An Origin Story

I started writing my first novel in 1996. I was 15 years old. This was before the massive popularity of computers (at least in my household... I mean, my dad had one... with dial up... and AOL (AOL was so new that I did not even know that it stood for America Online.) All I knew about the internet back then was that I was not allowed on it. AKA, I could never figure out his password, which is really surprising because he is a very simple man.

It began, it ALL began because of a music video that I saw on my little brother's television. (How was it fair that he, the younger sibling, not only got a television but he got the password to log onto whatever Direct TV satellite system we had... but I digress...) Either way, one day before he came home from middle school, I was watching MTV (for you youngin's, MTV used to play music videos).

I don't think there is a way to tell this where it isn't embarrassing, so I'm just going to spit it out. The music video that caught my attention was 'Quit Playing Games (With My Heart)' by the Backstreet Boys.



How I got my neighbor involved with this boy band, I do not fully recall. She lived next door, and it didn't take long for our youthful obsession to take root.

Aside from writing lines when I was seven or eight after getting caught playing in rain puddles (it was Oregon after all) without my rain gear on, I don't remember writing a lot outside of school; however, I knew that I loved it and it was something that I wanted to continue.

As a teenager, the very first thing I remember writing was with her. It was in a five subject spiral notebook, and it was fan fiction. To be fair, I didn't really learn what fan fiction was until recent years. We wrote by hand, on the front and back pages of this notebook, and we kept writing until it was full and we needed another. Any spare moment we had we had spent writing and creating this fantastical story that involved knowing the Backstreet Boys in real life.

Before long, we were breaking the household rules of teenagers. My neighbor would go to sleep at her place, and I would stay awake at mine until my drunk father passed out in the living room. The volume of the television there was on the high side, so it was quiet easy for me to stuff pillows under my blanket, turn off the light, and quietly sneak out of my room. As soon I was out of my room I would take a sharp left and walk through the laundry room to the door that opened up to our back deck. From there, I would sneak over with a flashlight to my neighbor's house where she would leave the front door open. She had both parents and three brothers in the house asleep and I would sneak from the front door to her bedroom to wake her up.

After we were ready to go, we snuck back out her front door with blankets and would walk the mile or so down to the river. We climbed down the boulders and settled beneath the bridge next to the water and would take turns writing by flashlight for hours. There was one time we went from there back to a tree house in her back yard and wrote until it began to get light again.

I can't recall how long it took, but we wrote well over 600 hand written pages. There was plenty of cheese, and the limited knowledge of romance that two young teens knew, throughout the book. Once finished, we had grown and matured and decided that we liked the core story, but we could do better. We grabbed a ridiculous amount of single subject spiral notebooks and started our first rewrite/edit. I didn't know that's what it was at the time. I just knew that I could write better, with less cheese. Seven notebooks later, we were done again and it felt good.

That story, at least some iteration of it has always stuck with me. Names have changed over the years, and there's no longer a band attached to the story in my heart, but I will probably carry it with me forever. I don't know if that's a sign that I need to write it again (I think I burned the original copies (one of the few things I completely regret in my youth) or if it is just meant to live in my heart forever.

I have grown so much over the past twenty plus years. I wrote and published a book of poetry, and I love writing poetry. I find it fun and a great way to work through my emotions (I used to be a bottler), but, I can feel it deep in my soul. A yearning to put the time and effort into writing a novel. Maybe not fan fiction. Maybe not the stories that I have started and stopped over the past decade, but the desire is still very much alive.

Dog Days Are Over

"Kirby," I yelled from the deck into the seemingly endless mountainside of trees. "Come 'ere girl!" I jiggled a box of milk bones and then listened to the forest. The creek down the path was flowing strongly even though it only took two rocks to get to the other side. Birds were chirping as if the end of days was coming; however, they kept out of sight.

I sucked in my breath and paused. The bushes further up the mountain began rustling. I stood immovable. "Kirby?" I whispered quizzically. The shrubbery froze and then blue jays scattered into the air as my yellow Labrador cam bounding out of the brush. Her tongue lollied out of the right side of her panting mouth. She was smiling at me and I was the happiest I had ever been.

Two seconds too late did I realize that she was barreling at me, full speed. I toppled over in laughter as she threw her entire weight into rubbing against me. I laughed even harder as she gave me kisses on my knees and elbows, and face. I scratched her behind her ears and her hind leg started kicking uncontrollably. "Want a treat?"

With those words, Kirby because all business. I could see her trying to anticipate what I would have her do. She was already sitting pretty, but then would start to lay down if I shifted my eyes. I would raise my right hand and she would follow and then I would quickly switch it to the left. She saw my trickery coming though and beat me to the punch ready to shake like the best girl. I gave her the milk bone and she decimated it.

