This was back in my teens. I think. Damn it was such a long ass time a go. Back in the day before Facebook, and all the other social media shit was even in my obit of giving a damn.
I remember sitting down in my bath robe after getting out of bed in my grandmother’s living room at the dining room table with my notebook and a pencil after a bowl of cereal and I started writing.
I grew up writing freehand. I wrote short stories, poetry, notes, thoughts, lists, ideas, etc
I was always writing. But, I had never really sat down and wrote out a whole story. I think it had to do with a dream I had. It had been a good one. I had to capture the story or memory.
But, really when I think about that writer’s moment. The moment had been one of those times I couldn’t stop writing. I didn’t want to watch tv, play video games or do anything but write.
I spent hours all day at that table writing. No one bothered me. My mother brought me lunch and dinner. I had sat there and just wrote. I had been trapped in that moment until I had finished the story and got up blinking surprised that the day was nearly over.
I vaguely remember going to the bathroom but all in all I can remember is writing and make sure each word was spaced and was chosen clearfully and clearly spelled as best as I could spell it. I sounded out words when I didn’t know how to spell them. I smiled when I got it right and went on. I could do this forever. I don’t have that notebook sadly but I do have the story in a doc on my computer.
It had taken me several months afterward to transcribe into my computer doc because even as I was putting it in the doc I kept having to add more to it. It was my first story that got longer as I typed it out from my notebook.
It wasn’t that good. But, it was an experience to remember. A moment in time I knew who I was in that format.
This was my normal. I didn’t realize how weird it was until I got around people in college and in the world that didn’t have something like that.