Share Your Earliest Literary Efforts
By Keith Cronin | March 10, 2015 |
I’ve become quite nostalgic in recent years. But my interest in the past extends far beyond my own. I’m also fascinated by the pasts of other people – for example, I really enjoy seeing all those “Throwback Thursday” photos on Facebook each week. And in particular, I am deeply intrigued by glimpses into the mysterious pasts of artists whom I admire.
When did their gifts first surface? What inspirations awakened the artist inside the child? Did they always plan to become an artist, or fall into the life by accident?
In my case, I never expected to become a writer. A cowboy, yes. A movie stuntman, definitely. A milkman, briefly (long story). But a writer? Not so much.
It wasn’t until I turned 40 that I started getting serious about writing, making me one of many “late bloomers” in the writing game. But in examining my own past, I uncovered a few hints that maybe, just maybe, I had been destined to become a writer all along.
I was a poet and didn’t know it
Although I’ve long since lost the original work, I still remember a poem I wrote for an elementary school English class, at the ripe old age of seven or eight. It was an epic poem about a family of imaginary creatures called Grimble Bimbles, which were three-eyed monsters with very sharp teeth. I illustrated the poem myself, armed with a purple crayon and my own not inconsiderable sketching skills. Picture a three-eyed purple Pac-Man with stick-figure arms and legs, and you’re in the ballpark visually.
I have no idea why I can still remember this poem verbatim so many years later, but I can. And without patting myself on the back too hard, I think it’s safe to say that the poem shows traces of what would become my own hallmark style. (More on the whole “hallmark” thing in a moment…)
Submitted for your approval:
The Eleven Grimble Bimbles, by a very young Keith Cronin
There were eleven Grimbles.
Their last name was Bimble.
Once a Grimble yawned,
and saw through his eyes three
that in his mouth was flying
a giant bumblebee.
Now the Grimble’s dead.
The bee stung him in the head.
He’ll never budge again,
and now there’s only ten.
I’ll admit, I’m pretty proud of that closing line, mixing poetry with math – an indication of the truly groundbreaking literary potential lurking deep inside me. Really, really, really deep inside.
Mightier than the sword, but not the drumstick
With the idea of surpassing this poem’s greatness a nearly incomprehensible thing to ponder, I put down my pen (okay, my crayon), and devoted the next two decades of my life to a new master, having answered the siren call of Nesmith, Jones, Dolenz and Tork. No, it’s not a top-tier law firm. I’m talking about The Monkees, who captured my soul when their music took over the radio and TV airwaves in the late ’60s.
[pullquote]Yes, I’m deep.[/pullquote]
Yes, I’m deep. Other musicians usually tell how they were inspired by Beethoven, Duke Ellington, the Beatles or Jimi Hendrix. Me, I was inspired to become a professional drummer by four actors pretending to be musicians. Hey, whatever works.
While some might consider this silly, I can tell you it was a dream come true to actually get a chance to perform a couple of concerts with Davy Jones, who was also one of the most gracious stars I’ve ever met. I let him know that the Monkees were the reason I became a musician, which seemed to delight him to hear. My heart broke more than a little on the day he died.
Another hint at the writer I’d become
After what literary historians might one day refer to as my “Grimble period,” it was approximately 20 years before I next got the urge to capture my thoughts in writing. At this point in my life (the late ’80s), I was touring fulltime with rock bands. This can leave a person with way too much free time, spending most of each day sitting in a bus, airplane or motel, waiting for the hour or two of real work that would begin when the house lights came down and the band was led onto the stage.
So how did I direct these pent-up creative energies? Drafting a great American novel? A screenplay? A lurid rock ‘n’ roll tell-all? No, instead I chose to apply my literary “gift” to a very narrow niche: the off-color Christmas card.
Each year I would compose a new one, type it up (this was WAY before “desktop publishing” was a thing) and make photocopies, which I would then cut, fold, and mail to my friends and family. The cards, which explored different tangents each year, shared one common trait: they were always in incredibly poor taste. I did this for several years, culminating in what many considered to be my finest work, which I will now share with you. (Yes, it *is* safe for work, but just barely.)
