What is The History of Me? Just that. While I’m not sure that this project will be successfull, I can’t help being intrigued by the concept. You see, I’m a writer by heart. One of my earliest memories consist of my party animal father bragging about my reading skills to his, most likely drunk, friends. I remember him handing me whatever was around to read, a newspaper, a TVGuide, or a label on furniture. While I was much to young, three or four years old, to even remotely be able to acknowledge whether my reading was fluent or not, I can only assume that I must have been mildly capable, as it seemed that this was somewhat of a party trick for my dad. I sincerely believe that this premature cognition of the English language contributed to my love of the written word.
By the time I entered elemetary school, I found myself mesmerized by storytelling. I wrote frequently, and criticized my work harshly. I was somewhat embarrassed of what I felt was my craft, afraid of being ridiculed and critiqued by others. I was in second grade when I began working on a play. There were two young girls that I played with most of the time, and I had written parts for both of them. I was confident that we could create a wonderful production that we would perform in front of the classroom, and become instant celebrities. When the day came, however, for me to reveal my script and begin casting and rehearsals, I choked. I couldn’t bring it up. my childhood was reserved and quiet, and this went against my personality grain. I couldn’t do it.
I kept writing, though. I wrote story after story all the way up into high school. My English teacher read a story of mine in front of the class, keeping the author anonymous, a story consisting of a disgruntled student shooting and killing everyone at the Senior Prom. A story that would most definitely get me arrested in this post-Columbine era. A story that I was extremely proud of. It was filled with death and gore, and the disturbed looks on the faces of the students in the classroom told me what I needed to know. It was good. Their disgust could only come if the story described the situation accurately, right? As the prom queen was executed in a hail of bullets that ripped a limb from her body, the girl in desk in front of me turned around and said, “You fucking wrote that didn’t you?”
I smiled. Indeed I had.
I met my wife that year. I fell in love with her. I married her and had two children with her. We’ve recently celebrated 18 years together. I started a new life with her, but my literary life abruptly ended. Suddenly I couldn’t find the time to devote to a story. The ideas swam in my head daily. I dreamed about them, I relived the scenes over and over in my mind, but a writer’s life is a solitude life and I had found companionship. How could I properly lose myself in a story when my wife wanted to tell me about her day. Kids came. Now I share my life with three others. I love them, and I enjoy seeing and talking to them daily, but my writing is all but completely lost.
I still love storytelling. I’m “that guy” at the party. I’ve got a million anecdotes that spew from my mouth as freshly as the first time I told them. My wife can’t tell a story for shit, she gives the ending away too quick, doesn’t keep interest, gives the wrong details, etc. My son has acquired this habit as well. They now hand the ball to me.
”Remember that time when….?” They cue. I take the ball and run.
Sometimes I feel as if I’ll die before putting together another piece of writing. So I’m doing this. “This” is a blog that I will write in regularly. “This” will be about everything in my life that I feel is entertaining to read. “This” will be vulgar and disgusting at times, as I am most definitely not the most conservative of people. “This” will be private and anonymous. My family and friends will not be made aware of it, at least not yet, and will allow me full disclosure. “This” will get me writing again. It will allow me to rediscover my long dormant passion. “This” is The History of Me.