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Apr. 6th, 2011 07:08 pmLast night, after what felt like weeks, I was laying in my own bed again and unable to sleep, again, and the combined tiredness and lack of anything else to do made my thoughts wander. I thought about how I had just managed to get my phoenix badge, something I'd been working at and waiting for forever, which lead to me thinking about writing, which lead to me thinking about the past and the future and myself.
Whenever my Grandma starts telling people that I write stories and such, she brings up how when I was a little kid, before I could even write a long sentence, I'd pace back and forth in the kitchen and she'd write down what I was saying. She'd listen and write for me, and half of those stories I think she kept. Maybe she kept all of them.
Which lead me to thinking about how I had once been unable to type quickly, resorting to a finger-pecking type of writing, a rather slow and painful process. Since I would write long things, it would take forever and be rather annoying during it. I couldn't write as fast as I could think. It was rather annoying, in many respects.
But then I took a computer class, in Monroe Middle School, and if only one good thing came from that place, it was that typing. I began learning how to properly put your fingers, and how to look at the screen and not the keyboard and to just trust my fingers. I learned that the J and F keys had the little bumps on them, and those were my two steering wheels. I finally managed to play the keyboard like a pianist. It was wonderful.
So Mom told me about a word program and I found it, and pulled it up, and soon I was typing. A lot. Most of the stories never were finished, maybe never will be finished, and perhaps the characters have changed their faces and names and hide in new, other stories of mine. I wouldn't doubt it - they were very clever characters, and sometimes I am a very stupid writer.
But I wrote, and wrote and wrote and read, and sometimes my resolve would waver. But one thing remained - I wanted to write. I wanted to be a writer. I was afraid I'd lose my stories, so I'd start another one as soon as it came to me, but now I know differently.
I was thinking about one day, when I was working on a story, maybe one of the few that got half-finished, and I remembered the enthusiasm I had as I wrote. It got to the point that I felt like I was flying. I was grinning the entire time.
So I laid in bed, eight or nine years later, wondering about that girl. Has she died, and like Clive Barker says, is but a tombstone now, or is she still there, running and laughing in the forests of my mind? Has she turned into a bird and spread her wings, flying away from me in search of some new person to roost in? Or is it more than that? Maybe a part of her still clings to me, a droplet of idea from a sea of stories.
It made me think, as well, of a town Mom and I went through when we were going to Traverse City. A small town, the main street looked a little like Monroe's downtown, maybe when it had been more alive. It was by a large river, and we were waved at by a person. And it made me wonder if I'd ever see it again, if the town was still well, who else had passed through it, who had waved at me. If they were well.
And I had the thought of just growing wings, of feathers bursting from all my body and my feet turning to claws and shape shifting into a falcon and just flying, flying over the town and all over America and finding towns and cities and all those places that so many people don't get to see. I would fly until I'd seen it all, flown down every highway with nothing to stop me, until I made it back to Monroe.
But then I still wouldn't be content, and I'd have to see every one of my favorite places as a human, and still, I would have to travel all my life, and every last second of it I'd be happy, knowing I was free.
I don't know why that one line of thought lead to the other, but as I was in bed, dog next to my legs and snoring peacefully, cats on either side of me and quiet as shadows, I felt like I could almost feel it, almost feel wind under wings and laughter as I didn't have to stay in one place, not any more.
Maybe that's what happened to that girl, the girl I was eight or nine years ago. Maybe a little piece of me broke free and grew wings, laughing as she did it, and flew and flew and is still flying.
Maybe one day I'll catch up with her.
Whenever my Grandma starts telling people that I write stories and such, she brings up how when I was a little kid, before I could even write a long sentence, I'd pace back and forth in the kitchen and she'd write down what I was saying. She'd listen and write for me, and half of those stories I think she kept. Maybe she kept all of them.
Which lead me to thinking about how I had once been unable to type quickly, resorting to a finger-pecking type of writing, a rather slow and painful process. Since I would write long things, it would take forever and be rather annoying during it. I couldn't write as fast as I could think. It was rather annoying, in many respects.
But then I took a computer class, in Monroe Middle School, and if only one good thing came from that place, it was that typing. I began learning how to properly put your fingers, and how to look at the screen and not the keyboard and to just trust my fingers. I learned that the J and F keys had the little bumps on them, and those were my two steering wheels. I finally managed to play the keyboard like a pianist. It was wonderful.
So Mom told me about a word program and I found it, and pulled it up, and soon I was typing. A lot. Most of the stories never were finished, maybe never will be finished, and perhaps the characters have changed their faces and names and hide in new, other stories of mine. I wouldn't doubt it - they were very clever characters, and sometimes I am a very stupid writer.
But I wrote, and wrote and wrote and read, and sometimes my resolve would waver. But one thing remained - I wanted to write. I wanted to be a writer. I was afraid I'd lose my stories, so I'd start another one as soon as it came to me, but now I know differently.
I was thinking about one day, when I was working on a story, maybe one of the few that got half-finished, and I remembered the enthusiasm I had as I wrote. It got to the point that I felt like I was flying. I was grinning the entire time.
So I laid in bed, eight or nine years later, wondering about that girl. Has she died, and like Clive Barker says, is but a tombstone now, or is she still there, running and laughing in the forests of my mind? Has she turned into a bird and spread her wings, flying away from me in search of some new person to roost in? Or is it more than that? Maybe a part of her still clings to me, a droplet of idea from a sea of stories.
It made me think, as well, of a town Mom and I went through when we were going to Traverse City. A small town, the main street looked a little like Monroe's downtown, maybe when it had been more alive. It was by a large river, and we were waved at by a person. And it made me wonder if I'd ever see it again, if the town was still well, who else had passed through it, who had waved at me. If they were well.
And I had the thought of just growing wings, of feathers bursting from all my body and my feet turning to claws and shape shifting into a falcon and just flying, flying over the town and all over America and finding towns and cities and all those places that so many people don't get to see. I would fly until I'd seen it all, flown down every highway with nothing to stop me, until I made it back to Monroe.
But then I still wouldn't be content, and I'd have to see every one of my favorite places as a human, and still, I would have to travel all my life, and every last second of it I'd be happy, knowing I was free.
I don't know why that one line of thought lead to the other, but as I was in bed, dog next to my legs and snoring peacefully, cats on either side of me and quiet as shadows, I felt like I could almost feel it, almost feel wind under wings and laughter as I didn't have to stay in one place, not any more.
Maybe that's what happened to that girl, the girl I was eight or nine years ago. Maybe a little piece of me broke free and grew wings, laughing as she did it, and flew and flew and is still flying.
Maybe one day I'll catch up with her.