My husband just swore to me that if I die an untimely death, the very first thing he will do is dump the trunk-full-of-things-I-wrote into a fire. Well, no, he didn't promise that at all. Actually he vowed it will have it's own display table, and people will laugh, and it will be great fun. And there will be pictures of me and my muses posted where appropriate. (Note to self: for sure question his love for me!)
I fancied myself a pretty decent writer back in the day. I still have every copy of my high school newspaper, every paper penned for college credit, every piece of poetry pouring out love and angst. Right there I should just stop, because honestly, that's embarrassing enough. But my flame for the written word has recently re-ignited, and my mind is ablaze with clever ideas that MUST be shared with the world. And so went the epiphany: who better to inspire me than me?
And so I made the trip to the trunk-full-of-things-I-wrote. (I went upstairs.)
I had myself convinced that being a full-time working mother of two busy boys and having commitments of my own had stifled my opportunity to write (spoiler alert: it does), let alone write the next best novel, article, blog post, letter, card salutation. As I peeled through the layers of school transcripts and travel brochures, my excitement was palpable. Here I was about to be reunited with some pretty effing fantastic stuff, and I just knew I'd have to run to my computer because the ideas would start vomiting out of me.
The Purple Binder.
This holds college papers. I know exactly what compliments I'll find on which pages of which papers. Obviously my professors loved me because I wrote brilliant essays that were lyrical and soulful and inspiring. But these topics were all wrong: international trade, European healthcare models, labor management. I paused to savor some remarks, before I worked my way down the archives to the real treasure below.
The Manila Envelope.
This holds all my copies of the Horizon Profile, as well as my grandmother's that I received back after she died. She had highlighted my name everywhere it appeared. And then, holy crap, the whole "inspire myself" idea got awkward. I'm not sure my column on Valentine's Day was whimsical and cute, so much as completely ridiculous. And then my husband wanted to read it. My maturity level sank to that of a 12 year-old girl, and I was all "well just so you know my picture is supposed to be horrible because it was play on words from 'Murphy's Law' but it was 'Murray's Law' and its okay to read it, but don't look at me, and not here in front of me, and not out loud, and not in this room. And actually, give it back." But he read it anyway. And he cringed, too. And then I was thinking about my grandmother reading it, and another one about in-school detention, and at least two more that have no discernible point. And then I was thinking about the whole school (some people at school) reading it. I was feeling embarrassed, not encouraged. It was time to get to the good stuff before the "inspire myself" idea fizzled.
The Green Folder AKA The Pot Of Golden Poetry AKA WTF?!
The careful penmanship of a lovesick teenager was immediately recognizable, but I was not phased. Until I was. I couldn't even look directly at the papers without lying down first, so I didn't faint from my own awkwardness. There's a fun piece a came across penned in March 1993 about the physique of the guy I liked. I wrote it for a British Literature class, and then I actually turned it in.
Here's how it starts:
Excellence in masculine form resides
And that's all I can give you, because now that I've typed it I must go hide under a pillow and giggle. Actually, I was compelled to pull out my high school transcripts (because I'm a very organized record-keeper) to be reminded who I had for Brit Lit, so if I run into her unexpectedly, I can hide.
Just for posterity, I planned to give you some other verses, not in the order they appear, because I can't very well go around saying I don't embarrass easily and then give you five words that seem fairly innocuous without context. But then I almost died of reading poems I wrote, so I had to consider my health and the promise my husband made to display this crap.
This entire post has felt like a super digression. My husband has promised to mock me in death with my distorted memories of my own glory. I'm certainly inspired, but less about writing at the moment and more about finding a really good friend who knows the new top secret hiding place of the trunk-full-of-things-I-wrote-to-be-dumped-in-a-fire-when-the-time-comes.
