Writing for a Decade.

January 4th's writing prompt in T.A.W.J. brought up something I never bothered to consider. The question for consideration was "What were your first words?" Seeing as I write in this book at 2 am., (when I can actually concentrate) I couldn't ask my parents what my first babblings were. However there was a side note on the page saying that you mind as well ask them for your first story or poem too.

All these ideas really started my process of analyzing myself as a writer. I didn't know when my fate was sealed and I "became" a writer, truly because I think it is instilled in us, but also because there was no defining moment that I was ever able to pinpoint.

That's how memories of my childhood work for me; rather how they don't work. I honestly testify that I don't remember a darn thing on my own account until 4th grade. I really think that I have fabricated the stories told to me post Miss Weninger's class. Kinda sad? Yeah, truly.

But when I was pondering what to write for that day's entry it dawned on me: my first real memory. We were living in Lisbon at the time. Our schoolroom was by the laundry room. I think I was given some sort of writing assignment. I remember walking into the laundry room and my mom was ironing. I was elated about the poem I had just written.

My first real step into the footprints of a writer was about a dress; a black and white checkered dress, to be specific. Horrifying that this is my first memory AND my first piece of writing. As a third grade mind can only do, I felt so strongly about my favorite dress that I was inspired to write poetry about it. It's hysterical to think of the switch my writing has taken. Usually the poetry that comes from my keyboard these days is griping and complaining. I forgot that poetry could be used for praise. I need to take a lesson from my 3rd grade self.

It may be a figment of my imagination but I think I remember that the dress was hanging in the laundry room when I read this to my mom. And also I believe I only saw it write after I read the poem. Kinda cute, I guess.

The gist of this monologue, aside from the fact that in the last 3 years, specifically I have used my writing as a weapon of destruction, is the fact that I've been writing for at least a decade of my life.

I think, with that in mind, it is time to set goals for the next decade.

-Complete my manuscript of "Exploring Eli" and possible publish
-Continue to journal to God on a daily basis.
-Write a play

Quote for thought: "All suffering is bearable if it is seen as part of the story" - Isak Dineson