Here is the outside of the card:
And here’s what readers would find on the inside of the card:
This card evoked some powerful reactions from the folks on my Christmas-card list (some older readers will remember when sending actual physical cards was a thing). People wrote back to me from all across the country, mostly amused, a few offended (sorry, Mom). And then there were two platonic female friends of mine who suddenly seemed far more interested in me than they’d ever been before, perhaps due to some deep-seated yuletide fantasies my card had somehow awakened. To be safe, I tapered off my correspondence with those two, although years later both of them found me and “friended” me on Facebook.
Instinctively realizing that this card represented a moment (but definitely not a Hallmark® moment) that would be hard to top, I closed my typewriter case, and with it, closed the door on any further writing efforts for the next decade. I suspect the literary world breathed easier upon this new development. I know my mom did.
Okay, I showed you mine – now you show me yours!
How about you? Do you remember when you first put pencil, pen or crayon to paper? Do you still have any evidence? Now’s your chance to share your own moments of budding genius, either by briefly describing your nascent literary efforts, or ideally by posting an actual sample. You can post your work directly in your comment, or point us to links where we can bask in the glow of your youthful inspirations. Bring it on, and share the glory of the Grimble!
Image licensed from iStockphoto.com
Author of the novels Me Again (originally published by Five Star/Gale), and Tony Partly Cloudy (published under his pen name Nick Rollins), Keith Cronin (he/him) is a corporate speechwriter and professional rock drummer who has performed and recorded with artists including Bruce Springsteen, Clarence Clemons, and Pat Travers. Keith’s fiction has appeared in Carve Magazine, Amarillo Bay, The Scruffy Dog Review, Zinos, and a University of Phoenix management course. A native of South Florida, Keith spends his free time serenading local ducks and alligators with his ukulele.
Keith–
Congratulations on this bold move–outing your original work as a writer. Clearly, you are proud of your early efforts, and you should be. I had Juvenilia too, as well as later, more crafted efforts from adolescence. But seeing the lofty standards set by your poem and Christmas card, I have just burned all traces of my early crimes against language. I did it in the fireplace, but forgot to open the damper. This means that for days or weeks, the stench will linger. Maybe it’s a good thing, a cautionary reminder in old age to keep me “on message” at the keyboard.
And after all this facetiousness, thanks for a very good post. I really enjoyed it. I think the Monkees did us all a disservice: you should have been writing all those years, not beating the hell out of a ride cymbal.
Thanks for the kind words, Barry. Good luck defumigating your house! ;)
All right. I loved the Grimbles. So here’s my tale of literary beginnings…
My first book (which in a fit of practicality I titled MY FIRST BOOK), was a packet of notebook paper that I filled with pencil-scribbled lists and real dandelions, which I pressed and taped in place. No idea where it is now…
But my first prize-winning attempt was my second-grade Young Authors triumph: The Night the Food Escaped from the Cabinet.
It’s a psychological thriller: worn down after years of service, pantry items decide to make a break for it in the dead of night… Featuring enduring characters such as Petunia Peanut Butter and Crystal Cornstarch, and ending with their daring escape from conventional life, as they climb out the window, down a chain of macaroni noodles and into the great unknown…
I’m still writing stories about characters that decide to do things differently… Just with less macaroni.
Lucy, I would SO read The Night the Food Escaped from the Cabinet!
You had me at macaroni.
That made me laugh! Sadly (for posterity), I don’t think any of my early masterpieces survived the multiple country and house moves, although there may be an old school notebook lurking somewhere in the cellar of my grandma’s house, if the mice haven’t nibbled at it.
Marina, sounds like you should do some exploring the next time you’re at Grandma’s…
U r funnee.
My first story was called Boris the Whale. It was a picture book and a clear knockoff of William Steig’s work.
Imitation is the most flattering form of flattery. It’s also plagiarism.
Sarah, I’m sure you gave Boris your own unique spin.
And hey, there’s a fine line between plagiarism and just being deeply influenced. For example, I suspect that the color of my Grimbles was influenced by the book Harold and the Purple Crayon, which I only re-read about eleventy-gazillion times. Yes, I am steeped in The Classics.
