What is it that makes you the writer you are. Over the last week this is something that has run through my mind like Pheidippides. It is something I never thought of, though it is something I know I should have. Writing has always been something cathartic for me. It is therapy! I guess most writers and artists use their art to fight off their demons. I am no different. I just never truly thought about where mine came from.
My Darkness, which is what I can truly call it. Comes from a place in my childhood. It’s something I forgot about. There are a few years of my childhood that are blank, and I’m not sure what happened in those years. I ask my mom and she tells me, but I honestly have no recollection of it.
It mostly started when I was in third grade, that is where huge blocks of time vanish. I had a teacher, we’ll call him Mr. W. Mr. W. was was not a very nice person. There are times now that I recall things, little things where I was just an eight year old kid trying to figure things out, keep my sanity with my parents divorce and figure out if it was my fault, it wasn’t. Come to find out my parents were more screwed up then they let on, something I found out when I turned eighteen.
Anyway, back to Mr. W., We had a play where we were singing in front of the school. We wore these silly little raindrops and sang “Rain drops keep falling on my head.” Well, someone messed up with a sign in the back of the stage, I happened to look back at them. After the performance, Mr. W., the wonderful person he was. Pulled me out of line and belittled me in front of all the other kids. Now I was used to being belittled, my dad did it often. But, by a teacher it was new.
I am thirty-five now, teachers don’t understand the effect they have on kids. This is the one moment of that year I remember because I felt as big as gnat.
Now that I’ve had time to look back on that day, a lot of time. I can say he was wrong, I was just a kid watching another kid screw up and thought it was funny. He was an adult who should be glad I didn’t tell me dad what he did.
So Mr. W. wherever you are, I hope you enjoyed treating an eight year old like he was trash. He grew up to be a writer who could kill you off in the next paragraph!