Chapter Nine

Mansfield University was home to a literary magazine called Edge City. It went defunct for several years before being resurrected when I was a senior.

I was very excited. I hadn’t published anything since high school and wanted to feel that rush again. I had been working on some poetry writing courtesy of a website called “The Magnetic Fridge.” It was a site reminiscent of Magnetic Poetry, but you could put your poems online. I loved that site and spent more time that I really should have piecing together and posting poems.

I submitted one of those poems to Edge City and it was chosen for publication. I called it “Coffee Cafe.”

smart chick

alienated by academic loneliness

eyes a bohemian slacker

poring over Nietzche

amid the rich aromas

of cinnamon and amaretto

casually

she eases up to him

and despairs as he

kisses the pretty waitress

Chapter Eight

College brought my writing to a new level. I think part of the reason was because I was a small fish in a big pond, and I wanted to prove that I could swim with the sharks. I think, too, I wanted my professors to like and be impressed with me. I guess I’m something of a teacher’s pet although, as I teacher, I can’t stand teacher’s pets.

When I first went to college, my declared major was psychology. I planned to minor in criminal justice, so I could later go to Quantico and get into the FBI.

I went to the wrong college for that dream.

Luckily, I went to the right college for me. My freshman composition class changed my life. The professor, a charming man who reminded me of a character right out of Dickens, recommended that I work for the Student Writing Center. At that point, I already had a work-study job so I declined. I did, however, keep his class and his acknowledgements of my writing in mind when I switched to a new major: English education.

I wrote a lot of papers in the next four years. Most of them mine. I got a lot of A’s. One A- that still grates on my nerves.

Still, I never thought of writing beyond its place in academia. I enjoyed writing, was good at writing, but I didn’t view writing as a viable career. Sure, it sounded great, but what were the chances of earning a good living off writing?

So, I chose a path that would lead me into teaching.

But I had just a few creative writing opportunities, perhaps just enough to keep me interested…

Chapter Seven

In my high school, as with many schools across the nation, there was local participation in the Prom Promise program. It shows up during the week before the prom, and its purpose is to encourage high school students not to drink and drive during the prom season and the rest of the year as well.

I think I was a junior (maybe a senior) the year that one of the Prom Promise events was an essay contest. I don’t recall any of the specific parameters of the contest; I think it was just a prompt to write something about Prom Promise.

Rather than an essay on the ills of drinking and driving, I decided to do a fictional account of a girl who learned the hard way. I wrote the essay quickly and turned it in, and it was one of those rare times that I was fully confident of my writing.

I won. It was a contest with the winning essay being published in the local newspaper, and I won. I still have the yellowed clipping that prefaces my story by saying that it was fiction. There were still a couple of people (those who don’t read introductions and who skip right to the meat of the story) who asked if it had really happened. I suppose that says something.

Again, I look back and find the flaws. The title is lame. There are contradictions and clichés. It was preachy in spots. Still, I see a couple of spots that show promise. A cleverly turned phrase or two that make me nod my head with a hesitant appreciation of potential talent.

Then, I remember that I’m reading my own writing and feel embarrassed to have thought highly of myself at all. I’m not programmed to be much more than humble and modest.

Rather than post the essay in its entirety, here are two paragraphs. The first one bothers me for its immaturity, its lack of realism and reliance on all that is trite and mundane. The second one I like better for the stark imagery, though I still wish I could go back and improve it…

The pouring rain made the entire cemetery look dark and almost sad. (Almost sad? What does it take to make it wholly sad?) Water streamed off the tombstones and gathered in small puddles around the discarded flowers of grieving relatives and friends. The minister’s voice seemed to drone on and on, only being drowned (funny since it’s raining) out by the distant thunder and someone’s sobs. I was later told that I had been the one sobbing uncontrollably. I didn’t even notice; I was too numb. (I say I didn’t notice but I must have. And really? How numb can one be if one is sobbing uncontrollably?)…

…Carl had been driving too fast, and he didn’t notice the sign warning us that the bridge was out. The car flew into the river and started to sink. I must have been able to swim out because the paramedics found me wandering the river bank, screaming for Carl. They found Carl in the car, still wearing his seatbelt…

Promising. Not genius. Not great. But maybe a little bit promising? Perhaps I’m too close to the matter to be an objective judge.

Chapter Six

How many stories have I lost?

This question popped, unbidden and unpopular, into my head last night as I pondered where to go next in my lexical journey. From “A Christmas Story” I intended to transition to what is now going to be Chapter Seven (“The Broken Prom Promise”…I know; you can hardly wait.).