Im sure I wrote all kinds of lameness before, but in high school I made my bff a book about her. I was so proud of it back then but I cringe now. Anyway it was bound in a cover that I made from cardboard covered with fabric from an old shirt and tied together with pink ribbon. It was a non fiction collection of printouts divided into chapters: quotes, poems, things I’d written, letters and her horoscope for the whole year.
Ha! Omg Thanks for bringing up this memory Keith.
Awwwww, Celeste – that’s adorable! And I bet your book became a cherished memory for your BFF!
Oh ya and ur card was hilarious!
Aw, and did you take the Grimbles down to none?
We moved far too much to have saved any writing, but I’ll tell you a story. No paper was safe from me. I wrote on any scrap. So imagine my joy at finding a heap of it in my dad’s office! So I drew pictures on the back and made boats and airplanes. Turns out, it was his thesis. Ouch. Punishment and dire threats ensued. So I wrote on the walls.
My entire childhood, it seems, was one long punishment for doing things I wasn’t supposed to do. I became a scientist … didn’t become a writer until I had children and I let them scribble all over my notebooks :) We’d even write and edit together.
Vijaya, I’m glad to hear there’s a new generation of scribblers in your family. That’s a wonderful – if occasionally messy – tradition!
Enjoyed this Keith, because we all can pinpoint when we knew that seeing something printed on the page just might be our pathway.
In 4th grade I wrote a story about a tornado–still have the pencil on notebook paper page. Then for a while it was poetry–even won a contest in high school and one in college. But reading New Yorker short stories put me on the solid road to writing fiction. My efforts were composed early in the morning, before my children woke up. But ha, they’re too long to share. But I’m delighted you did, thanks.
Beth, that’s awesome that you still have some of your early work in its original form. But wow, I’m humbled by your influences – you’re reading the New Yorker while I was busy writing Santa smut. By comparison, that definitely got you on the fast track as a writer!
In high school, my bff and I decided to write a book together. We took a piece of lined notebook paper and carefully centered and typed the title and the very best line of the book:
i’m screwed up, you’re screwed up (a story).
After that the story pretty much falls apart.
Thanks for the giggles!
Cat, do you mind if I borrow that line as the title of my autobiography?
Wow. A blast into the past. I, too, never expected to become a writer. Loved the Monkees – crushed on Davy Jones. Sang in a band for a while. Married the drummer. I was a batik artist at the time. It was my mom who encouraged me to write. I really wanted to illustrate, but being the dutiful firstborn, I wrote.
Actually I made my first book as a child by pasting magazine pictures into folded paper. My interest, though, was not in writing a story and finding pictures to go with it but in choosing photos I liked and making up a story that fit. In high school, a brilliant friend talked me into joining the writing club by telling me I could art-direct and illustrate the literary journal. Being brilliant, she directed the writing sessions, and critiqued my first effort with “the snow does not crunch underfoot.” Shamed, I ditched the story, realizing years later that in Texas, where I grew up, the ice-filled snow does crunch; in the Northeast, where she grew up, obviously snow is too fluffy to crunch.
Anyway, you’ve inspired me to write my own post about my path to present day publishing land. It’s too long to recount here. As a lyric of our generation famously says, it has been “a long and winding road.”
Karyn, I’m glad I inspired you to revisit your own long and winding road!
Keith, I’m sending your Christmas letter out to my list this year.
I was a moonstruck Beatles fan in the 60s, and decided to compile a Beatles newspaper. I hand wrote (and my handwriting is an atrocity) a four-page newspaper of facts that I gleaned from magazines—”George hates to ride on buses”—and made copies which I sold on my street corner for .25.
I had three issues before my kingdom of capitalism fell to laziness. However, I do remember one of my original poems:
The Beatles like to sing and dance
Even in their underpants
[Note: the copyright is mine, so don’t get any ideas]
Oh, and I STILL love Harold and the Purple Crayon!
Tom, I love the story of your earliest publication. Stephen King got his start the same way, publishing a newspaper/comic with his brother when he was a young boy.
As for your poem, I think it’s genius. My Grimbles (at least the ten who remain) bow to your skivvy-wearing Beatles.
