Finding Something to Talk About

Good Morning, finding.jpg

I didn’t post the final version of “Childhood Photograph” because I’m still finding the story. The opening scene kept rewriting itself the way mysteries often do. Characters kept reintroducing themselves with new backstories and motives. Places like Lake Eola Park kept rearranging itself like replacing trees with bridges the more I stared at it.

This writing process depressed me as a college student. I wrote many research essays without a hitch. However, creative assignments like  writing collage essays about my self-identity confused me on which word to put down first. The blank canvas became a stage on which I couldn’t perform. Every time I opened my mouth the wrong words came out.

Untruths performed backflips in the shape of a familiar man. A brown man with curly black hair told everyone about the time he got lost in a New York City  gay club. The story sounded true enough that even he believed the part when his “hand moved up behind his (Snow Queen’s) neck”. He remembered certain events happening but the details faded long ago. I helped him get through the performance by making shadow puppets, distracting the audience, as he tried to recall the next scene.

The words came to him eventually and the show ended. I washed my hands backstage, trying to forgive myself, but the dirt never came off. I wanted to tell the truth but also a really fun story like other bloggers. Other bloggers talked about dating, current events, and coffee culture. I wanted to sound as interesting as those people and so chose certain memories to craft into an essay. However, my voice changed somewhere between senior year and graduation. I no longer wanted to talk about dating or about being an aspiring writer. I was already a writer. I was just trying to find something to talk about.




Childhood Photograph

Good Morning, I apologize for only posting once this week. I’m currently updating the entire blog and thus had time for only one post this week. I decided to write a story about someone finding a childhood photograph. It’s not complete, obviously, but I like where it’s going and decided to continue this story and will publish the final product on Friday. Here, you can see where I made small notes and such. I think it’s important to not get hung up on the details unless finding them fun to explore.  Enjoy the Rough Draft!

ditch  I found this picture in a box my mother packed between a toaster oven and white bed sheets. She gave me back a whirlwind of memories getting lost in the woods that stood on the outskirt of Lawnwood, Florida. Small kid faces the color of cream and peanut butter wrapped themselves around my heart. I suddenly longed for my old friends despite leaving them for newer ones. Harold, Chloe, Mark, and I all shared something inerasable despite wanting to live somewhere else: our childhood.

I would have lived anywhere else back then if given the chance. However, my parents moved to Lawnwood to get away from city life and thus ended up in a town of ten-thousand people. I met Harold and Mark Cliffhanger first when they moved in next door to me on Loving Street. Everyone at school made fun of us for living on “wussy” street, except Chloe Belle.

“I want something pretty like that one day,” Chloe said to us on the bus one day. Mark and Harold sat behind Chloe and me. We all ended up together because of our last names and the bus driver’s fondness for an alphabetical seating chart.

A Ditch <<< The Childhood Memories Happen Here

My childhood friends and I climbed into them, gathering black dirt underneath our fingernails, and pretending to live in the forest like elves. We conducted leaves into king sized piles that we slept on and cooked with. The forest became a home away from all the chaos that filled our houses back in Lawnwood. We built orange pine needle towers that warded us against evil witches that liked to hunt children at night. We helped one another learn to ride broomsticks, sometimes falling ten feet from a pine tree branch. Harold never got the hang of landing on one’s feet ever since his brother Mark pushed him, expectantly, off a three-foot ladder.

“We’ll try again tomorrow,” I always told Harold after picking him up off the ground. Harold, a short kid with plump cheeks, nodded and went to help Chloe cook dinner. Chloe, a brown girl with pink ribbons in her hair, waved a palm frond over a pile of brown leaves.

The forest held many secrets that no one knew about except for us, a band of eight-year-old-kids. During this time, I already knew that something felt different about me aside from my shy nature. Whenever other kids approached my friends they often accepted them whole-heartedly. If someone approached me though they often stayed standing a few feet away, as if I had some kind of disease.