"Are they really that tasty?" I asked Kirby fully expecting a response. I lifted a biscuit to my nose and inhaled. "Doesn't smell great." I stuck out my tongue and squinted my eyes as I struggled to press the treat to my mouth. I licked it, icked, and then passed it to Kirby. "You're weird." I smiled as she took her second reward.

There were many times I was jealous of Kirby. She didn't need to ask permission to go outside. She was allowed to explore on her own. It didn't matter the weather, she was allowed to play in the creek and sun bathe on the deck. She was always being given free treats (even if I didn't see the appeal) and could lounge around all day. Needless to say, all I wanted to be when I grew up was a dog.

Kirby, our precious food vacuum cleaner has been gone for more than twenty years but I still miss her. She was a wonderful dog. She will forever be miss, but she will also forever be mine.

Haiku Clues

Since I started April on a serious note instead of embracing the tom foolery of the day, I figured that I can compensate for it by writing a few Haiku's. Although I keep with the five-seven-five format, I don't fully follow tradition by focusing on nature or emotion. I enjoy bringing my quirky personality into my writing.

I was probably in the third or fourth grade when I first learned about Haiku's. Being my mother's daughter, I enjoyed making toilet humor poetry as a kid. I can almost guarantee that as an adult I have given my mother at least one mother's day poem that involved farting. (I love you mom!)

I truly grasped the idea of poetry in my junior year of high school for an American Literature assignment. After that, I wrote hundreds. I make no claim that any of them were good, but it gave me a creative way to release all of the feelings I would bottle up. Once I met my husband I got so much happier than I had ever been and I really struggled to write poetry. It wasn't until this past year where I learned to take emotions from shows that I would watch or from other people's experience that I could still write with angst and that I could write about emotions or situations that were outside of what I was currently feeling. This became freeing to me. I still can't claim that any of my poetry is good, but it feels amazing to be creating again.

And now, for the Haiku's... They have a story to tell. They probably too easily express an announcement that I am excited to make. If you figure it out, send me a direct message on Facebook or Twitter @Shethinks23! Here are your four Haiku clues:

I have a secret.

This bridge is not falling down.

November is near.

Autumn is the best.

Take a stroll through a new park.

I will ride a bus.

Old architecture

We will take time to explore

See all from the eye.

History abounds

My dreams are reality

Seven month count down.

Always The Fool

Many moons ago, when I was a mere lass in the 7th and 8th grade (we don't need to talk about what the year was) I had a friend named Lisa. I had known Lisa for a couple of years and she was one of a few people that spoke to me kindly in middle school. We did a science project together one year. We made a volcano. Neither one of us were very artistic or creative. We didn't win. That's not what this story is about though.

This is about when I first started to realize that she was lying to me. This was the first time someone took the secrets I had told them and then told other girls those very personal things. This was one of the hardest times of my youth. My instincts were right about her all along, but my desperation for a friend outweighed the lies that were told to my face.

It all ended on the very last day of 8th grade. As I was heading toward my final bus ride home before beginning high school the next year Lisa and her small group of friends approached me and handed me a note. "Read it on the bus! I cannot wait for this summer, right girls?" They nodded and smiled at me. I felt loved. I really had friends, and I couldn't wait for the bus to get going to read my note. I excitedly climbed onto the bus, found a seat, and waved at Lisa and the girls with a giant smile on my face. They were smiling too, but for very different reasons.

As the bus rolled out of the school parking long that day in June, I leaned my head against the cool window and slowly unfolded the note, dreaming up all of the fun things we were going to do over the summer together. I don't recall the exact verbiage anymore, and that's probably a good thing, but it was a friendship break up letter. It was written in Lisa's bubbly handwriting with colored markers and signed by all of the girls. In tiny letters (I actually thought the page was just marked up), they called me a stupid fat bitch and that they had never been friends with me.

I ended 8th grade and started high school with no friends. I wouldn't wish that on anyone. Even now. Because even after all these years, it still hurts a little and that hurt annoys me more than anything. This wasn't the start of me being bullied as a kid, but this is the first time I let it really get to me. I haven't talked to Lisa since that day even though we spent four years in high school together. My only hope for her now is that she grew out of that phase of her life and that she treats people with respect.

Always The Fool
ⓒ Kay Marie

Fingers tapping on the linoleum counter.
One, two, three. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Her eyes darted to the door and then back at me.
She was waiting to see which lie I would believe.

She opened her mouth, words crackled, garbled
as if she placed her excuses into the blender.
Broken down, molded into a mess.
Without warning, silence and clarity.
Her silvery charm danced across her tongue.
The sun that once shined into the kitchen faded into night.

A fight is brewing.
She speaks to me, but her body tells a different story.
Her poker face is starting to crumble,
and in a fraction of a moment she second guessed herself.
I have caught her, but I don't say a word.
Her friendship was more important than the lies spilling from her soul.

I could see both sides of her now.
The silent sister and the raging storm.
No matter which one I chose back then,
I would always be the fool.