About Me

I'm always crushed to discover that there is never a magical portal to another world in the back of any closet I peek inside of. I blame this devastating disappointment on C.S. Lewis. I also blame C.S. Lewis for planting the seeds of creating new worlds in my soul, worlds that only existed in my imagination and some day a book, maybe two.

I don't blame him that it took me so long to get around to it. That is the fault of life and a healthy dose of my procrastination.

I read every single book in the Chronicles of Narnia more times than I can remember, not only at the small private church school I attended from kindergarten through sixth grade, but many more times over the years. Aslan, the Beavers, Lucy, Edmund, Susan, Peter, Bree, Digory, Eustace, Puddleglum, even Puzzle the Donkey were among my friends. I secretly wanted to change my name to Aravis, and I waited patiently for one of my horses to talk to me.

I was convinced that someday I was going to create the kind of magic that C.S. Lewis had.

And I grew up, my thirst for magical words taking the form of voracious reading. I was never without paper and pencil however, the only remnants of a childhood dream for many years. When I grew older I would walk into a bookstore and recall that dream of wanting to see a book I had written on the display showcasing new authors, a little twinge tugging at my insides. Maybe I just didn't want it bad enough.

When I went to college I applied to take creative writing classes, but I was not accepted. The professors told me that I did not have enough life experience to be a writer. Perhaps that stuck in my subconscious for more years than I cared to count. Only later did I question why the University would offer undergrad creative writing courses to undergrads only to deny them because of a lack of life experience. Either they expected to populate the classes with older-than-average undergrads or they were too kind to tell me my writing samples were sorely lacking.

But then again, it may have been the trauma I experienced when my first piece of writing was published.

I dabbled in poetry as a young girl (and well into high school, mainly to hone my skills as a lyricist for Paul McCartney and Elton John). In sixth grade a younger sister came to me in a panic. She had an assignment to write a poem, and after many failed attempts was desperate for help. Awesome big sister that I was, I offered to help her out, and quickly composed something she could turn in. (Yes, I know it was cheating, but what are big sisters for?) 

I should mention that my sister and I are two of six siblings, the first five of which are girls. My father and baby brother were severely outnumbered.

To her surprise (and mine as well I admit), her teacher was so impressed with the poem that it got passed around the faculty and heaped full of praise. This was followed by a printing in the school bulletin and an invitation to read the poem out loud at a school function to which we were all dragged.

She basked in the glow of the attention. I stewed in the unfairness of it all, unable to say anything because, well, we all know why. Punishment for doing the wrong thing, no matter how well intended, can take many forms. I was scarred for life.

And for many years she continued to take credit for writing the poem every time my parents would brag about it. We were in our thirties when she finally admitted that I had really written it. No one cared. The moment had long passed.

About five years ago my mom came across a folded piece of lined notebook paper, upon which was the original poem, meticulously copied by my sister from my work. She'd signed her name to it, middle initial included, and sometime over the years my mom had added "By' over her name.

Someone else had added something over the years. In very light pencil, at the very bottom, it says: "This poem was not penned by <sister's name withheld to protect the not-so-innocent> - ask her!"

I am sure you can figure out who added that note.

Here is the poem, recreated in its original form:

Hair, hair is everywhere,

In the sink, down the drain,

On the floors, and window panes,

In the brushes, in the combs,

Every place in our big home,

In the vacuum, In the hall,

Even sticking to the walls,

And of course, it's more than,

Dad can bear,

Cause he's the only one with

Short hair

P.S. (He always gets stuck
          Cleaning the hair up.)

Just to show there were no hard feelings, I framed the lined piece of notebook paper containing the poem for my sister and gave to her for her birthday a few years ago.

And now that I am finally over that trauma, I have once again picked up paper and pencil (and laptop) in earnest. 

Wish me luck. After all, the world is ending soon.