February 12th, 1988

It's the Friday before Valentines Day in 1988. I am 8 years old. It's a cold day but not as cold as a typical February day in Wisconsin, aka The Frozen Tundra. That day at school we exchanged cards and candy. I didn't get that many cards. I never did. But, I did get a lot of candy and for an 8 year old that's like the best thing ever. My mind was only thinking about about all this loot I had in candy and I wanted to get home to show off my booty and then stuff my face. So naturally I start running home, which is only 3 blocks away.

I notice a group of boys behind me as I'm in my big rush. They're maybe 50 feet behind me. They're not nice boys. None of the boys at my school are nice boys. Are they chasing me? I want to get away from them. I'm at the last street I have to cross before being on my block.

I can't recall the car that hit me. Or should I say the car that I hit because as it turns out I pretty much just ran into the side of it. My tiny body sailed through the air and landed on the street. When I open my eyes I see a crowd of people all around me. No surprise but I start crying and I'm calling for my stepfather. I'm too afraid to call for my mother because she'll just be mad at me. Later I'll feel guilty for not even calling out for my mother. Such a bad daughter! Am I bleeding? Can I move my body? I think I'm fine. The ambulance comes and they load me into the back. My mother is there with me and the EMT keeps asking me questions because he's trying to figure out if I'm ok. The only thing I have in my head is that 8x4 is 32. Mom and I were going over the multiplication table last night and that's all I can recall. I had a hard time with that one so we went over it so many times that I had mastered it. My mother asks me what happened. "Those mean boys were chasing me and I was afraid they were going to hurt me. I ran into the street without looking."

We get to the hospital and the doctor checks me out. I only have a mild concussion. He tells my mother that I have to take it easy. Not 2 hours later I was begging my mother to go to my best friend's house for dinner. She agreed. I was fine. That night I sat at my friends table and we dined on a mid-western favorite; meatloaf. I told them about the days events and felt proud of myself for being able to continue with my original plans. The pride I was having was because I needed to mask the shame. The truth is those boys weren't chasing me. I was afraid of them yes but I ran into the street because I wanted to get home for that candy.

Every Day

I recently started reading this book about writing books. More specifically, writing non-fiction. It's a good book and it's already given me a few things to think about when it comes to writing my own book. At the same time there's this little seed in the back of my mind that says things like "You can't write!" and "No one will care anyways!" and "There is no possible way you can write about this stuff in a way that will seem remotely interesting to a single person on the whole face of the earth.". 

The book also has these exercises that I find interesting and I'm willing to give a shot because I have to start somewhere right? One of said exercises is to do "difficult reading" every day. Difficult in this case is any book that I would normally not read for fun. Another one of the exercises is to write every day. Whether it be 15 minutes or for an hour. I can most certainly attempt all of this but honestly when anyone suggests I do something EVERY day I get a little anxious because I know I won't do it every day. When working full time outside the home and raising a toddler there only a few things that are certain to happen every day. 1. Some kind of meltdown (her or me) 2. Food on the floor and/or walls. and 3. Collapsing into bed at the end of it all wondering how I'm going to make it though another day of tantrums, a demanding job, and food thrown about all over the place. 

Another mental hurdle I am struggling with is I don't feel like I'm a writer. A photographer yes but a writer? What? I don't write FOR REAL. I kind of dabble in it. Or at least that's how I've felt when it comes to writing. Oddly enough I remember wanting to be a writer when I was a teenager. Of course I abandoned the idea when someone who I looked up to and trusted told me I was chasing an unattainable dream. That was a very discouraging moment for me because I saw this person as a motherly figure and if she didn't believe in me then who would? Too bad she never told me that the only one who needs to believe in me is Me, Myself, and I. Good thing I figured out that little tidbit for myself. 

Writing Life Stories