Another Topic or Blah, Blah, Blah

A posting a day keeps the dust bunnies away from my poor brain.

Writing is challenging.
Finding new subjects each day.

I figure, if I can talk, talk, talk all day, there must be something there to write about.
As a lifelong chatterer (drove my family crazy)maybe I should have been writing. It's all words, right?

When my family went to Bolinas for summer vacation, there was a neat little library right next door. And a neat little store next door to the library where we could get red licorice every single day!
Books and red licorice; cloud nine for me!

Books and books and books, I couldn't check out enough!
One book was written by a 9 year old. She illustrated with delicate drawings, too. It was the coolest book I'd ever read.
Written by a child (like me) with wonderful creativity.
I longed to write a book myself.

In 7th grade we had to write a novel.
Staring blankly at the binder paper, nothing came.
I needed to make an outline.

A dim dawning set me writing about ducks. Mallard ducks.
We routinely saved ducklings born in the wild before the neighborhood cats or raccoons or possums got them. We got there 1st.

The fuzzy little tiny puff balls set up housekeeping in a box in a warm spot. What a mess they made; mash, water and duck poop all over the box. I couldn't believe they couldn't keep the feed separate. No they had to rush around after a nibble to keep the other ducklings at bay.

One minute they're sleepy, whispering little peeps, the next they are running around like chickens with...never mind, not a good simile in this instance.

They grew up, making messes all the way, instinct sending them following in a line after their dear old mom, me.

The subject for my novel was a Mallard duck.
The Dad, the boss, the hero.
Things turned ugly for this dear duck near the middle.
Hunters!
He got winged!
(can't remember his name, but anthropomorphism reigned!)
Somehow there was a beautiful, though slightly tragic ending.

Why did they all have to have tragic endings?
To this day I wonder.
My high school English teacher said it would be dull if there were always happy endings.
Didn't sound boring to me.
A happy ending seemed lovely to me.

Once, during a writing exam at this prestigious school,
I was stuck, big time. My midterm grade was in the balance.
Nothing came into my head.
I sat. And sat, staring at the blue book, staring at the too wide blue lines. Why did they use blue books? I wanted a reason.
Ooops, time was flying! No ideas fell from above.
No muse paid any attention to me.

The teachers had drummed this into our heads,
"It's always best to write about something you know."
Like ducks.

But that day I wrote about test anxiety. I just started writing, in my own way; about how I felt: pressured, terrified, dumb, hopeless.
As I wrote, I cheered up.

I wrote about the second hand ticking away, taunting me.
I wrote about the quiet light falling through the window.
I wrote about the old fashioned wooden building with dull, aged, blue paint left over from old times.
I wrote about coming to, from my dreams, noticing the period was almost over!
These descriptions might make good writing.
The fear and tension would thrill the reader.
I felt so studious and smart and creative.
I rushed to finish.
"Time's up, put down your pens and close your books."
Relief calmed me.
I thought my paper would stand out,
e different than the boring old ideas.
I would be seen as clever and competent.

The comments in red pen suggested I could have more wisely checked grammar, sentence and paragraph structure.
But, he did acknowledge my humor.
It wasn't so funny flunking Spanish just because I was hopeless at conjugating verbs. "Let's just talk." I thought.

I spoke well, and therefore wrote well.
Everyone in my extended family did.
We spoke "the Queen's English!"
We had to live immaculately as "The Queen could drop by anytime!"
Generations after parting ways,
England loomed as role model to America,
the poor, but independent cousins.

A few years ago, my brother pronounced me funny,
really funny, what a great sense of humor I'd developed!
I answered defensively, "I've always been funny."

Away from the drama and trauma I was funny.
The animals, ducks and dogs, kept me sane.
Kept me laughing to keep from crying.

Now, telling childhood stories, I see more humor.

Tough times they were, but getting through it...I was funny.