But then, I paused to think. A dangerous and often counterproductive task. Follow me on this one:

Hmm…I wonder if I did any writing between eighth grade and my junior year. I must have, right? Let’s see…Oh, yeah! I did that independent study project on horror stories! I must have done five or six writings for that! And I don’t have any of them any more…Well. Crap.

Yeah, it was something like that. I went on a horror kick one year…(Okay, truth. I love horror and suspense and have been hooked on both since my Scooby Doo days)…

Anyway, as part of this independent study project I did one year, I decided to write some horror stories. Except I got lazy and procrastinated, so it really became snippets of horror stories. Then, to fill out my fluff, I compiled excerpts from some of my favorite horror stories and novels. Pretty lame. I’m surprised they even gave me a passing grade. I amped it up in the following years by doing computer animation and oil painting. But I digress to toot my own horn…

So, I don’t remember most of what went into that type-written sheaf of papers. I do remember, however, that I did some of my writing while obsessed with Bram Stoker’s Dracula and after reading Stephen King’s first Gunslinger book. The reason that I remember is that I married the two in a story of a gun-slinging vampire.

And you know, now that I write that, I wonder if maybe it’s best that some writings are lost and gone forever from this world…

Chapter Five

In eighth grade, I was published for the first time.

Never mind that everyone in my class was also published or that it was in the Christmas edition of our local newspaper. All that mattered to me was that I was published. And that my Grandma had bragging rights that she fully exercised.

So, here is that tale, cleverly entitled “A Christmas Story.” I guess it’s okay for a fourteen-year-old kid…

The old man sat at the table, wrapped in a blanket, eating his supper. As usual, it consisted of some venison, a potato or two, and a glass of milk. Though the house was warm and there was food on the table, the man, whose name was Henry, was not happy. It was Christmas Eve.

For most people, Christmas Eve is as happy a time as Christmas Day. For Henry, it was dismal. His wife, Martha, had passed away some years before, therefore, she wasn’t around to help decorate the tree, which stood nearly bare in the corner. Not only that, but he missed her company terribly.

His children had grown up and moved away, too far to visit. They usually sent a letter and pictures, sometimes a present, but that was it. Because of this, Henry became a gruff, sometimes mean, man…though he never meant to.

Christmas  morning soon rolled around and Henry got up early, from habit, and started a fire in the fireplace to warm up the chilly house. He then took some oatmeal from the cupboard for his breakfast.

Setting it on the stove, he left it to cook and went to the door. As with any morning (Christmas was no exception), he went out to bring in firewood…despite the fact that there was a box full of logs already inside.

Stepping outside, he stubbed his toe on a box sitting on the doorstep. As he bent over slowly, he tried to figure out who it was from. It couldn’t have been from the mailman; he would’ve left it by the mail box. So, shrugging his shoulders, he took it inside. He then set it on the table and finished getting his breakfast.

When his oatmeal was done, he turned back and proceeded to open the box. Inside, to his disbelief, he found a turkey and everything else you can imagine having for a Christmas dinner. Staring at the contents of the box, he was startled out of his daze by a knock at the door. He closed the box and hobbled over to see who was there.

Upon opening the door, he found his two sons standing there, with packages in their hands. A single tear of joy rolled down his wrinkled cheek as he let his sons in.

It’s not great. I suppose it’s barely good. I had decent grammar. The storyline was okay, if a bit overly sentimental. There are some glaring inconsistencies that make me cringe as I read it now.

Still…it was my first published piece. And that kind of makes me pretty happy.

Chapter Four

Adverbs. I used to love adverbs. I have to admit that I would still love adverbs (especially those ending in -ly) were it not for Stephen King’s book On Writing. He pointed out the folly and excess of using adverbs, and I have since tried to drop them from my writing whenever possible. Hey, I’ll admit it. I’m something of a follower, but since in this case, I’m following a master…I think it’s forgivable.

Adverbs have not always been passe to me. In seventh grade, they gave me a valuable lesson in grammar. They also gave me a valuable lesson in how to capture an audience.

Mrs. Sliwinski was my seventh grade English teacher. Seventh grade English could have been a destructive class. All spelling and grammar and very little literature. (Insert snore here.) Somehow, she managed to make it fun. Or maybe I’m just that big a nerd. Either/Or…

Anyway, she did try to make grammar interesting and hands-on. My favorite lesson was, obviously, one on adverbs. We had learned what they were and how to use them, so it was time to put her instruction to use. We were given the assignment to write a story about an animal and we had to use adverbs.

Well, the people around me were writing about their fluffy kittens and their playful pups. Saccharine, sweet, and pedantic. I wanted to do something different. I thought about writing a story about cows since I lived on a farm, but when you live in dairy country, everyone has a farm or access to one.