I hope some day (probably after retirement) to get the deep recesses of shed & garage cleaned out and locate some of my early notebooks. I know I still had some of them when we moved here. From an early age I was never without a pocket-size notebook and pencil containing everything from to do lists to deep philosophizing.
I’m considering rewriting my first ever SF story from memory, the manuscript having long since been lost. I think at the time it might have been fairly innovative. Now it would probably be considered cliche.
R.E., I hope you find the time to excavate some of your old notebooks – they might bring back some amazing memories. And I think taking another stab at your SF story sounds like a great idea!
That Christmas card is a riot!
My elementary school in Maine put a lot of emphasis on storytelling, thankfully, and so creative writing was always part of the curriculum. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but yours truly was featured as the school’s “Author of the Month” every year. This meant my stories were tacked to a bulletin board at the front of the school for everyone to ignore.
I wrote my first novella in 8th grade. I don’t remember what it was called but it was about a young Catholic boy in Ireland who was at the Bloody Sunday massacre but who later went on to fall madly in love with an English girl, causing great scandal in his family.
It was an ambitious project for a fourteen-year-old who was not male, not Catholic, and who had never set foot in Ireland. I had a great teacher, who encouraged me and read multiple drafts. This teacher is a Facebook friend today and is still my cheerleader.
I wrote atrocious poetry for several years, and transcribed the poems onto watercolor paintings. The paintings weren’t bad. I might even hang a few of them in my house today if it weren’t for the gag-worthy poetry.
My first novel was a poorly disguised memoir written at the ripe old age of nineteen. Literary vomit, really, but I had to rid myself of it before I could write anything else.
I’ve had great fun reading people’s responses to your post, Keith. Thank you!
Thanks for sharing your literary journey, Kim. It’s clear it left you some powerful memories. And a big LOL at “literary vomit,” something I’ve produced prodigious quantities of myself.
Love them Gimbles, Keith. I won my first school district poetry contest in the fourth grade with this morose bit: The soft sea waves break against the shore. This is where Molly and I always met. But no more will I see Molly upon this sandy shore. For on earth, I will never see my poor Molly anymore. One day I will see Molly. But when, oh when, oh when? For my sadness and lonliness never seems to end. PS. I also had a mad crush on Poe.
How marvelously morose, Bernadette! And isn’t it interesting that you still remember your poem word for word? It’s fascinating to me how deeply some of our literary memories are imprinted.
Thank you for sharing your early stories, Keith.
I was a published author, in elementary school — not once, but twice: first in my school’s newsletter and then in the regional newspaper. I penned a poem for the newsletter regarding my extended family’s Christmas gatherings. I penned a short story for the newspaper about a Native warrior and a young mother pioneer who exchanged kindnesses. Even back then I was a genre jumper. : )
Sounds like your writing got off to an excellent (and early) start, Leanne – well done! And yay for genre-jumping, too. I could never limit myself to writing – or reading – in only one genre.
My father was an Iowa farmer who subscribed to the Country Gentleman magazine. One day when I was ten I looked through an issue and saw a one-column feature called Mr. Hodge Podge. In Mr. Hodge Podge’s Three Star Club he sponsored a monthly contest for kids. Winners could choose their own prizes from a list of suggestions – books and camera film among them.
I entered often and won often, receiving two wins and two honorable mentions which equaled a win. Your mention of early efforts with pencil, pen or crayon would be followed by + watercolor + embroidery thread in my case. With the embroidery thread I stitched an outline of a US map with products – not by state, but by region.
I was thrilled when my description of a Halloween parade entry using a large cardboard box cut in the shape of a shoe and held together with yarn, pulled in a wagon with dolls representing the children of “The Old Woman (myself in a long dress) Who Lived in a Shoe” received a small illustration in the magazine.
My three wins resulted in being sent a small gold circle pin with three stars which I still have. Mr. Hodge Podge said in his accompanying letter that I was the 69th Hodge Podge Club member (in 12 years) to win a Gold Star pin.
What awesome memories, Barbara – I’m so glad you shared them. But I gotta say, I’m a bit jealous that you had a better literary pedigree as a pre-teen than I had in my 40s.
And I don’t care how old you are, there is little in life that is better than a gold star.
Love the Christmas card, Keith!
