Confessions of an Almost Writer: #3

Do you remember the first story you ever made up? I'm not talking about the first story you ever wrote. I'm talking about the one you remember at the very dark edges of your memories, the frayed inklings of a story that flutters. The one that's so far gone into your history that you have to really try hard to remember what the hell it was, as an adult. Of course, I'm assuming you're a writer, or some sort of a creative. But regardless, I think everybody creates as kids. That's how we learn, mimicking life we see around us. Boys wanting to be like dad mostly, and girls pretending they are mum. Or, making up some silly "once upon a story..." starts to your very own fairy tales, complete with dismembered or half naked dolls, who could do with a bath—a serious bath—and a proper meal (you can tell I'm not into dolls, right? But that's a story for another time).

Today, I'm talking about the first story you can think of, from your memory, that you conjured up... Your first story.

Some people have freakish memories. I've heard that they can recall every moment of their life from birth. It's a rare condition, but yeah, there are people out there who can't forget the bad stuff, the stuff you really, really want to bury or burn from your memory. They're stuck with. Despite what we think, it's apparently more of a curse than a gift, this photographic memory of all things they see, hear, smell, and feel around them. I was watching a 60 Minutes coverage of an Australian girl with this condition, and couldn't help but feel for the person. There have been a few dark, gritty corners where nasty demons hide in my own world. I'm forever glad that my mind has protected me by forgetting them, or at least doing a marvelous job of fragmenting the memories so much, and mixing them up with made-up BS that sometimes, I can't tell which bits were real, and which were not. I don't need to go into the details here, and regale you with the woes; you can piece it together yourself. A young girl—outgoing, independent, curious—in a world where we're told to "respect" all elders, even if they are months older than us.

Anyway, I derail... But that's the charm of this entry. It's my confession. I will take whatever route I need to, to feel comfortable. By the way, you should know that I have never, ever written diary entries. Even the term "diary entries" makes me squirm with a bellyful of uncomfortable butterflies. I tried once, honestly, to pour my soul onto pages, as a teen with a difficult school life. I couldn't. It wasn't me. I couldn't bare my soul in such a direct way. I felt violated. I didn't need that in my life, so I migrated towards "made-up" things, so that I could inject reality into them, and always have an escape route of "that's fiction" ready at my disposal.

So, going back to the main reason for this post. Do you remember the very first story you ever made up? I don't think any one of us can, unless we are part of the minority with super-memory processing and storing power. But, we can always go back to the first one that we "sort of" remember. For me, I see glimpses of myself and a cousin of mine in the dark bedroom of our childhood home, while mum and aunties are busy cooking dinner. Or it might have been lunch. The two of us were throwing on a play to no audience at all, a play written, directed and narrated by me, on the spot. I forced my cousin to play the damsel in distress while, I, her hero rescued her from some impossible situation. I can still see the image in my head, of me holding her in my arms as she lay faint. Ah, cracks me up. That's it. That's all I remember. Not the story, not the weather outside, not whether that's what we'd been doing all day. No, just that image of two little girls playing make-believe. I remember us laughing. Was the story funny? Who knows? Who really knows?

Was the story even any good? Probably not. Was it a coherent story? Most definitely not. How can a six or seven year old make up a completely coherent and contained story?

The one I do remember fairly vividly is the one I wrote in my trial exam for my high school certificate. Who knew one could actually write a wonderful narrative, and not give up the fact that the family member reciting the story was actually the family pet until the very end? It was the section I most looked forward to in an English exam. Can you believe that? I actually looked forward to it. What teenager does that? Apparently, me!

But, the thrill of not knowing what they'd ask us to do was, well, thrilling. I guess that was my first exposure to prompts, and using them to write creative pieces: an activity I still do occasionally to unclog, as a writer.

Apparently this story, the story I wrote in an exam, was so interesting it impressed the teacher who was marking it. Eventually, it made its way around all the English teachers' desks, and they unanimously decided that the story was going to be read in every Year 12 English class as an example of what can be done, even during exams—some sort of a moral booster for the terrified teens, who were about to face the exams of their lifetime in less than a month. Exams that would decide their future... Teenagers are seriously far too serious. Have you ever noticed that? Anyway...

There I was, sinking into my seat, my hand covering my face casually, as the "silly story" I wrote in my exams was being read out in my own class. It was mortifying. The only thought freighting its way across my mind at that point was, Please, don't say my name. Don't say my name.

Of course, for the sake of anonymity and privacy, the teachers never told anyone which student the story belonged to. But by the end of the period, at least all the girls in my class knew. Not because I had triumphantly stood in front of the class and claimed the story, but because of how red my cheeks were, and the fact that I was trying to hide.

My blush gave me away. Damn. I hated my cheeks when I was a kid. I'd become a tad bit nervous, and they'd glow like ripe tomatoes. Speeches were the bane of my school life. An absolutely, utterly despised activity. As an adult, I'm no better, but I am told I no longer shine red like a traffic light. Maybe I get a little bit rosy. It's the hives you gotta watch out for, now!

It was that moment, though. That moment when I realized that, heck, I might actually have something. Maybe it was time to get back onto the writing wagon, and finish unfinished novel number ONE, which I'd pretty much set aside by that point, three quarters of the way done. Maybe I could do this "writer" thing...