So, I stole an idea. I decided to write a story about a shark. A shark attack, to be precise. (Yeah, yeah…I can hear the score to Jaws playing in my head, too.) I started the story with the heroine, Kristy, swimming (slowly, lazily, languorously? I don’t remember…). As she swam, a shark attacked her. If I think about it, I probably pretty much stole the opening shark attack from the movie. Because I couldn’t bear to have an unhappy ending, though, I saved Kristy. At the last possible moment, a boat arrived, someone grabbed her flailing arm, and she was pulled aboard the ship.

The story was probably mediocre by my current standards. Pretty decent by seventh grade standards, perhaps.

What I remember about that story is the audience response. Mrs. Sliwinkski read the story aloud, and as she read about Kristy’s miraculous rescue, there was a collective burst of air from the lungs of my peers.

Everyone had been holding their breaths, afraid to breathe lest they miss a single word (probably an adverb).

I still smile when I think of that moment. Of how I made people hold their breathes with my words. Of how they wanted to know what happened next, how it would all turn out.

That’s a pretty cool feeling. And I’d like to feel it again and again.

Chapter Three

In sixth grade, we had a student teacher. I don’t remember her name, but we all fell in love with her. She was sweet and smart, but mostly, she was pretty. The boys loved her for obvious reasons. The girls loved her because we all wanted to be her.

Things were simpler then.

One of the assignments that she gave us was a writing assignment. I don’t remember the details of the assignment, but I remember that I wrote about pirates. Using the 5×8 tablet that the school provided us, I wrote page after page of pirate adventure. I wrote with great excitement and enthusiasm, but I suspect that was because I wanted to impress the student teacher. Like everyone else, I was clamoring for her favor and attention. The student who was complimented by her was a celebrity for the rest of the day.

She read my story. Out loud. I was in heaven.

My classmates hung on her every word. I wish I could believe it was because my words were so enthralling.

I suspect, however, that had she been reading the back of a box for hemorrhoid cream she would have gotten the same interest and attentiveness.

I’m a writer. But I’m also a realist.

Chapter Two

It’s interesting, as I sit here and think about my writing history, to realize how big a role that writing (and reading, for the two are interconnected) has played in my life. There are times, especially now, that I wish I had been more cognizant of this as I planned my life. Then again, I might be a different person living a different life, and I would never wish for that.

Several months ago, I read Stephen King’s book On Writing. It was a life-changing experience. Though I would never compare my writing abilities to his, I do think that our approach to writing is very similar. As I read his words and his description of The Process, I found myself tearing up. That probably sounds terribly odd and silly, but it was just such a relief to know that what I do, how I write, is similar to someone who is a master storyteller. It gave me hope that I can be a writer, even if only to get the stories out of my head.

In his book, King talks about the tools that a writer needs, and I have taken that section to heart. I even teach elements from it to students in my creative writing class. And as I think about those tools, I think about a writing assignment from third grade that demonstrates King’s discussion of those tools.

Details. Details are an important element to writing, and there is a fine line between too few and too many. I think I learned that lesson in third grade. One of the teachers kept a little box of index cards. Each card detailed a writing prompt, an idea for a story. Once in a while, we would get to pull one of those cards and write a story on it. I remember being anxious and a little annoyed at this exercise. Not because I didn’t like to write stories but because we didn’t get to read through the cards before picking one; our stories’ fates were based on pure chance. We pulled a card at random and that’s the story we had to write. It was agonizing!

I remember one particular day. We had completed this exercise, and we were gathered along the windows, sitting on the floor and getting nervous about reading our stories to our fellow classmates. I was excited to read mine, but if you were to ask me now, I couldn’t tell you what I had written about.

I sat there, reading over my words, probably feeling the way that Ralphie did in A Christmas Story when he had to write his theme for English class (“Wow! That’s great!”). I’ll admit it; I was a little egotistical when it came to my writing skills. Anyway, it was hard for me to focus on my classmates’ stories because I just wanted to get up there and read my own.

I don’t remember reading mine. I’m sure I did; we all had to read. I don’t remember if anyone listened. I don’t remember if anyone thought it was any good. I guess that wasn’t the lesson I needed to learn from that day.

What I do remember, however, is the story a classmate read. It wasn’t a story. It was a list. A very long and tedious list of different colored objects that the main character saw while taking a walk. The list went on and on. “I saw a blue this and a red that and then a green that…” It was torture. The teacher must have felt it, too. When my classmate was done, she scolded him. I don’t remember her exact words, of course. But I do remember her scolding him for not telling a story.

