When I was in the second grade, my teacher Mrs. Ford decided that it would be a great learning experience for all of her students to write their own stories, split the stories up into pages, and illustrate each page with their own markers and crayons (and let’s be real, snot and dirt, too). She would then take those pages, laminate them and bind them together, and let us give them to our parents as gifts at the end of the year. It was a great way to get our young minds working, and a great way for us to saddle our parents with yet another little-kid memento to cry over when we headed off to college.
I remember thinking this was the coolest thing on the planet-cooler than the Pokemon cards my older cousin had given me; cooler than Kenya, which I had just done a report on and thought was the coolest place ever because it had elephants; even cooler than staying up late and watching Ren and Stimpy when I was TOTALLY NOT ALLOWED TO DO THAT. So I sat down at my desk and began to write, and write, and write.
At the end of the year, most kids had about six or seven books to give to their beaming parents. I had twenty-two.
Writing has always kind of been my thing. My freshman year of high school, part of our final English grade was to write a complete and coherent sonnet in under an hour. Mine took about twelve minutes, and I got full credit. When my friends used to panic about the essays we had to turn in for class, I was usually the one who sat down at seven the night before it was due, threw my ideas into a coherent five pages of complete and total bullshit, and called it a night by ten. Imagine their fury when our grades would come back and I’d score several points higher on a paper I barely even remembered writing, and now you’ll understand why I see writing as my schtick. You want to trip me up? Hand me a math problem. I’ll be out of commission for weeks.
So what never really made sense to me was the fact that I didn’t keep a diary. I never stored a journal under my pillow, full of my secret crushes on Nick or Kurtis or whoever happened to be the shyest cute boy in the class. I had notebooks strewn about in my room, with a monologue written on the first few pages or a poem scribbled on the back cover, but never anything consistent or really, coherent. Even as I got older and I began my love affair with all things Internet, I never really considered keeping a blog.
Except here I am, starting a blog, and not really sure how to go about doing so.
Maybe this will be just another half-filled virtual notebook with some doodles scribbled in the margins. Maybe it’ll be another procrastination tool in my arsenal of internet distractions. But maybe, just maybe, someone will take a look at this and help me get my thoughts laminated and bound for others to enjoy. It’s a nice thought, after all, and my parents could put it next to my second-grade books on the shelf.
Whatever this is, it’s me. I hope you like it.