A Writing Exercise
Got this from the writing exercise link on the right side of this page: Pick a first memory and create a character around it or something like that. It included a link to a collection of first memories (interesting reading BTW). I took one and this is the incomplete work I've come up with.
I was digging a hole in the dirt mound behind my house. I thought that if I dug far enough I could make a home like the rabbits that lived in the woods at the end of the street. I had done something wrong. I must have because Mom and Dad were yelling, at each other, at me. What did I do wrong? I've tried so hard to be good. I'll live with the rabbits and Mom and Dad will smile again. I was 2 years old.
I was playing on the swings at the park. I had finally mastered the trick of swinging my legs back and forth so that I could go higher. I was wonderful. I kept kicking and at the top of the swing I felt like I was flying over the whole playground. Then the swing would come down and my stomach would lurch a little but in a good way. It was freedom, better than anything I ever felt at home, where everything was silent and angry. Kicking my legs forward, again I swung up over the playground but my hands slipped. I was falling off, towards the hard packed dirt below. They'll be so angry with me. I was 4 years old.
I was sitting on my porch. It was the summertime and I was playing with matches. I lit them one at a time and tossed them onto the dry grass. I knew it was wrong but I did it anyway. Mom was at work, she was always working since Dad left. I hadn't seen him since, maybe two years. At the time, I could still remember what his face looked like. The grass caught fire a couple of times and I kicked it out. I picked up the spent matches, not wanting to leave evidence, and walked to a park several neighborhoods over. By the time I returned the smoldering grass had reignited and consumed my house. My mom held me crying. I kept my hands in my pocket. I was 8 years old.
Not sure what to do with this but it was an interesting exercise writing it.
I was digging a hole in the dirt mound behind my house. I thought that if I dug far enough I could make a home like the rabbits that lived in the woods at the end of the street. I had done something wrong. I must have because Mom and Dad were yelling, at each other, at me. What did I do wrong? I've tried so hard to be good. I'll live with the rabbits and Mom and Dad will smile again. I was 2 years old.
I was playing on the swings at the park. I had finally mastered the trick of swinging my legs back and forth so that I could go higher. I was wonderful. I kept kicking and at the top of the swing I felt like I was flying over the whole playground. Then the swing would come down and my stomach would lurch a little but in a good way. It was freedom, better than anything I ever felt at home, where everything was silent and angry. Kicking my legs forward, again I swung up over the playground but my hands slipped. I was falling off, towards the hard packed dirt below. They'll be so angry with me. I was 4 years old.
I was sitting on my porch. It was the summertime and I was playing with matches. I lit them one at a time and tossed them onto the dry grass. I knew it was wrong but I did it anyway. Mom was at work, she was always working since Dad left. I hadn't seen him since, maybe two years. At the time, I could still remember what his face looked like. The grass caught fire a couple of times and I kicked it out. I picked up the spent matches, not wanting to leave evidence, and walked to a park several neighborhoods over. By the time I returned the smoldering grass had reignited and consumed my house. My mom held me crying. I kept my hands in my pocket. I was 8 years old.
Not sure what to do with this but it was an interesting exercise writing it.
posted by Danielle at Tuesday, May 02, 2006
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