A story is based on the details that a writer shares. These details tell the reader everything that she needs to know about the characters, the setting, and the movement of the plot. Too few details leave the reader feeling a certain disconnect, a lack of caring about where the story goes. Too few details leads to a book being set aside after a chapter or two, never to be picked up again.

Too many details can be just as detrimental. They bore the reader, leave her wishing the author would just get on with the story already! Too many details can be the death of a story.

It’s such a fine line. And really, one really can’t expect a third-grader to recognize that line.

Still. I recognized it. And I wonder, if I’d had the adult lucidity to recognize that moment for what it was, how my writing life would have been different and if it would have started sooner…

Chapter One

First grade was a powerful year for me. Powerful in that I learned the value of the written word. I wish I had paid more attention to that year as I was planning out my future. Sometimes, I think that if I had, some things in my life would be a little different and would be making me a little bit happier. But I digress…

My teacher that year was Mrs. Cooper. She was an angel. Sweet, enthusiastic, kind. I loved being in her class and loved going to school. I can’t say that about every year of my education and about every teacher who played a part in it.

There are two events that made that year pivotal for me. The first event took place because of my favorite time of the school day: reading circle. We’d all gather around the area in front of Mrs. Cooper’s desk. Usually, she would have a book or stories from a children’s magazine to read to us. As we all became more proficient readers, we were allowed to read to our peers. I loved reading by then and thought that being allowed to read aloud was a great honor. I was ahead of many of my peers when it came to reading, too. I don’t say that to brag. I just loved it more than many of them, and that made me more voracious both in terms of the quantity of reading that I did and, through that constant practice, the quality of that reading.

On the day that sticks in my memory, one of my friends had been chosen to read to the class. I don’t remember what she was reading, but I do remember that she was my kind of reader. We didn’t pick stories that contained three-letter words that ended in -at; we read stories much like Mrs. Cooper would pick for us. I liked this girl for her reading prowess, but a tiny part of me also viewed her as competition. I think, looking back, that I just wanted Mrs. Cooper’s favor, to be her favorite.

Anyway, my friend was reading the story she had brought in. As she did so, she stumbled over a longer word; I wish I could remember which one. She struggled to pronounce it, as young readers do, and then she turned to ask Mrs. Cooper for help. I didn’t realize it then, but I was about to be tested. Mrs. Cooper turned to me and said, “Nichole? Could you help her figure this word out?”

I think I might have strutted much in the manner of a peacock as I walked up to Mrs. Cooper’s desk. I looked at the page, considered the word for a moment, and stated what I felt was it’s proper pronunciation. I smiled proudly (and probably a little annoyingly) and returned to my seat. Frankly, I couldn’t tell you if I got that word right. But it felt right. And I liked the feeling that I got from that moment, that I was smart and that knowing words was a good thing.

The other event I remember is a writing exercise we did. Unlike most where we were just writing different letters and words over and over and over again, for this assignment we were allowed to write a story. Mrs. Cooper had  coloring pages for us, and once they were colored, we were to write a story about the picture. I chose carefully. I didn’t want to write about a pig on a bike or a little girl with a lollipop. I wanted to write literature…well, as much as my first-grade mind could comprehend that idea.

The picture I chose was of a boy, girl, and their dog. I believe they were playing in a small pond. But in my little writer’s mind, it was not a pond. It was quicksand. They were trapped in it and trapped in a desperate struggle to free themselves.

Not bad for a first-grader, huh?

Well, it probably was. Bad, that is. But I do remember two things. I remember Mrs. Cooper’s surprised look when I asked her how to spell quicksand. And I remember the rush I got from that writing exercise. As much as I loved reading stories to my peers, this idea that I could write stories for them to enjoy? It was empowering. It was thrilling.

It was the first time that I felt like a Writer, an elusive title that, even now, I use rarely for fear that I don’t measure up to it.

Prologue

There’s something about a new keyboard on a new laptop. Each letter makes a distinct click as your fingers brush across it. None of them stick, having not yet fallen victim to that spilled cup of morning coffee. They still have that slippery feeling against your fingertips. If I leaned closely enough, they may even have that new keyboard smell.

New laptop. New start.

After self-publishing two books, I have the fever. Words are my drug of choice, and I’m hooked. I don’t hold delusions of being the next best-seller. I would settle for selling to someone beyond friends and family. But I do hold strong to the idea that I am a writer and that I need to write. I must write.

My sister gave me a blank notebook for Christmas. Its purpose? To fill it with all the ideas I have for books I want to write. It’s the best material gift I’ve ever received. And while I fill that with the ideas, I intend to fill this blog, chapter by chapter, with the journey I’m about to undertake. My next book. My process. My joys. My shortcomings. All of the madness that comes after one declares, “I am a writer.”

I am a writer. Let the story begin.