You will have to indulge me with this post. I’m heading into the past.
My parents gave me a bag of notebooks, two bags in fact of notebooks. These notebooks contain the scribbles of my 14 to 18 year old self (I’m twenty two now) There is a lot of cringe here, thank you to my teachers who read this stuff, and said they liked it. There is also some nostalgia here. Take a grey notebook, entitled Kelly’s story.
I remember this notebook being the ideal size for me to carry around in my school blazer pocket, taking it out as and when inspiration struck me to write the story.
Tied in with these notebooks is my mental health problems. I literally put everything on these pages. Anything that was too much to handle in my head I made into a story, hence why every character I created had ‘issues’ The characters are also me in various guises. The angry person I was, the searching for belonging person I was, and the person I wanted to become.
Go back even further are my Doctor Who fan fiction stories. My handwriting appeared to be smaller than it is now, but no less messier. I was a Doctor Who nerd in my teenage years. I wrote a lot of fan fiction stories, which then seemed to morph into attempts of a historical story, involving the Tudors, and a murder mystery, which didn’t make the final page of the notebook. There is also a historical story set in 1950s America. No doubt this was inspired by the films I was watching, with Jimmy Dean, Marlon Brando, Cary Grant, and Humphrey Bogart. Again the dialogue cringe is strong here.
It makes me sad seeing these notebooks, because how can somebody with so much potential, so many interests, still slip through the cracks? I was like, and still am, a sponge of knowledge. I want to know everything. I squirrel away facts in my head for fun. I am now, at the age of twenty two, trying to find my way back into society from the wilderness. I guess that is the cruel nature of mental illness. If it doesn’t kill you it leaves you at a serious disadvantage; affecting work, education, your social life.
I started to write poetry when I was 16. I hated it as a 15 year old for my GCSE’s. Who analyses poetry? You’re killing it by doing that. I never want to read The Lady of Shallot again. GCSE’s killed that one stone dead for me. I don’t mind talking, and trying to understand the poem, especially in context to the times it is written in, but analysing it to the very core? God, no. My poetry as a 16 year old was pretty typical stuff; writing about my depression, not fitting in, etc.
All in all, I am glad to see how my writing has matured, and become much more enjoyable to read without ridiculous need for hyperbole.
Thank you for reading my writing. Are there any facts, or figures, which you know, and would like to share? I am all ears.