When I was a little girlie, I used to write poems, stories. I didn't learn how to read until I was about 6. But once I learned man, there was no stoppin' me. I read a book about the tooth-faerie to my class.
I wrote a poem that year. It was called Colours. I thought I was all fancy spelling stuff the British way, that's how it was typed. That poem won first place in the school district's Young Authors Award for my age group. I thought I was pretty special.
You see, I am a bit obsessive. If my mind is put to something I get hooked. It can be good, it can be bad. I've experienced both. Once my mind is set, there is no turning back. I will work until it is finished. If it is never finished, then I never stop working.
The trouble with writing is...I could always start, but the stories never finished.
There I was, a young adolescent tweener and a half dozen, half baked, unfinished, no chance stories. So I figured, poetry was my strong suit. Thoughts put to iambic pentameter, or half that. Nothing rhyming, blank verse. Haiku. How about some Heroic Verse? Prose? It didn't necessarily have to make any sense. It just had to make people think. Who cares what you mean, as long as you can get someone else to see something in it. You have succeeded.
We are a magnificent race. Seeing beauty in all things, picking out the tiny details and magnifying them until there is nothing else we can notice.
I have the smell of Pauler on my skin and I miss him. He is away at work. But he will be home soon.
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