This piece of prose is something I wrote a few months ago. It is based partly on a dream and partly on real events. It is dedicated to someone I care very much about.
This is the first piece of personal writing I have made any effort to do anything with. I have written and presented several sermons for our fellowship but nothing of my own personal writing has seen the light of day since 1970.
The reason for this is that, way back in Grade 7 at York Street Public School here in Ottawa, our teacher, the rather inappropriately-named Mr. Joly (he was an asshole and someone I would happily kick hard and repeatedly in the knackers, given the chance) set an assignment.
At the beginning of the school year, we were told to write a novelette. It had to be in by the end of November.
For two solid months, I wrote a story which, according to my mother, then an English teacher, described as "excellent" and "better than some college-level writing" she had read. It was about a boy who, during WWII was sent to live with his aunt and uncle near Stonehenge. It transpires that he is mysteriously transported back to the time of the Druids and has an exciting adventure.
Given that this was before the advent of computers or even "white-out" correction fluid, my double-spaced novelette was neat and without a single crossed out word.
As this was also before the photocopier was in general public use, I was forced to hand in my only copy.
At the end of the year, when we still had not received our stories back, I asked Mr. Joly when we were going to be handed them back.
"Oh!" said Mr. Joly, "Didn't I tell you? Someone broke ito my house and stole them!"
I was shocked, needless to say.
As my friend Carol had been in his class the year before I called her and said "Guess what happened to Mr. Joly! Someone broke into his house and stole our novelettes!"
"Gee," said Carol, "Isn't that interesting? Someone did the same thing last year!"
I'm not sure what the reason for his deception was, whether just for the sake of being an asshole or because he was gleaning our writing for ideas. Given the general calibre of Grade 7 papers ("And then I woke up and discovered that it was all a dream!"), I doubt it to be the latter.
The upshot for me, a shy child with extremely low self-esteem, was that this traumatic event made me question the point of ever really bothering with things I enjoyed.... What would the point be when no one else valued what you spent time creating?
However, I have decided it is time to start doing something with the things I have hanging about in my brain and put them down on paper or something....
Rating: User: Mudhooks 2007-01-10T04:00:56.013Z
Tags:
prose | writing | heart | dreams |