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Magic of Words
Music Influence- a band called Hurt. If you don't know them, find them, love them, stalk them to a concert near you. Seriously. You won't regret it.
“Cold on the inside. In phases my lights die. Staring through ardent eyes. I love you, but I lied. Cold on the inside. In faces a smile dies. Staring through ardent eyes. I loathe you, but I lied.”
Cold Inside- Hurt (Vol. 1, 2006)
The first time I knew I wanted to write, it wasn't a story. I didn't have a story to tell. Or at least I didn't think I had a story to tell. I felt all this pressure inside me welling up. My brain was a jumbled mess of nothing and everything. My fingers itched to do something but I wasn't sure what. I didn't know it was the urge to create. To write.
I was a child who spent my energy running outside from dawn to dusk. If I was inside, I poured over books. I lived in my imaginary world. I lived inside others imagination, showing me things in the world I didn't know existed, or possible.
I ran through fields of overgrown grass and weeds, Black-Eyed Susans, dandelions and clover sweetened the breeze even on the hottest days. I lived in my makeshift world where I had a stable of unicorns and a winged unicorn was my personal best friend. The clouds always held shape and was easy for my eyes to make out the obvious faces staring down at me. The first summer after my eyes no longer had innocence and couldn't find the simple wonders in the world, my fingers learned a new world. My words painted what my eyes no longer saw. Short strokes on a blank notebook page. The only sound was the pencil scratching furiously. The sentences held no format. Punctuation was nowhere to be found, but I found something I had been missing. All that had pent up inside me in those years of pretending and wandering manifested into... something. I wasn't sure what it was. What I'd carved out of my heart sat roughly on this page. My handwriting wasn't neat. Nor my sentences witty and clever. But for a brief second I felt that little piece of happiness I'd been missing and hadn't known it was truly gone.
I saw a way on that page to truly live again.
But this had to remain my secret. No one could know of this. Read this. Discover this. This- manifestation of what was in me. No one could know but me. I just wanted my life back. The life of running carefree through the fields and staring up at the clouds. Of wishing on stars and believing the magic in the stories I read. If I could only exercise out what stopped me from believing, I could have it all back.
So I wrote. And I kept writing. I had pages filled with thoughts and fears burned into my mind. The loss and the pain and uncertainty poured out until I knew there was nothing left. My tears smeared the pen and wrinkled the paper and yet I woke up the next day filled with the same feelings. I'd never have it back- the innocence I lost. I'd never be the little girl running through the field and chasing butterflies, believing they were faeries guiding me into the faerie kingdom. I'd never be the little girl wishing on stars and believing the one that fell was the unicorn I'd dreamed for. The writing showed me I wasn't a little girl. I was never going to be that girl again. If I wanted to dream, I had to find a way to bring it to life.
And that is how I learned to write.
Do you remember the first thing you ever wrote that meant something to you? What does writing (or reading) mean to you?
Just a side note: The song above I reference was written by the lead singer of Hurt, J. Loren Wince, when he was just 13 years old. Reading lyrics, to me, is a lot like reading poetry. My first words were manifested into free form poetry. I think this is why I've always loved music and lyrics.
Books by the Crew
38 comments:
My childhood was spent in idyllic surroundings of the English Cotswolds. I spent many hours on gentle hillsides basking in sunshine and gazing over the Severn vale, dreaming of things to come. Playing for England, Becoming a great scientist, Travelling to the stars.
Books brought some of the dreams to life, and I did write an occassional essay on related themes. But alas, my talents were more mathematical than literary so the reading dominated when I wasn't playing with other kids or cycling or involved with sports or dare I say, taking an interest in the other sex.
I loved your reminiscences Sin.
You have a beautiful voice when in these dreamy moods. *smile*
I was at a loss at what to write. I've been on such a writing binge lately that when it came down to writing a blog, I found I hadn't the words to make something interesting.
Looks like you found plenty of words to me. Very nice words. :)
We were always outside but I don't remember chasing unicorns and fairies. I did spend a lot of time staring at the moon and catching fireflies. Now I'm realizing my daughter is almost never outside. A loss due to growing up in the city, I guess. That's kind of sad.
I wrote a lot in school. I think it was 6th grade when I really remember being proud of the little stories I was writing. I was fortunate to have great English teachers. Didn't start writing on my own until I was 17 and that was a journal full of teenage angst about not going to the prom.
I need to find that notebook and burn it.
I feel like that about a lot of things- must find it and burn it.
Fireflies were pixies dancing through the dark skies at night. I love the fireflies. Or lightenin' bugs as we called them when I was little.
Yep, we called the lightning bugs. I remember the first time someone called them fireflies. I was like, "What are those?" LOL!
Did I just revert to "teen speak"? Holy hell, I need a nap.