When I was in college, my creative writing professor asked that I meet him in his office after class. Being the goody goody I am, I was petrified.
When I arrived, four people were jammed into his cubicle: him, the school nurse, a councilor, and the dean. Apparently the short story I’d submitted for mid-term had them all thinking I was sexually abused and potentially suicidal.
Me. Little ‘ole me. I just stood there, shocked.
Then I smiled and said, “Does this mean I get an A?”
Totally true, cross my heart. :)
Dee Willson
Author of A Keeper’s Truth and GOT
Whoa, Denise – what a powerful reminder of the effect our written words can have on others. Clearly you had the whole “writing with conviction” thing down even at an early age!
Thanks for spelling “ukulele” correctly!
I think about my first essay occasionally. I wish I still had it. It was a third grade assignment to write about Egypt and win a trip to the King Tut exhibit in Seattle. A big deal since it was a four hour trip by bus.
I chose to write about Cleopatra and the thing that resonates with me now is that I found an intriguing bit of history about her love of cats and how much the Egyptians revered them. I wrote that essay and won a place for my Mother and I to go on the trip with the gifted class.
Even now while researching it is the odd tidbit of history that intrigues me in the books I write. It is the odd tidbit that can get me flowing when stumped.
I have kept a journal for as long as I can remember and I still have those mortifying yet fascinating tidbits of my angst, loves and terrifying personal history.
This one terrified me as I skimmed through it… what was I thinking?
The below excerpt from my journal (1985) ‘Springbreak’
“When we were walking through and come up to customs and Anette whispers to me you have that stuff in your purse meaning my pot, I about shit so I turned around and we walked back threw the escalators and I stuffed it in a tile on the wall and we walked through customs but didn’t come back the same way so I didn’t get it back. Then we went cruising and decided to go back for it.”
The gist of this? Saying goodbye to the French Class as they fly off to France for Springbreak and its back in the day when the non-ticket holders could go back to International to say hello/goodbye. I have pot and we approach customs and there are dogs. I turn around and skirted the escalators found an open tile in the wall and stuffed the pot into it and went on through customs (with my Mother) and we did not come back through the airport the same way. Later that night as teenagers we are driving and cruising the streets of Des Moines and decide to go back to Seatac Airport and retrieve the pot so that we can still take it on vacation. Anette is the Danish exchange student my Mother has kindly allowed us to bring on the trip to the ocean with a stop at Seatac.
Wow. Now that brought back some memories.
Great anecdote, Sejo, and also a vivid look at how times have changed over the past 30 years, particularly when it comes to air travel!
The first indication that I was a natural born liar was when I came home from kindergarten and my mom asked what happened in school. I told her we had the best chocolate cookies ever. She asked me where the teacher got them.
I told her all about the trap door that was under the rug in the classroom that led to a secret kitchen where my teacher, Mrs. Wolf (not kidding), made them while we were napping. I was so busted after my mother called up my teacher to find out more.
That’s when I knew I liked to make up stories, but I kept them a secret. I didn’t start to share any writing until I went to college.
Thanks for this trip down memory lane. Mrs. Wolf was one of my favorite teachers.
Nice one, Jocosa – now you’ve got me thinking that “natural born liar” should be a thesaurus entry as an alternative to “writer.”
Thanks for sparking these memories Keith. My first attempt at writing,
Here’s the story, of a man named Felipe
who was bringing up four very lovely girls.
Three of them had black hair, just like their father,
the youngest one was blonde
At any rate, after reading Little Women, I attempted to write an international Brady Bunch about a widowed Spanish father and his 4 daughters, a French divorcee and her 2 children, and the trials and tribulations of their attempt to get married. For some reason the middle kept escaping me and sagging.
Lisa, that’s brilliant! But now you’ve got me stuck on the Brady Bunch theme song, so dang you for that.
Ditto that! Now I’ve got the Brady Bunch ear-worm as well…
Yo, Keitharino:
The Monkees, damn. And Davy as your hero, not Nesmith.
You ARE deep.
The Christmas card killed. Thanks a million.
