First Story Written

Writers read a lot of books, that's what we are often encouraged to do in order to recognize and find our own voice. I have just finished reading Write from the Heart: Unleashing the Power of Your Creativity. In this valuable book, Hal Zina Bennett provides several exercises to help you reach back to your earlier writing memories.

Here are a few lines I've written about my first memory of being an "author".

Courtesy Pixabay - thanks to Minthu

The first story I remember writing was one giant version of plagiarism! I believe I was probably about 7 or 8 years old. I don’t remember ever reading the REAL Winnie the Pooh but somehow I obviously felt that I could improve it.

I was that brave back then. My main character was a girl of course, just like me. Her name was Jennifer Parker.

There were enough elements of the story that anyone who had read the REAL Winnie the Pooh, would have had sufficient chuckles to know the attempted storylines of this 7 or 8-year-old. There was sweetness and turmoil, friendship that included hugging and something about paint in my story. Perhaps I had also been reading something about Picasso?

That little story, written in cursive (which all slanted to the right as dictated in those days) sits in a scribbler with blue lines somewhere in a box of my childhood memories. A small box, because I was not encouraged to be a memory keeper, a holder of emotions.

And yet the feelings that start in my eyes, then reach my heart make their way quickly to my head and then reverse route out of my fingertips continues to live on.


Writer feelings - from eyes to fingertips. (Tweet This)


What is the first memory you have of writing? (Tweet This)

Someone's Son

He told me his name was Thunder. Only because I asked him what his most unusual name meant in his native language. I asked him if he felt the power of that name and he bashfully smiled and said No. You will, I replied, if you allow it.

A slightly older chap is standing on the corner as I leave my yoga class. His cap is pulled down over his forehead and he clenches his gloved hands in a rhythm only he hears. It is cold. He picks up his sign that says Hungry, and walks down the driver's side windows as most people ignore him. The wind is picking up and I see that his running shoes have clumps of snow on them.

Someone's Son

It is a sunny day, and an elderly man is leaning against the busy walkway of a popular tourist walk along the water. His face is etched with experience and when he smiles, the creases disappear and all I see are his blue eyes. I hand him a granola bar  from my pocket and ask him his name. He is startled. No one has asked me that in a long time he says sadly. Michael.

Each grown of a woman, who perhaps does not know where he is or if he has eaten today. Each carrying the weight of his past choices. Whose son is he? What wishes has he abandoned? What dreams does he still have? Where will he sleep tonight?

We might be cautious to roll down our window but our awareness of him is our prayer. Our open heart can be his gift even if we don’t stop. (Tweet this)

They are someone's son. They have a birthday, a favourite Disney character, a love of macaroni and cheese. They have a story.

Listen to their story as you might go by. (Tweet This)

Some kind of progress – 12

She and Ollie met several times over the next few weeks. She realized that their friendship and the ease they felt with each other had not diminished over the decades. He had walked her home once, to her building with the striped awnings and eyebrows of cream coloured sandstone. A building she had loved instantly, because it had reminded her of the old, brick buildings that were common in their hometown. It even had radiators.

Once she had arrived for their coffee and met one of Ollie’s neighbours, a woman who lived one floor below him. Grace had smelled of vanilla and had the cheery, open face of someone that practised smiling often. She sometimes gazed to her left as though she was pondering carefully, giving her answer serious thought. They talked about art and Ollie, it was as though they were connected somehow.

Early on, she had forgiven him for being the messenger.

She told him about how when her position changed to day-time she had become more aware. It was so much easier to hide her sadness in the comfort of the dark.

He asked her if she recalled their days together in college, of streakers, and pre-happy-hour drinks in the corn field adjacent to their college. Oh, those days of camaraderie had always stayed with her as the highlight between cramming for exams and hitchhiking to save on your finances.

As time went by, she opened up more, her smile no longer seemed a betrayal of all that she had lost and laughing didn’t hurt. Ollie even gave up his toupée. She didn’t mention it outright, she just said that “he looked especially fine” that day, he understood.

Some things don’t need more words. (Click to Tweet)

For the rest of The Little Story, read here.