a/n: ^^ Yes. . .I was bored, so I decided to recount my very first piece of writing that I actually wrote. In fact. . .*searches* I think I actually have it. Anyway.
I remember the moment as clearly as if it was yesterday, instead of 9 years ago when I was five, and just starting Pre-school.
The moment? When I wrote my first, original piece of 'writing' on my own.
Even now, I can hear the whirlwind of voices---high-pitched and loud in the manner of barely children. Giggles from the girls about barbies and dolls; the boys swaggering and bragging as they tried to imitate their older idols.
The teacher scarcely holding in her laughter at some of the antics of her pupils, but trying to put on a strict face as the noise level increased to almost unbearably high decibels.
The smell of poster paint; children's books lining the bookshelves along the room; a large carpet in the center of the room where we would sit while the teacher read to us.
Yes. . .this was my preschool classroom.
We had journals; big sketchbooks where we would draw pictures and dictate to the teacher what we wanted to write---upon which she would write it out and we would copy it down.
Sometimes the entries were of what we had done during the weekend, sometimes they were little sections of well-known fairy tales that our busy minds had actually retained; and sometimes they were fictional ditties we had made up.
And so many, many colors of crayons it seemed. Colors that we would use to decorate our pictures, making them brightly vibrant (and sometimes, I suspect, painful).
It was one of those normal days of rambunctious five-year-olds, when the classroom was alive and busy and full of the chatterings of its occupants.
I had completed my drawing and was frowning, going over previous entries where the teacher's neat handwriting was above, and mine was below; copying the letters and words.
I frowned again, looking over it again.
At the ripe age of five I was already reading books I deemed difficult---the classic 'Little House in the Big Woods' series, the more complicated fairy tales, 'Wind in the Willows'. . .and was devouring books and literature like one would devour a feast after years of famine.
So. . .why, may you ask, had I not already started writing?
Well, you see, therein lay the problem.
My mind had not quite yet established the connection between the 'writing' world and the 'reading' world. They were distinctly separate from each other, and I thoroughly detested writing as only a five-year-old can detest something.
And then, as I puzzled over my handwriting and remembering the incidents in which I wrote. . .It clicked.
I knew how to write. I knew how to spell---just like I knew how to read. I didn't need to tell the teacher what I wanted to write so that she could write it and I could copy it down. I could do it myself!
In fact, as I got even more excited over the fact, I realized that writing was almost like reading. . .you were just writing the book for yourself.
And that's what it was, really. A click and a sudden flash of enlightenment. I beamed at no one in particular, and put my pencil to the paper, holding it with my grubby hands and giggling silently to myself.
I suppose the teacher must have thought something was wrong, for she came over before I began writing and asked if I was ready to tell her what I wanted to write.
I looked solemnly at her, and said seriously, eyes wide; "No. I want to do it myself. I can, you know."
She looked dubiously at me for a moment, before she smiled and said encouragingly, "Go on." And walked to the next person with their hand up, waiting to tell her what they wanted to write.
A feeling of uncertainty descended on me for a moment, before I shrugged it off and wrote:
"Wen I was emajing I emajnd I wos in som cind of plase and ther wos a ranbo. It whos nite time and the ferees wr cmimg to mace evre thing trn in to gold and shinee and silver. The end."
All right, so at age five I wasn't exactly perfect.
"When I was imagining, I imagined I was in some kind of place and there was a rainbow. It was nighttime and the faeries were coming to make every thing turn into gold and shiny and silver."
Yes. My first piece of writing ever.
I remember being absurdly proud of it, going as far to show off to the teacher and say, "I told you so." And my kindergarten teacher, possessing the patience of a saint, hugged me and said, "We'll make a writer out of you yet."
Of course, at the time, I had no idea what she was talking about.
My writing (and grammar and spelling) improved dramatically.
In Grade Two, I was writing poems---and not exactly enjoying it, as I was hard-pressed for rhyming. (When you're seven, you don't realize that not all poems have to rhyme.)
". . .But what happened after that?
He soon grew all rolled flat!
His friend Stegosaurus tried to help,
But soon was in vain, but kelp could help!
Kelp tickled, and tickled,
And tickled so much,
Diddy turned back into his kind, old self."
In case you were wondering, we were studying dinosaurs at the time.
In Grade 3, we were given an assignment---write a story about searching for the Pearl of Life.
It was an. . .interesting assignment, to say the least, and I still think the teachers could have been a little more original---they gave us plot choices. As in, we could do this, or we could do that. I suppose that for third graders, it was best; but I was infinitely bored. So I made mine a tad unconventional. I suppose it was then that my familiar writing style (as demonstrated by my stories on this website) asserted itself.
'We asked the crocodile what his name was, and he said it was Tic-Toc.
"But it's Tick-Tock, not Tic-Toc." Said Jo.
"That's what I said." Said Tic-Toc.
"No, you said Tic-Toc." Said Jo.
"Suit yourself." Said Tic-Toc.
So Jo kept quiet, her temper somewhat ruffled by Tic-Toc's ignorance.'
My third grade teacher wasn't pleasantly surprised by my diversion from the plot that particular chapter was supposed to follow, but I ignored her.
It was in fourth grade that I finally began to enjoy creative writing, instead of thinking of it as simply a school assignment that I had to do before I could play.
My fourth grade teacher was the type who empathized on creativity. The type of teacher who wore awesome clothes and awesome jewelry---every day she had on a different pair of earrings. The one I remember most in a ladybug pair.
But I digress.
She put large, blue hardcover books with lined pages in front of us, telling us to write. As in, to write anything we wanted. (Provided that it had to do with the rainforest, as we were studying it---for about the third time in my life, anyway.)
I looked blankly at the crisp sheets of paper, when I think the first flash of inspiration I ever got came to me.
Shakily putting my pencil to the paper, I began to write; not stopping for anything.
When she at last told us to stop, I sucked in a long breath---having been breathing shallowly for the past hour in which I was writing---and looked back in awe at the six pages I had written.
Time had seemed to go by so quickly; it had been just me, the pencil, the paper, and the rapidly growing lines of words as I became my story.
I blinked and shook my head, returning to reality once more.
It has been like that ever since.
Just shallow breaths, the paper, the ink, the lines of words---and me becoming the story.
a/n: *shakes head and sighs* What was I thinking? What was I thinking??? I have officially lost my sanity to write something as self-gratifying as that. Bleh. I'm kind of embarrassed by this. But I'm posting this up anyway, as it is one of my better essays, and I'm curious to see how I write essays as opposed to stories and poems. ^^
Please review and tell me what you think!