Monday, August 6, 2012

I Remember...

In my writing class our teacher suggests different free-writing prompts.  We are supposed to pause our lesson, do the prompt, post it to the discussion board if we want, and resume the lesson.  Considering I'm usually jamming lessons in at work or between household chores and volunteering, I usually stick to the assignments and not the suggested activities.  I know, bad pupil. 

I try to practice my writing on this blog and though I may write in a conversational tone, I reread each post out loud at least once and try to polish it up a bit before hitting the "publish" button.  Practice makes perfect, but practice doesn't have to be perfect... so I am going to publicly attempt a writing prompt on my blog.  I figure people who know me would appreciate some of these things more than my numerous classmates (over 100) who remain faceless and I only know them by discussion board names like ABC or Trapper

* I am not editing this portion of the post.  I will correct my grammar, even though I'm not supposed to... but I'm not going to change my overall thoughts... here goes nothing. *

I remember when I was in fourth grade and I decided that I would let people other than my family call me Becca.

I remember when my brother wrote me a note telling me he was running away because he was mad at me but that he still loved me.  He slid it under my bedroom door.

I remember when we both convinced our youngest brother that he was invisible.  It took us a long time to convince him that he actually wasn't after that.

I remember when I was convinced that aliens were behind acid rain.

I remember the tree house in my backyard.  I remember how sad I was when that tree had to be taken down.

I remember going to my first concert.  It was John Mayer, but I liked the opening band, Guster more.  I am listening to them right now.

I remember my first dance in 6th grade.  I didn't go to another until 8th grade because I was slightly anti-social even back then.

I remember the first time someone used the nickname Bee for me.  I called that friend Mango.  That was a simpler time.

I remember when my science teacher used to toss us candy for getting questions right. 

I remember having a daily quota that I couldn't go over when answering questions in high school history classes. 

I remember hearing my grandfather sing my name from various corners of the house.  I sang his name from the Empire State Building.  I asked him later if he heard me.

I remember my grandfather dancing in front of the television to get my attention. 

I remember zero-depth entry kiddie pools and frilly swimsuits.

I remember when my dad bought me a Winnie-the-Pooh t-shirt in 5th grade for getting an A+ on my Revolutionary War History Test.  I still have that shirt packed away at my parent's house.  I'll never get rid of it.

I remember that I hated the smell of popcorn for six months after starting to work at the movie theatre.


This was harder than I thought- especially since it is supposed to be no more than a five minute exercise.  I didn't write all the "I remembers..." that walked through my head.  I paused to think quite a bit.  Some of these brought tears to my eyes.  I probably should do this more often if I expect to continue creative non-fiction.  It reminds me of my idea of writing an essay about my paternal grandparents and calling it The Adventures of the Cowboy, Geeze Louise, and Lady Jane.  The title is a bit long, but it paints a funny picture. 

For my writing class I decided to work on a fiction fantasy story that I've had in mind.  J has had the pleasure of having the first three chapters read aloud twice now.  I accidentally spoiled the plot twist for him tonight and he was disappointed.  I have other stories in mind and this current one isn't my favorite, but it is the farthest along.  I'm also scared to share what I consider my best idea.  My classmates seem very supportive,  but most are much older than me and I don't think they would understand the point I'm trying to make with that story.

Right now, my biggest hurdle for writing is just making the time to write

Work today was brutal, I am turning in after I finish this post.  My jaw and throat hurt from talking so much.  I told J that I felt like a doll with a string in it's back, "Becca the Secretary! She comes with 20 distinct phrases!"  Unlike other days, I helped the most patient and understanding folks in the world.  Their positive attitude and graciousness make all the difference in a long day.  Instead of feeling weary, I feel like I made a difference- even the tiniest one- in someone's day.

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