Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Back in high school, I recall having written a story in English class that was to have been one of my initial forays into serious creative writing. Although I had been writing journals, short stories, jokes, notes and love letters to fellow students for many years, none were likely suitable for a grade.

I loved to write, but I had as yet to receive any well educated feedback or support for my efforts.

The submission of this story, then, being one of my few classroom efforts that had not been seized as contraband that would subsequently earn me a little visit to the principals office, was a turning point for me. I still remember my teachers reaction as if it occurred yesterday, her enthusiasm causing me to view my willingness to write as potential doorway to a future I had yet to imagine.

Although I no longer have a copy of the story, written as it was on spiral looseleaf and lost in the archives of my life, I recall the opening sentence quite clearly, my teacher having praised me for my ingenuity.

I wrote:

On a cold rainy evening, while alone in my apartment, I was viciously murdered for reasons beyond my comprehension.

I was 15 years old, inclined towards melodrama and horror (some things never change) and had essentially crafted an idea featuring a murder victims perspective on her death and the subsequent impact on the lives of those around her that was later to be made into a New York Times bestseller.

That had been my lovely idea back in high school! Why oh why hadn't I written a novel based on my short story and become an internationally renowned author?! What had I been thinking?!

Now I'm stuck being a stupid pre-med student on her way to flunk her mammalian physiology exam....



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