I won a poetry prize in college. The proof of this victory has been lost forever, for which the inner me is blisteringly jubilant. I do, however, recall it concerned a character named simply the Lady Samaru, there were evil coolies in it, and it included the line: “And cynical laughter, after.” I should have been shot. They gave me a prize instead. Mucho weirdness.
Thanks for the fun post. Always love the days when you’re at the plate.
Thanks, David, but I suspect you’re being too hard on yourself about your youthful poetic skill. I mean, how could a poem with evil coolies be all bad?
That said, I can relate to being “blisteringly jubilant” about certain portions of my own early literary oeuvre being lost to the ages. This prevents them from ever being used to blackmail me!
Interestingly, I’ve been writing since I could hold a pencil, but it never dawned on me that I was or wanted to become a writer until college. I wrote a coming-of-age short story in third grade about a pre-abolition era plantation owner’s teenage son in Alabama who had a conscience and didn’t much care for lashing his slaves. His empathy stemmed from being raised by a kind old black woman who was also kind of sassy.
The one parallel I can see in my writing over the years is that I frequently write about things — usually concepts and themes, but also imagery — that tend to make people uncomfortable or cringe. I like to make dehumanizing things more human, to make unrelatable things relatable.
Great post. Thank you for sharing and for making me think.
Dane, that third grade story definitely sounds like an early hint at the writer you’d become.
And once again I’m humbled by how lofty some WU writers’ efforts were even back in elementary school. I mean, I’m killing off a 3-eyed Pac-Man with a bee while you’re busy tackling race and slavery. But hey, I did get in some math that rhymed, so that’s something, right? Right?
My first typewriter was a behemoth from the thirties or forties that my mother dragged home from a yard sale. I really can’t recall the make, something common like Remington or Underwood, but due to it’s advanced age, ribbons for it were impossible to find. For reasons unremembered, I spray painted the whole thing gold then had to scrape the paint off the keys.
I bought fresh replacement ribbons for whatever brand I could get cheap and then wind them by hand onto the large metal spools of my machine – messy but effective. It had trapdoors on the side for access to the ribbons and at some point, I allowed my pet rat to hide out inside the machine. We won’t talk about the day that I idly tapped a key and snipped off the tip of his tail.
I typed my homework for fun which probably bothered my teachers. I don’t know what they were expecting when they came across my typed papers in a stack of hand scrawled assignments but I rarely delivered if my grades were any measure of success. When I figured out that a C or B would keep me out of jail or the doghouse with my parents, that was good enough for me. Grading should be kept secret from kids as long as possible.
I also wrote letters, specifically, begging letters to all the missions to the United Nations for every flyspeck country that belonged to the UN and a few that didn’t. I’m sure my name got on some government lists when I was eight or nine.
What I was begging for was canceled postage stamps from their home countries and, man, were they happy to oblige. I think I must have created at least a handful of jobs for people working at carefully tearing off the colorful, beautiful stamps from letters sent from all over the world.
I didn’t really even have a collection – I had a hoard! I started out with the best intentions, like all those skipping down the road to hell, but the response to my letters was so overwhelming that I quickly became blasé about the stack of fat, brown envelopes that would be waiting for me when I got home from school. After a quick perusal for anything new or different, everything got tossed in the desk drawer but I kept pounding out letters and spending my allowance on postage.
Once I got tired of getting duplicates of stamps that I already had too many of, I turned to typing papers for classmates who would dictate to me over the phone or give me chicken scratch notes on legal pads. Bigger brains than mine who didn’t have access to a typewriter abounded.
Then again there were the papers that I corrected and finally, rewrote, until a couple of teachers twigged and recognized my style scattered throughout the three fifth grade history and English classes. My career as a copywriter/editor was squashed by a short meeting with the principal where I promised to stop giving it away and promised myself to charge more and work more carefully.
All these years later and I’m still giving it away and someplace in a second hand store or, more likely, a landfill, there is a hulking, golden typewriter with the mummified remains of a rat’s tail tip deep in its bowels.
What a wonderful story, deb. Also, I freaking LOVE old-school typewriters, and you’ve captured not only their magic, mystery and gravitas, but also their rodential amputation capabilities!
That Christmas card is hysterical, Keith.
