of my fellow writers, but also those of the harshest critic of all -- myself.
To write well, you have to slog over some miserable ground.
Marriage, work, art, children , etc. all got in my way. Six years ago I began again and since then, well let's just say I have been busy typing.
I read like a maniac as a child and remember writing a spoof, a romance story for a Meet the Beatle's contest, and lots of stream of consciousness style writings in journals. As you know, I jumped at the chance in work to write elegant and incredibly brilliant meeting notes (LOL) and tech reports. Funny how that was one of my favorite parts of engineering! Not such a surprise, I guess. It wasn't until my father died that I needed writing as a solace, a way to cope with life's tragedies. That's when the dam burst, and all the LeGarde and Moore Mysteries started tumbling out of me. ;o)
It's funny though, and almost coincidental that you have this as a prompt and I read it today. Having received two rejections notices in as many months on a short story collection I submitted, I was starting to question myself on why I keep writing.
I know--I know why---but your prompt may be just what I need to really look at the beginning again ;-) I won't be able to submit this until after work today...but I do want to write something for your excellent prompt.
Thanks for helping me remember why I write...
I was 4 when I stood with my father in the side yard of our house and asked him the name of the flowers at the trellis. He said, "I told you last week." Yes I know. I forgot. "They are daisies. Say the word three times and then you will never forget." Daisy, daisy, daisy, I said. Daddy, I then said. I will remember everything anyone ever did and then I will write it all down. I will become a writer. "Writers must suffer," he said. Oh I have suffered, I said.
Not sure at all what I meant by "I have suffered" but that is when I became a writer.
My first story was in first grade.
The assignment was to go home and write something important to us. To go home and write something down before we forgot it. I lived across the street and did not have much time to think of anything to write.
I fretted. I crossed the street. Nothing came. My house was the third up from the corner. Still nothing. I decided to look at my favorite tree, the oak with the large hole in the trunk. I peered into the hole in the oak, then rushed in the house...
and wrote something like:
I was walking home from school today and had nothing to write about, so I decided to go to the old oak tree. Well, in that old oak tree lives a very old man, and he told me a special story. I cannot tell you what that is, but if you go to that old oak tree, and look in the hole in the middle of the trunk, that old, old man still lives there, and maybe he will tell you a story, too.
I did have a lot of weekly reading sessions with my creative essays that I read in the front of the class throughout school.
I was nearly published in the high school creative writing class magazine that was judged by outside judges - they judged my entry to be 5th place out of top 10 places - about 50 entries were received, but alas, I was only a sophomore, one of the typists for the class, and the class and resulting magazine was only for juniors and seniors.
After the inital blow to my ego, I realized what I had hoped since age first grade - that there might be something to my ego-driven desire to write - after all, independent judges outside the school system but actual editors thought my story 5th place out of top 10, in 50 entries.
Entry 6th place was published.
I became a journalist at 24.
Having kids set my writing (and reading back) but my kids are nearly all grown now.
Thanks for the prompt.
I believe talents and desires can remain dormant for many years and only show up when the timing is right. I doubt I could have been a writer (in my previous life) when family responsibilities were my main focus. The last eight years have been my time for self-expression via the written word as well as with paint.
Don't give up on a dream and keep believing in yourself.
And Rose, you ole Georgia peach, if the rejections continue to deflate, consider self-publishing. Then you can say you did it your way! Marie Pinschmidt
Looking back I think my first writings about 10-12 were different words for well known songs. They were created by listening to each phrase seperately at the piano. This developed a strong sense of rhythm in my poetry that was still there when I began writing seriously in my forties. At that time, my journal turned into poetry and resulted in my first published book of poetry, about divorce.
I don't think much about the early, childhood foundation of my writing. I can see that's my loss.
I did have a supportive English teacher who sent a poem of mine in to the Anthology of High School Poetry sirca 1956. I still have that construction paper cover, spiral bound book. Thank you, Miss Stambach. Support of those young people who show promise is a great gift to them and to the world.
I always had conversations going on inside my head. I remember such things, as far back as I can remember, and in the conversations, I was always searching for the perfect words. I guess I was a writer from the start, though I didn't actually start then. I later began writing stories and hiding them away, even though I was a star pupil in school and my teachers praised my "work." It was in my sophomore year of high school that I actually began thinking about my writing, and only within the past twelve years that it occurred to me that perhaps it was what I was meant to do with my life.
I was always a storyteller - from the time I was three! My grandpa said I was too precocious but my mom always defended me and said to let me talk. I wrote my first play in the first grade and it was performed by one of the fifth grade classes. In the second grade, I had a book review published in Stone Soup. I also wrote my first major poem (about Christopher Columbus) and performed it in the talent show in the second grade. It awakened my interest in poetry.
After years of being away from writing, a church friend brought me back when I was suffering with Epstein Barr/CFS and physically unable to get to work. She knew I needed an income and encouraged me to write, letting me know she did, too. She shared a few resources and writing became more than my favorite hobby - now it helps feed my family, which is truly a blessing.