Oak Harbor, WA
I’ve been spending the last few days (and the next few weeks) packing up my parents’ house so they can move from their current residence on Whidbey Island to a new house on the island. I’m excited for them to be moving because the new house seems better suited for a family that likes to get away from each other. You know how it is, “I thought we were watching the game! Who changed the channel! Don’t come in, I’m wrapping presents! You snore, I’m not sharing a room with you!”
Anyhow, in the process of packing up the closets I have come across the usual pictures, old stuffed animals I loved the stuffing out of, letters to and from my sisters (which I read of course), letters to and from my parents (which again I read, I’m very nosy), and then there was the dreaded find of my high school life dwindled down to a box of crap.
First you have to understand who I thought I was in high school. I thought I was a writer; I perceived myself to be an activist; I fantasized that I was brilliant and thoughtful; I believed myself to be practical and anti-drama; Most importantly I envisioned myself to grow up to be a radical writer who fought for causes and affected people with my word. Now of course I have come down from all that and in no way do I think I am a good writer (how could I when surrounded by people like KB or my friend Kyle), but I was not prepared for the utter disappointment I found reading my old work.
Not only was I a terrible writer, but I was so typically adolescent, reminiscent of “My So Called Life.” I hated that my mom watched this show and remarked that it reminded her of me in high school. I hated it because I thought Claire Danes’ character was a wimp and extremely naive. But now I read my journals and my short stories and, eegads, my poetry and I cringe. Even my underground paper is burn worthy.
What I have concluded is that my mother was right all along. She always told me that I had potential, but that my refusal to proofread or rewrite held me back. I believed at the time that whatever came out of my pen in that spontaneous moment was a pure unique thought and by altering it in any way would alter that moment forever. I wanted to preserve the thought, the feeling, and myself by never rereading or rewriting anything. The result? I have a box full of crap that I would be ashamed for anyone to discover (or remember, for those who read it then).
I think about my first serious boyfriend, Sonny, who was definitely a tortured artist in both our minds. I read all the poems I wrote to him and the stories I wrote about my aching love for him and I want to vomit and then I want to call him and say, “Hey Sonny, so I’m, um, really sorry you had to read all that crap and pretend it was good.”
To worsen the blow to my pride, I went on to find my college papers and was appalled at my lack of effort. I don’t think I ever edited any of those papers (probably because I wrote them hours before they were due) and I’m embarrassed that professors, especially the ones I admired, had to read them and grade them. What puzzles me though is when they would assign the paper an A or a B and then say, “You have some great thoughts here” or “Imagine where you could go with this if you had time.” Little did they know that more time would only have meant more procrastination and I still would have written it hours before.
I think I am finally moving past the stage of “preservation of thought.” Even with blog entries I find myself rereading them and checking for errors. How’s that for an about face. I hope in the future I will have a chance to exercise my analytical muscle and write papers again, and this time maybe I’ll read what I write. And if it’s any good, maybe I’ll let you read it too. Until then, this is the extent of my writing and I offer it up knowing it’s pulp and not to be viewed as anything else.
Enjoy and toss. Please do not remember me for my poor writing.
