The journey so far...

For some people, it takes years, perhaps even their whole life before they figure out what they want to do. I mean what they really want to do. Not me. I've always wanted to write. I can remember being in first grade, Mrs. Kennedy's class in Rosepine, Louisiana, and being given a writing assignment. There was a picture at the top of the page of a cartoon dinosaur standing beside a skyscraper. We were supposed to write a paragraph/story about the picture. Well, I filled up the entire first page and then flipped it over to fill up the back. The class joked that I was writing a movie, not a story. I can remember a feeling of such freedom as my hand streaked across the page. I didn't realize it then, but that was the beginning of my passion, no, my obsession with writing.

 

By middle school I was writing short stories. I kept a spiral notebook with me at all times. I didn't put much thought into what I was doing, never considered there might be a future in writing. I just knew I liked doing it. I never even showed anyone my stories except for my dad. I think he might have shown them to a couple of friends, but I don't remember for sure.

 

By high school I carried at least two notebooks with me. One of them was my stories. The other was something akin to a journal. It was ramblings, really. Just odd thoughts that would slither through my mind, made up events, things that were bothering me. I now know that such an odd compilation of thoughts is called a writer's journal, and it is a common companion to most writers.

 

At the age of sixteen, I was sitting in biology class and having a hell of a time understanding the lesson. I always had trouble in biology, and the teacher, Ms. Malone, was no help. She didn't like men. I raised my hand to ask a question and her response was for me to read my biology book because she wasn't going to answer any questions. Frustrated, I pulled out my journal and began writing. I bitched for a while about never getting any help from her when I needed it, then proceeded to write "I want to cut off Ms. Malone's head and stick it up her ass." At that precise moment, she decided to walk by me and saw what I had written. She took my journal and gave it to the principal. She read the entire notebook, every page of my private journal. Well, to make a long story short, I was kicked out of school for making "terroristic threats." Their word, not mine.

 

My mother, father, and step-father all spoke to the principal and superintendent, but to no avail. So, my mother decided to home-school me. Great idea, except it never happened. Instead, I was told I would have to get a job and help pay the bills. No home-schooling, no encouragement for me to get my G.E.D. Just "get a job." So I did. I got a job, and I quit writing for a long time. But the obsession was still there, and it was growing even though I wasn't feeding it.

 

When I did start writing again it was in the form of bad poetry. Very dark, very bad poetry. But that was all right, because I was writing. And in my own way, finally dealing with what had happened to me back in high school.

 

Eventually, the bad poetry led me back to fiction. I read books on writing, I've taken a correspondence workshop through the mail, and I've written a dozen or so short stories and am working on the final draft of my novel. It sounds like a perfect ending, doesn't it?

 

Unfortunately, the journey isn't over. I never got my G.E.D., I'm still working for peanuts, and not one of those stories has been accepted for publication yet. But-- I haven't given up. I'm still trying. I'm still writing, and I'm still sending my work to the editors. I may never get published. I truly believe I will, but I may not. But it doesn't matter. All that matters is the writing, to feed that insatiable beast within me.