Chapter 4: Ink

My love for writing began way before Tony and my Mom's relationship, before i cared about sharing my space with others and before the drama.


The first time i discovered books was kindergarten. My kindergarten class had a rack of books to chose from, we would pick one out, sit on a mat, and read for a half hour or so. I would be fidgeting with anticipation for reading time back then, waiting to get to the book rack to pick the best one out before anyone else got to them, of course i was the only one racing to read so i guess i had nothing to worry about. The book i read every time was called " Black bear Black bear what do you see?" I still remember how it goes, that's how many times i read the damn thing.





I just fell in love with words as soon as i could read them. When some people read they are aware of reading, they feel their eyes floating across the page and see words. When i read I'm completely lost in the writers world, i no longer see the words just the images being painted by them. I see the people in my head, the colors of their clothes, the places they live in. Its like a movie playing on a screen in front of me, i loose myself.





I wrote my first poem at 7. We had this competition going on at my school and we got to write anything we wanted, the best poem would be chosen from each class in grades 2 - 8, and the person who wrote it would go on to represent their class in the finals. My poem was called " what i see when i look out my window," i remember sitting in front of the window in my room when i came up with it. I saw the shed in my yard, how old it must be and how old it looked next to the brand new swing set, i wanted to use contrasts to depict what i was looking at. New against old, gray and stormy against sunny and fresh. I tried to use words i had never used before like " ode" and " beady"





My grade 2 teacher was a bit of a free spirit. She loved the beetles, and everyday we had an hour where we could either paint or write while listening to "the best of the beetles" CD. One day as i was working on my poem she walked around and asked what we were doing and why. She read my poem and told me i had some talent with words, but she had to say that, i was 7 and i don't think its kosher to tell a 7 year old she sucks. She encouraged me to enter my poem into the contest, i did, i lost , and i didn't care at all.




We also had an hour of silent reading in the library each afternoon. Looking back all these hour breaks for artistic discovery and reading is probably why my math grades never raised above a C-. In the library we had books organized into piles based on your grade level. You could chose to read at your level, or you could take a test with our teacher to put yourself in a higher reading level. The reason you had to take the test was because she wanted to ensure that you actually understood what you were reading, and didn't get too ahead of yourself if you weren't ready. I took the test and was reading at a grade 5 level by the end of grade 2, again it meant nothing. I just wanted to read and write, i cared less how good i was at either.





My mom bought me my first journal that year too. It was dark green, hardcover with a gold lock and key, the pages were white with gold lines. On the front of the diary was painting from the secret garden. I had read the book that year during reading time and loved it. The idea of adventure and discovery was entrancing, finding a place that was all yours was something i had wanted, there was a sense of mystery to it.

I wrote in that journal everyday. I took it to school with me to write at recess, i would even go to the washroom and bring the diary with me for a few moments so that i could write during math and science lessons, without being reprimanded by my teacher. I wrote about what was going on in my day or in my head, i wrote about fictions stuff, stories and poetry. I wrote new words and their definitions for later use.





When we lived with my grandfather we used to do laundry in the basement. My mom would hang the sheets to dry on rows of wires that ran from one end of the basement to the other, the sheets would hang from about 5 feet high down to the ground. When i was a kid i would run through the rows getting lost in the damp sheets, pretending no one could find me, that maybe somewhere in those rows was Narnia and i would race right into it if i got lost enough. When my mom gave me this diary i would sit in the middle of these rows of sheets and write in what i considered my own version of the secret garden.





But years later writing took on a whole other meaning. It was no longer for the love of it, it was something i needed to get all of the frustration out of me. The emotions that i felt at the time when all these changes were taking place, were sometimes a bit much for me. I didn't know what to do with them because there was nothing i could do with them, i had to feel them out, i had no control over their outcome. So i began to write to unleash that.





I would sit on my bed open up my journal and start to scribble in the corner of the page and wait, then a sentence would run into my head like " who placed you on the pedestal you find yourself on, are you too high up now to get down on your own?" and my fingers would begin to write, all the words just spilling out at once, pages and pages until my fingers were done.





Then i would read the words that my mind thought up, over and over again. I needed to understand what it was that i was saying, to ask myself if it was all true. Then I'd rip the pages out , fold them up, and throw them into a box in my room. I hoped that once i wrote it all out i could forgive, forget and move forward, and i always did. i still have that box, its spilling over now with folded papers filled to the brim with words.

WRITERS QUESTION:
Hey guys, so i have read this post over and over again trying to tie in all the paragraphs together. I feel like maybe the different scenes and experiences arent really comming together as one or something, it feels choppy to me. But i have over analyzed it by this point and i need some help.

So i want to pose the following question to anyone who may read this and have input.
1. do you feel like the paragraphs make this story choppy at all?
2. does it feel like im pulling you in too many directions at once that dont entirely tie together nicely?
3. and what of the tone? is it staying the same throughout?
4. is it too overly descriptive? should the scenes be cut shorter?

let me know kay? i need to better my skills before my dream job can become a reality.