I love the post, Sin. I too believed in magical creatures. For me, it was the flower fairies who lived in my grandmother's garden. The rose fairies with their sparkling wings in various shades of pink, coral, and red were my favorites. I made up stories about them and about the secret lives of our dolls and told them to my little sister and younger cousins. I started writing at six, and I've been writing something--poems, stories, essays, research projects, novels--ever since.
We used "lightning bugs" and "fireflies" so interchangeably, I don't remember not knowing they meant the same thing. Hmmm.
I vaguely remember writing a story in 2nd grade about a girl who road her horse across a creek--and jumped the creek. That's the extent I remember of the story because I specifically asked Dad how to spell horse, but not the word "jumped" which led to a hooked-on-phonics EPIC FAIL.
BUT...to describe you're saying, I think 5th grade with Ms. Proctor's class, where we wrote in journals. I loved writing in our journals about our topic and just letting the words flow. I don't remember having trouble finding the words either; no judgment, it would always be brilliant and I knew it was an area in which I shone. I couldn't dribble a basketball or be remotely athletic, sucked at math--but writing was MY talent. And we read these wonderful stories in class that were unexpected and I wanted to write something that stayed with someone long after the book finished. It was 5th grade when I realized authors actually made a living writing. I was going to do that. Which dismayed Dad, because I think up until then I wanted to be a teacher--so I went from having a paying job choice to one that was NOT a paying job choice. *LOL*
I really like Terri's epic teen speak sentence. And what was bad I didn't even notice until you said something. My brain automatically computed it.
For me, it was the flower fairies who lived in my grandmother's garden. The rose fairies with their sparkling wings in various shades of pink, coral, and red..
Janga, that was so beautiful. And so visual. I could see them dancing in the wind, the sunlight sparkling off their shimmering wings.
I thought of you a lot yesterday when I wrote this. I'm glad you're okay.
Hells, I just had this feeling your story was about a horse. I wonder why lots of little girls love horses? We always want a pony. Is it because we read all these great stories as kids that focus around girls having horses? I know I read quite a few as a child. But I grew up with horses and ponies. I was dismayed I couldn't have a unicorn.
Ms. Proctor's class. Unfortunately she was my least favorite teacher. Though we did read a lot in her class. For all my bitching about Ms. Yount when I was in school that woman taught me a lot about literature and writing. Before that, I had no interest in writing. I only did it because it was necessary in school.
I do remember that in first grade the teacher asked us to write a story about going to the dentist and I'd never been to one. And I had no idea what to write so I wrote a story about a girl who pulled all her teeth out to give to the tooth fairy. The teacher was disturbed.
*ROTFL* Gee, I can't imagine WHY she was disturbed. You with your little girl scout face and sweet smile--talking about pulling out all your teeth for the tooth fairy!
"IT'S. SO. FLUFFY!"
I was so disturbed by the thought of someone torturing my teeth after that (seriously after reading the stories kids were writing about trips to the dentist- which I'd never heard of nor seen as a child-) I pulled most of my teeth out.
And I might have looked like a freak of nature after that but I was pretty sure that would keep me from seeing the evil doctor known as a dentist.
"IT'S. SO. FLUFFY!"
I yell that every time I give Macie a bath. Because she comes out looking like a tiny, fluffy cotton ball. LOL! Drives Kiddo crazy.
Sin - I had never been to a dentist until the age of 21. I would have been in the same boat, but never would have thought about the tooth fairy angle. Good job. (Disturbing, yes, but still inventive.)
I believe I'd read a story about the tooth fairy. (I read every book in the school library the teacher would allow me to have when I was the first grade.) And I was obsessed with faeries as a kid, nearly as much as my unicorn obsession. I didn't get money from the tooth fairy but in my mind if there was a way to get a faerie visit, I'd prefer that over a doctor visit.
And seriously, little Agnes is the cutest little kid in animation.
I didn't start reading until maybe the 2nd half of 2nd grade. Y'all make me feel like a slacker.
Yes. Yes she is.
I remember we went to the library in 1st grade, but I don't remember if I was reading yet. I remember checking out horse books though. *LOL* There was this one book I adored, a kid's book encyclopedia of horses. Big beautiful pictures of horses.
Girls and horses. I think we're all almost horsemad. :)
I wanted a horse SO bad. My mother let me believe "someday" I could get one. I remember the day I learned "someday" would never come. I was 9 and it crushed me. My mother found me crying at the back of a closet.
I've been reading for as long as I can remember. I didn't speak but I loved books. And I was a decent kid as long as I had a book. Otherwise I was a demon. Better to give me a book and back away.
I loved the big library. I can remember the way the old library looked. How the children's books were on the lower level right after the staircase that took you upstairs to the references. There were rows and rows of books. And I'd grab as many as I could carry and just sit in the aisle reading. The old library smelled musty and was kinda dark from bad lighting. But I still loved it. Saturdays were my favorite days as a kid.
