Missing my Dad

When I was younger and first began writing I would write poetry that merely was considered a poem because it had rhythm and some of the words would rhyme. I eventually evolved these into slightly more advanced versions but there was still no message worth imparting. I struggled because I wanted to write something people would remember and not just because it was so bad you couldn't forget it.

As I moved into my teenage years I hit the excitement and humiliation of puberty. This sparked an inspiration I never expected. The pain and frustration that comes from being bullied, embarrassed constantly and heartbroken daily gave me the emotional connection with my writing I had been missing. I wasn't popular, in fact I had very few friends at all. I was involved in many sports and activities but I also suffered from intense insecurities and shyness. 

I wasn't very good at expressing how I felt to the couple of people I knew that would care to listen but I found that I could easily tell the pages of a journal what was going on in my life. There are a few things even my journal was never told because I was trying to deny them even to myself but for the most part my writing became my way of sharing my pain, frustration and occasionally my celebrations as well.

I wrote in third person creating stories based on what I experienced but many times I would change the ending to something good making it the result I wished for instead of the sorrow of reality. One day I was having a particularly hard time and chose to write during class. My teacher believed I was writing a note to send to another classmate and took my notebook away. She kept it and after she gave the assignment she sat down at her desk and read through what I had written. She began to cry. 

It was my final class of the day and she asked me to stay after so she could speak to me about my story. She didn't connect that I was writing about myself, to her it was just a sad story. She did tell me that she thought what I was working on was very well written and asked if I would be willing to share it with the class the next day. I had never read my work aloud to anyone so I was a little concerned but she was very insistent so I agreed.

The next day I went to the podium set up at the front and slowly read what I had written. Because she had taken the story from me before I could finish it I had to end with to be continued. I looked at the notebook the entire time I was speaking afraid to see the laughter and boredom coming from my classmates. Yet when I finished I looked into their faces and I saw a few wipe away tears, some were watching me closely and one raised her hand to ask what happened next. They were hanging on my every word. I finished the story over the weekend and shared the end on monday receiving a standing ovation for my efforts.

It was incredible. The feeling of being able to share my feelings but mask them through the art of the written word gave me an outlet I had craved. It also gave me confidence to know I was good at something and that people would wait to see what I had come up with. They looked forward to the weekly sharing when I would get up and take them on a journey. I began to write stories that weren't totally based on my life and what came from my imagination was received just as well if not more so.

My emotions have alway fueled my creations which is most likely the reason behind the genres I write most often. In that spirit I am sure that this weekend will be an inspired time but personally a very painful one as well. This weekend is the anniversary of losing the most important man in my life, my father. We may not have always been close and we argued a lot but he was a muse to me in my life and I still try to live everyday in a fashion that would make him smile. I want nothing more than to be the person he knew I could be, to know he is happy and I am someone he is proud of. I love you dad and I miss you every single day!