I had an exacting sixth grade teacher who wasn’t taken by my first storytelling efforts and advised me I’d do better if I wrote what I knew. My next effort–a story still in my possession, as a matter of fact–was about a student dealing with a hypercritical teacher she referred to as a man-eating shark. In his comments he wondered if I’d had a real-life model for the antagonist.
This taught me two important lessons:
1. Revenge-via-literature can be sweet.
2. I’d need to get better at disguising my original source material.
Thanks, Jan – and those *are* important lessons.
I, too, am a practitioner of revenge-via-literature, having named the biggest a-hole in my debut novel after a particularly heinous boss who fired me – rather, “eliminated my job” – a decade ago at an evil corporate behemoth (or, ECB) where I wrote scintillating marketing copy about paperclips. Good times…
My first proper literary effort (i.e. not a foolish short story written for classes in elementary school — all of which have thankfully been lost, as far as I know) is a 100-page, single-spaced behemoth of a fantasy novel I began writing in the sixth grade. I worked on it for at least a year, probably two, before abandoning it still unfinished.
As I recall, my middle school friends thought it was pretty good. I’ve never had the stomach to go back and read through the whole thing, but I can assure you it starts rather awfully — although my writing undoubtedly improved after all those pages…
Oh, I hope you still have that manuscript, Jessica, and that you hang onto it. While you may not have the stomach to re-read it just yet, one day you will cherish it – take this nostalgic old fart’s word for it.
I do still have it, Keith! I too figure that there will come a day when I will enjoy pouring over it once again. Every 5-10 years I pull it out and consider whether or not that day has arrived yet… so far it hasn’t!
Love your card! Great humor. I am pretty sure I was born with a pencil in one hand and a 9-month journal in the other. My father was a literary poet and helped to shape my early writing. By 6th grade I was writing and sending comic strips to soldiers in Viet Nam and I wanted to be a news journalist. It didn’t exactly turn out that way, but I have never stopped writing. Great memories. Thank you, Keith.
What a cool background you have, Dawn – sounds like writing really is in your destiny. Keep it up!
Thoroughly enjoyed this post, Keith, and everyone’s comments.
My writing history began in second grade. Inspired by a Christmas gingerbread house and my Candy Land game, I wrote a story about a world where everything, including furniture, clothes, shoes, cars, and weather (cotton candy clouds and Kool-Aid rain), were made out of good things to eat, especially candy, cookies, and other sweets. I wrote five pages in my Big Chief notebook before I got tired of it. My Mom kept those pages for years, but I have no idea what finally happened to them. However, one of my most vivid childhood memories is from that time, when I used a kitchen chair as a desk, because the table was already set for dinner. Kneeling on the floor, my tablet resting on the seat, I wrote while Mom cooked and answered my spelling inquiries, which was about every other word, until my Dad came in and told Mom, “Don’t tell her how to spell them. Make her sound them out.”
About a year a later I added poetry to my literary endeavors. One night, after Mom threatened to spank me if I turned on my bedroom light again, I remember standing on the end of my bed, scrunching my paper on the window sill, so I could use the light from the streetlight outside to finish the poem I was writing. I don’t remember what I wrote, only the sense of urgency–the feeling that I had to trap the words on paper at that moment, or I never would.
Better stop wandering memory lane before I get lost there. Thanks again for a most entertaining post.
CK, it’s been so rewarding to see how this post has kindled (no, not that kind of Kindle) people’s memories of the power, the magic, and in your case the undeniable urgency that writing evoked in our young lives. Thanks for sharing such vivid memories here!
I was so busy getting the flu I didn’t have time to read this until today. What fun. I loved the Christmas card. I have a couple of sons who would probably do something like that.
My very first story was written when I was 12, and I still have it. It was a story about a horse – okay, I’m a girl and girls are horse-crazy. My English teacher sent a copy in to The Scholastic Writing Awards, and I won for my city. I was so psyched. I was sure I would become rich and famous if I kept on writing. Then I had a college lit professor suggest if I wanted a creative outlet to take up basket weaving. Nothing dashes a dream as quickly as hearing something like that.
Maryann, sounds like your writing got off to a great – literally, award-winning – start! I’m sorry you hit a speed bump with that college professor. I know such words can seem crushing, but I’m of the opinion that if one person can talk us out of pursuing a dream, we don’t want that dream badly enough.
