Saturday, November 29, 2014
I’ve always written. Or at least it seems that way. My favorite biggest sister story involves writing my Name. I don’t have the slightest idea how old I was. Maybe Barbara remembers. I’d like to think I was young and ahead of the developmental schedule in learning how to write; that makes me a feel a bit better. Let’s say I was five. Not even a five-year-old likes to get snookered.
Somehow my sister Barbara, ten years my senior, taught me how to spell my name Susan. I practiced. And practiced. Remember, this is my version through my memory. I’d like to think I have always been obsessive in needing to work hard in becoming good at something. After practicing proficiency, I went running to my mom, exclaiming that I could write “Susan.” I carefully wrote out my name: M-O-N-S-T-E-R. it was just one letter off.
I think Barbara got into trouble, but that was close to fifty years ago. This may have been the beginning of my love-affair with the written word. I have vague recollections o torturing my sister Deb with manual-typed harassing messages that I would slide under the door. It didn’t really take much for us to fight, though it took even less for us to forgive. Since Deb was only four years older, and my other two sisters were basically grown up, it seemed as though it were just she and I. And my dad. I always believed that she was his favorite, though he tried very hard to be “fair.”
Writing, especially after my mom died, became my sounding board. Yeah,, I always had the dog to talk to, but it wasn’t quite the same as pouring my heart out onto a piece of paper.
I think I was in Junior High when we read The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. Maybe it was in high school. I probably have the story somewhere in a box. I don’t think I have thrown anything that I have written away. This includes anything written to me, i.e. Letters, cards, emails. After forty-something years, I’ve got a lot of paper to recycle. It’s only been recently that I’ve thought that it will be okay for people to read what I have written after I have died. Before I have always thought how I really need to pitch all of this stuff before I die so that Sylvia doesn’t have to sort through a lot of crap.
Anyway, I had an assignment where I had to write myself into a Walter Mitty Story. I dreamed of beating Bobby Orr and Phil Espisito (Forgive me Phil for not remembering how to spell your name.) in a two against one. Terry O’Reilly hadn’t started yet.
I have always been good at hitting the soft spot of the reader, and since I was extremely sad then,, I wrote how I was a famous surgeon, but not even I could help save President Kennedy. Yes, I’m dating myself with this story. At the end, my final fantasy was that I would be once again with my mom, and no she hadn’t come back to life. This may have been the time the school started to force me to see the counselor. Ellsbury? I can’t remember the school counselor’s name, but I hated it. It only caused me to start to lie to get out of seeing her.
My writing has always been my voice when I couldn’t express myself. Sometimes it has helped me to sort through ideas. Most of the time the words have saved me. I’ve only lost one job because of these words. I’m not sure if I’ll ever stop kicking myself in the butt for that mistake.
I’m feeling rather excited and very nervous as to what the ramifications will be by releasing these words out into the world rather than secretly horde them for my own. Only time will see.