I wrote a novel when I was 15.
The story line went like this:
The main character was a scientist who had been working on a drug that would make people live forever. But then one day the lab was broken into and the drug and all of the research was stolen. Naturally, the FBI was called in to investigate. The main character was asked to join the FBI investigation. The big twist was that the FBI agents were actually the people who stole the drug in the first place! They weren’t really FBI agents, just crooks in business suits, trying to lead law enforcement down a wild goose chase so the case remained permanently unsolved.
As I was writing the book, I ignored obvious questions like #1. Why wouldn’t the real FBI have investigated a crime of this magnitude? #2. Why would the crooks put themselves in such close proximity to legitimate law enforcement? #3. Why would the FBI, real or fake, include a scientist into their investigation of stolen property? The plot was as porous as lava rock.
The book was over 300 pages and took shape over the summer of 1995. Our house was not air conditioned and I was upstairs at my father’s word processor. Physically miserable conditions. Many sweat beads.
Most of the novel is destroyed. The word processor we had was replaced by new computers and I never printed all 300 pages. Oh well. Fame, you shall discover me another day…
I was a writing major in college. We writing majors were a motley bunch, but I never quite felt like I was as ‘artsy’ as the others. Mostly I was sillier, more resistant to deeply theorizing writing, and talked louder than they did. But I kept writing and read my work before my peers, confident that they perceived I was a tad uncomplicated at times. Heavy handed writing doesn’t suit me well.
Like a lot of teenage girls, I wrote some poetry in high school and college. Poetry comes in handy when you’re 16 years old:
When life was so
Complicated it was best
Lines and fragments,
When life seemed
What a slap it was to recognize that I wasn’t very good at poetry! My heavy handed peers were better than I was, and as I grew older the romance of writing poetry grayed. I do enjoy poetry though not mine. After all, what’s worse than a bad poet unaware?
There were years between college and the beginning of this blog where I didn’t write a single creative word. I was working. I was playing guitar, I was taking photographs. Once in a blue moon someone would ask me about writing and I would squirm a bit. No, I hadn’t been writing. Like a kid leaves a once-favorite toy in the corner, I had turned my back on writing.
I don’t need the fake FBI to solve why I stopped writing! It just wasn’t practical. No one was going to pay me to write and I was supporting myself.
No one pays me to write this blog. Thanks for reading this and thanks for all the encouragment that I’ve received since starting the site. I’ve been rediscovering the toy in the corner and remembering why I liked it so much to begin with.