It has been a while since I’ve done a public post. GracieMusica posted a long lost story of hers from the third grade. It’s adorable.
Her post got me thinking. I’ve often told people that my mother has always encouraged me to become an author. I never shared why.
I didn’t start writing until I was 12. At that time I was writing short stories on an old Brother word processor. Basically, a typewriter with a brain. I wrote a short fluffy story about two girls who discover an old trunk in their attic. The trunk teleported them back in time where they met their ancestors. I hadn’t read “The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe” yet. It was kind of like Back to the Future meets Little House on the Prairie. I submitted that to a contest and didn’t win.
I then wrote a script for a TV show that I loved. I submitted it to the Paramount and got a very polite rejection letter from an assistant explaining that they couldn’t even read the script much less accept it. She wished me the best in my writing endeavors. I still have my first rejection letter. LOL!
I didn’t give up, but for some reason my stories turned a bit darker. I think I’d discovered Poe by this time. This was also the year we got an IBM computer. I did some writing on WordStar 1.0, but still preferred to use the word processor.
I wrote a story about a woman trapped in an insane asylum. She wasn’t crazy, but wanted a break from life. The people who ran the asylum were corrupt and it turned into a story of the woman figuring out a few criminally insane patients had overthrown the staff. All the patients were doctors and all the doctors were patients. She connects with a man who is “less insane” than the others and they escape. After reading that story, my mother sat down with me and told me that I should write. She still talks about a few scenes like she read it yesterday.
After that, I wrote a story that one of my teachers found. This particular teacher and I had never gotten along. I had always gotten along with my teachers even when I struggled in the class. This teacher and I butted heads, I still haven’t figured out why. I don’t know how she got her hands on the story as I never showed it to anyone except my family.
It was written in first person from the perspective of a murderous old man who owned a huge house. He rented out rooms to people and killed them based upon their habits. Whatever habit annoyed him became the means of death. One tenant was fastidiously clean. He’d remove his clothes at night, fold them, place them in a dirty clothes hamper, and then push down on the clothes. After that, he’d put on his night clothes and go to bed. The old man (never named) was really bothered by that. It bugged the crap out of him. He hid a syringe filled with poison inside the clothing so that when the guy pressed down on the clothes, he’d be injected with the poison and die.
The old man never got caught and the story was his final confession of all his crimes. He wrote it on his deathbed. I remember a few lines from it.
So much blood is upon my hands. Coated and covered like a delectable sugary treat. I wash them and it remains. I lick them and I taste it. I’d bathe in it if I could. Such a beautiful shade of red. Glistening and wet.
Sorry, I got distracted. Where was I? Oh yes, the veterinarian.
After my teacher found this, she referred me for psychological testing. She thought I was insane and disturbed. I didn’t write again for a very long time. The school psychologist determined that I was creative not insane. That teacher never accepted that answer. We moved so I could change schools. (My brother wasn’t happy in his school either, but for other reasons.) My mother made sure my permanent record reflected the psychologist’s findings so I wouldn’t be haunted by a reputation. In the seventh grade, I had a new start and I didn’t write.
Lately, I’ve been toying with rewriting “This Old House”. I don’t think I ever will, but I will be incorporating elements of it into “Recovered Flotsam”. Nothing wrong with cannibalizing your own work, right? LOL