QMNMD

I'm in the process of organizing my short fiction. The problem is, it's everywhere--all over the place physically. For as much as I've poured over it in the past years, I thought that I'd be able to grab my blue binder and my blue folder, and I could get to work. Now, I am in the unenviable position of trying to locate it all, hoping that I didn't lose any of it.

Granted, I'm focusing now on collecting my writing from age 20 to present. It took me a long time to actually make attempts at writing stories. I remember various story-like activities when I was younger. In second grade (the same grade in which I fell in love for the first time), I wrote as an assignment, along with illustration, a short bound piece called "A Dreamer's Dream." It was given its hard cover by using light blue wallpaper that had a small white-hearted pattern on it. I still have it.

The next distinct writing sticks out more because of the presentation involved with it. Of course, the report that I gave in 5th grade, right after studying the Civil War. God, it is so bad; this is the 'truest' joke I have in my meager collection. I'm trying not to tell it all jokey. The assigned report just needed to have a subject related that war. Just write it, hand it in, that's all she wrote. For whatever reason, because I was a strangely polar student, extremely motivated paired equally with something like laziness. I don't think that it was true laziness, though. This time, I offered to present my report to the class for extra credit. My teacher didn't see the harm in it, and allowed me to the following week.

What she didn't know is that my subject was Harriet Tubman's life. I wrote the entire thing, which ended up being an astounding eight-pager (it was only supposed to be three), in first person. I brought certain supplies with me that day that my parents never knew about. Shortly before I was to share, I was excused to the bathroom. I prepared quickly, slathering Halloween make-up over my face, my arms, my neck, my hands. I put on the pilgrim costume that was my sisters from years before. Then, I returned to the classroom, in full blackface.

After the teacher closed on her topic for the hour, she allowed me to go on with my report as Harriet Tubman. I stood in front before the class. I do not remember any distinct facial responses. Shortly before I was finished, the fire alarm went off--we needed to participate in this practice drill. We all went outside to join the rest of the school outside, me still dressed up, and I remember laughing, but feeling very embarrassed. I received extra credit, as intended, and it was never brought up to me again.

Have I told this story before? I feel like I have.

Next, I remember the assignment I had in 7th grade, Advanced English class. Another short novel, except for this time, we had cute, little blank books to work with, and at the end of it all, there was a contest where the teachers picked the top 10 books in the class, and someone could win first prize. My book, "Have You Ever Seen Dogs Wear Tutus?" (we were forced into the Children's Lit option), was selected in the top 10.

In 8th grade, I wrote an autobiography as assigned in class about myself in the future, as being selected "Person Of The Year". I have that on my home computer that hasn't been booted up since Halloween of '06. I wanted to go to law school and become a politician, and then president for two terms by age 48, with six children. Then, I was going to become a Supreme Court justice, and then retire but still be a part-time author. They were going to build a library in my honor in my hometown. Oh, and I was also married to Prince William. I really fancied him up until is mom died, then I moved on to the Hanson brothers.

My junior year of high school was the next time I was assigned to write for class. In between those years, I'd write extensively about my future, complete with a very specific timeline, children's names, exactly how old I'd be when I decided that I wanted to have twins. Also, during this time, I became much more active on the Internet. Chatting on MSN Comic Chat, working it from my rocketmail account, and playing the occasional game of Where in Time is Carmen Sandiego? complete with my special dictionary/encyclopedia hybrid on hand. The internet has always been a huge distraction for me when it came to writing. Why put something down on Word when you cast your text off into cyberspace, never to be seen again?

I feel like I need to do fancy things with my formatting in order to keep you paying attention.

For about a month during the last part of the first semester, we had a Creative Writing unit. For me, it was always non-fiction hardly shrouded by any fiction at all. I wrote three or four short stories, one about participating in the extra-curricular called Forensics, one about my high school unrequite, and I can't remember the others. The work was dangerously close to crap, but the teacher was encouraging. She told me to pursue writing more and that I had a natural talent. I wonder when I'm going to start taking her advice.

Then, in the summer of 2001, I discovered a whole bunch of things, and my life changed. I met people who greatly influenced me, who I looked up to and still think about. I finally felt at home after leaving home. I felt at home at college, and I awoke to what was going on around me. A friend lent me the Trout Fishing in America/Pill Vs. The Springhill Mine Disaster/In Watermelon Sugar trilogy by Richard Brautigan, and the gates opened. I finally started reading again. In Spring of 2002, I was able to take a Creative Writing workshop, and it began. I have now taken six workshops, and I've worked with incredible writers, teachers and students included, and my professors were really awesome.

If it sounds like I'm bragging, I'm really not. If anything, it is a tangible indicator that I should be farther along in all of this than I am. I've been collecting my writing over the past two days, and I really don't have all that much to present. Here's a list:

I'm Not Very Good With Titles (04/02)
Chasing Borders (05/03)
I'm Not Sure (10/03)
Predicting Non-Linear Equations (11/03)
Like It's Her Last (01/04)
What You Answer To (04/04)
Agnes (09/04)
Exceptional Moths (10/05)
Twenty Minutes in March (11/05)

There's also a various array of non-fiction pieces, and the only thing out of that that I'm proud of is my Katrina piece. I laugh because I also found some poetry from 2002 that is truly hilarious. It's far too embarrassing to show on here, but I'll give you the one that I like.

Evil Olive (4-28-02)

I'll tell you this--
The odds of me versus you are: 39:my left dirty sock.
I left it at your house.
Went there last night,
The stars were beautiful and cold.
Like my refrigerator
Can I get you a beer?
They say that drinking one is like eating a pork chop.
I always hated it when my mom used to purposely burn them
Flames are sometimes the color of your eyes
Melting red down to brown mirrors
Reflections jumped into the lake this morning
The sun and I awoke together
Both of us complaining about hangovers
And overhangs, but for different reasons
I was looking for shade and the sun didn't like being brushed off.
Neither did you.
Love left in your left dirty back pocket and slipped away.
You snuck through my patience

Wait. I think I felt something.
I looked at you and I was just about to say--

Look. I even put it in italics to make it look stupid, like poetry. I'd tell you who this is about, but I think it's obvious. The professor wrote that it was a "dark love poem." I don't think he understood it.

QMNMD= Quod Me Nutrit me Destruit (What Nourishes Me Also Destroys Me)