Had you told me as a kid there were kids who didn't have horses, I probably wouldn't have believed you.
Ter, the closet was my favorite place to hide and cry as a kid. I'm still rather fond of the closet when I feel the need to clamp down on any sort of overflowing emotional outbursts.
Hells, did you ever read Ruffian? I wore the library copy out as a child.
Do you mean the Boone County Library, Sin? *trying to remember old library*
*LOL* I did have friends who didn't have horses either...so I would have believed it. *LOL* Still...we had LOTS of acreage. Why couldn't we have a horse? MARSHA had a horse.
I liked closets too. And making tents in the livingroom.
Yeah DBRL. But I could tell you what the old library at the elementary/middle/high school looked like too in pretty good detail if you want me too. lol
Well, that's what had me confused. I was like, "There wasn't a second floor to the library at school! Did things change that much between when I was in high school and Sin was in grade school?"
I'm drawing a blank to the old library details. I have the worst sense of setting imaginable. *LOL*
What a lovely, lovely post. I can so relate, except, I never wrote anything creative until I was in my late twenties. Didn't finish the novel until I hit forty. I couldn't bear the thought of anyone reading what was essentially my secret self. (Still kind of neurotic about it.)
I grew up in a lower middle class to poor Hispanic neighborhood. I was the only kid with a horse. My mom, despite being a single mom, decided that I was going to grow up horsey. So, every weekend, we drove to the outskirts of town to a riding stable where I got riding lessons. Funny thing, people always assumed we had money because we had horses; people still do. It's funny because keeping a horse is actually way cheaper than raising a kid. (Especially if you don't show or do any expensive stuff.)
Anyway, loved this post. :)
I remember daydreaming a lot, but the first writing that convinced me I was terribly blood thirsty was around 8th grade. An attempt at a Conan type epic...
But for me it was daydreaming about being on a quest with Frodo. There was a field up the road from where we lived until I was in third grade that had a little creek and willows that draped over them...perfect Shire. Then in Monterey it was fog and giant cypress trees...
I did like my Conan story, but the nun who read was a bit disturbed.
By the story, she wasn't normally a disturbed nun.
I think that's what my Dad finally figured, P. That having a horse was cheaper than having a pregnant teenage boy-crazed daughter. So feed the other crazy instead and she'll probably spend more time with the horse than boys. Probably a pretty close call though for him.
I knew some disturbed nuns...
We never went to the library (outside of school) but when I was really young, my sister and I had giant bookshelves in our room covered in kids books. I don't even know where they all came from, but I'm sure they were damaged in the fire. (House burned when I was 8. We weren't there but lost everything, including the house.)
That house also had something we called the Blue Room. Whoever lived there before us painted every surface blue, including the hard wood floor. Even the ceiling. That room had built in book shelves on every wall.
I just realized I lived in a house with a library (though the shelves were empty) and never realized it. Huh.
I knew some disturbing nuns, too. Luckily, the one who read my raw Conan type story was totally cool.
We used to play pinpong in the convent with her.
A blue room...that sounds nice. My Mom painted a room blue, but later redid the ceiling because the blue up there closed the room down a bit... Look much better with the white now.
Hells, the librarian's desk sat to the immediate left as you walked through the library door. To the right was four very tall shelves, four or five rows high that held the "big kid books" as I called them when I was little. Straight in front of you the wall was lined with shorter shelves, two levels tall, that had children books. Above the children's books was three short windows that allowed you to see the shop building. When you turned towards the left, in the back of the room, was the reference books and index. And there were three tables with chairs. The room was carpeted. The walls were lined with old books and it smelled really musty and dirty. There was a TV in the top far right hand corner. I can't ever remember watching anything in the library, so I always wondered why it was in there.
I couldn't bear the thought of anyone reading what was essentially my secret self.
I'm still like this PK.
That house also had something we called the Blue Room. Whoever lived there before us painted every surface blue, including the hard wood floor. Even the ceiling. That room had built in book shelves on every wall.
This would be an awesome room for imagination.
Chanceroo, I can't ever imagine you without a healthy imagination. I bet your childhood was filled with all kinds of epic stories.
That room could have been really cool except my parents weren't readers. They were however pack rats. (And still are.) That room became a fall out shelter you could barely walk through. I loved that old house. Almost 100 years old when we got it, I think. Three fire places, including one in the master bedroom. Only bad thing was you had to go through the master bedroom to get to mine and my sister's room.
As you can imagine, that led to some not so good moments for a six year old. And I'm sure my parents weren't happy about my intrusion either.
What a beautiful blog, SIN. Had me pondering and reminiscing.
You're always pondering Jules.
So true, SIN.
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