Sounds like you’re rising above it now, so I wish you nothing but good luck with your writing!
LOL I love the Grimbles! That last line really did it for me. XD
Okay, I’m pretty sure no one wants to see this, but here goes. This is the earliest piece of incriminating evidence I can find, circa 1995 (3rd grade):
STORY (a winning title, am I right?)
Once upon a time there was a magical place called “Legend Land.”
The young maidens who lived in that land always wore pretty dresses. Their home was beautiful, they lived by the enchanted fountain which was the only thing that made Legend Land exist. But, the valley was not a safe place at all. There were many dangers and worst of all was the terrible sorcerer who lived in the huge volcano called “Sleeping Rock.”
The only money in the land was gold and silver and bronze coins, but crystals and other jewels could be found. The sorcerer wanted all the riches so he could rule the land forever.
The trouble started when the huge volcano, “Sleeping Rock,” erupted and the evil sorcerer flew out. Now the maidens didn’t know a thing about it. It wasn’t long before the sorcerer made friends with an evil witch, the other witch’s older sister, and told her about his plan. But the other one seemed to be on the good side.
Wit the help of the witch, the sorcerer was able to capture the maidens and force some of them to carry all the coins from the island, then throw them into the fountain, and others to take them out of the water and give it to him. Then with one fast flight on her broom, the nasty witch carried the maidens all the way to the Falling Cliffs.
So what could they do? They decided to climb down. Once they were down, they had to journey back home to the fountain. The maidens tried their best not to give up, and with the help of their new friend, witch (? indecipherable name), they believed that they could trap the sorcerer in the volcano and take back all the coins. That way their land would be safe, and the fountain would bring Legend Land back to life with its everlasting magic.
THE END
All grammatical and plot errors are kept intact. For example, who is the second witch on the side of good? 90’s Jewel Rock toys were clearly an influence. This one is written in hasty, sloppy cursive, aided and abetted by a psychedelic picture in crayon. Sparkly crayon. And now apparently I have no shame left. XD I mean, this is bad, people. This is really bad.
Marysia, I LOVE it – particularly the title, which is probably the most Zen title ever!
Keep writing with that sparkly crayon!
Keith, thank you for sharing this, especially for the poem about Grimble Bimbles :) I remember that I wrote down short stories in a school notebook and I remember that its cover was red. Still, can’t recall anything specific about my characters except the fact they were humans. But what I can say for sure: I really liked the process, and I think that feeling made me try myself in writing when I grew up.
Pimion, thanks for sharing the memory.
It’s kind of fun to look back and try to recall when our artistic impulses first sparked into being, isn’t it?
Love this topic and thread! (I also used to send out creative holiday cards each year – but none quite as…uh…saucy as yours!)
I began writing poetry and short stories at a very young age, and also created a ‘newspaper’ with my best friend, Amy, when we were about 8 years old. I knew nothing about sports, and in the sports section I had scores such as; “Bruins lost to the Celtics, 37 to 200”. ;)
But my most memorable piece was a poem that I wrote at the age of 10. I still remember it, word for word, to this day (44 years later!). My grandmother often wrote poetry, and she always loved this piece. I don’t believe I even realized it at the time, but this poem is clearly a metaphor for leaving the innocence of childhood behind, and moving into the next stage of adolescence.
My Path
I used to have a path, with no beginning or an end,
It didn’t have the slightest twist, nor did it have a bend.
It ran right into the sunset, and came right from the dawn,
I’d frolic and play all day, until the sun was gone.
And then it disappeared one night, as I had come in from play,
And I haven’t seen or heard of it since, right up to this day.
Wow, Dyan – I think “My Path” is a really nice piece of writing for somebody of *any* age.
Definitely way more gravitas than I captured in my ode to the departed Grimble!
Thank you, Keith! I definitely wrote a lot of serious and introspective poetry while I was growing up. (Oh, the angst of youth!)
But I love the humor and cleverness of The Eleven Grimble Bimbles – I actually laughed out loud when I read “Now the Grimble’s dead. The bee stung him in the head.” Clearly a future humorist in the making!