January 24, 2004
i love biographies. it seems everyone else’s lives are much more exciting than mine. i really like reading about poets and authors or anyone else who claims to be a writer of sorts. it seems that a writer fills book introductions, acknowledgment pages and forwards with stories of how they always knew they wanted to be a writer since the age of six. i have no recollection of any memory before my seventh birthday when i had a huge party and unbeknownst to me and my 25 guests i had the mumps… that childhood illness was my gift to all of those partygoers.
i get so envious every time i read that mom played piano each night after dinner. and dad would sit around with his writer buddies drinking scotch on the rocks, smoking fancy cigarettes and talking writer stuff. these prolific types gush on about how mom and dad would make weekly trips to the library to check out stacks of treasures. to this day, i don’t remember my mother or dad reading anything. okay, maybe once in a while, they would read over my shoulders to see how i was doing with homework; nothing more than that.
i do recall an award-winning short story (it received notoriety in the elementary school circle)! i vaguely recall this adventure story i wrote about the dangerous travails of a couple of baby elephants who ultimately plummet to their untimely death as the earth tears apart with a chasm as a result of an earthquake.
there seems to be an extended period of noncreativity (with the exception of lots of locked diaries where i poured out innermost fears) until my high school years when i began writing poetry. come to find out, every kid must write poetry or lyrics to songs never written. at any rate, my poetry filled dozens of collegiate three-ring notebooks.
i get so envious every time i read that mom played piano each night after dinner. and dad would sit around with his writer buddies drinking scotch on the rocks, smoking fancy cigarettes and talking writer stuff. these prolific types gush on about how mom and dad would make weekly trips to the library to check out stacks of treasures. to this day, i don’t remember my mother or dad reading anything. okay, maybe once in a while, they would read over my shoulders to see how i was doing with homework; nothing more than that.
i do recall an award-winning short story (it received notoriety in the elementary school circle)! i vaguely recall this adventure story i wrote about the dangerous travails of a couple of baby elephants who ultimately plummet to their untimely death as the earth tears apart with a chasm as a result of an earthquake.
there seems to be an extended period of noncreativity (with the exception of lots of locked diaries where i poured out innermost fears) until my high school years when i began writing poetry. come to find out, every kid must write poetry or lyrics to songs never written. at any rate, my poetry filled dozens of collegiate three-ring notebooks.
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