Weekly Blog Post 8

Today was reflection day,or at least the start of it. Writing a reflection always throws me off because I'm caught between essay (I suppose I'm referring to formal) and just talking as me. The recent blog paper made that change even stranger. Anyways, I think I am back in the swing of things reflection related. There really is no point to this ramble except that it's gotten me thinking about the past...obviously, because it is a reflection.

I've been trying to remember when I first started writing, I don't mean stories or sentences, I mean trying to form the letter 'a' then the capital 'A' or vice versa. The best I remember is drawing stick figures in kindergarten, vague memories of letters/sentences in first grade and writing letters and lines on that giant lined paper in second. I'm not sure why that last one is most clear, maybe my mind decided paying attention in class actually meant paying attention at that point.

As for when I wrote my first "story," that was probably about a page or two of looseleaf, college ruled of course (I hated the other kind from very early on).Anyways, I remember around 7th grade writing about a kid in the jungle sort of like Tarzan, who was very ill and then somehow got powers, kind of like Superman. I'm sure I've written something from an earlier grade but it escapes my memory. Actually I lied, I just remembered writing an explanation for how the spring in Tuck Everlasting came to have its special power; I believe that was a couple paragraphs around 6th grade. Blast! and a somewhat long story involving a mystery and baseball around 3rd grade.

The point was, and is, supposed to be that I really remember most story writings beginning in 7th grade, I figure that means besides having more assignments, it also meant I really started caring about what and how I wrote. This caring equalled, at the time, having ideas too big to write for a little tale, spending far too much time on the writings, and the best of all, getting terrifying nerves about other people reading them. Yay, I can almost pinpoint when my public speaking fears went up a new level. However, despite all of this I realized I enjoyed it. I enjoyed making up a story or writing about something, it was different and the results could just about be limitless.

Taking a step back from stories, there's poems to consider. I can recall a poem about my Grandpa in 6th grade and a Veteran's poem in 7th or 8th but not much else except for recitation . Forgetting the teacher-assigned poems, I clearly remember writing my first real one, I have had bits and pieces written down before, but never a real poem.

I was in a strange mood during a boring science class lecture in 7th grade. So I began writing in my notebook, thinking about the 9/11 attack and everything after. It was around a paragraph and after showing one friend I turned it in to the school to consider adding to this book of stories, news, and other writings for the year. It got in, people saw it and liked it (that was a surprise) and then insisted my next two years of school that I resubmit it (I never did, forgetting, but discovered someone else added it for me). That was when I learned writing could be calming if you let it. I also discovered poems were the way to go for conveying emotion and jumbled thoughts, not yet having a handle on applying those personal experiences to a character in a story.

Few people have seen my rambles, and none of them have seen them all. In fact, I had intended to keep them for myself but somehow skillfully managed to leave a personal poem (my second) on a ledge a week or two later at home in a rush to catch my school ride. It was seen, read, given back...and I mumbled incoherently at any comments or questions. The lines were too odd to really pick up anything personal, but it grew that way from my current mood so I felt attached. Suppose, I loosened up a smidgen after that.

Anyways my point is that I like to recall where I started in writing, I like to dig through my room and find those cheesy stories and poems with red ink grades and stickers. I like to pull out my notebook and jot a paragraph down after reading the snippets of a story started years ago. I like to open that beat-up medium notebook and look at poems I've made, adding one now and again when I can't resist the pull. That pull is the feeling I love, I can't deny it even if I scribble on a napkin; it's also the feeling that drives me nuts when I want to write and just can't seem too.

It's a strange thing writing, and I know this weird little flashback is long and messed up, but my head can't quite grasp the attention needed to write this all down. It keeps jumping from memory to memory as they come back (I have done mass editing because I think of something a paragraph or several later). So I'll just stop while laughing at the memories and see if I can't find that pull over the weekend.