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Friday, January 22, 2010

The Writing Portfolio

As a genetic pack rat (I'm calling myself this because I believe I can blame the "pack rat" gene on my mother, who got it from her mother, who probably got it from her mother, but I digress...) I tend to keep things that might be important one day.

Like a writing portfolio.

To my joy I stumbled across this little treasure earlier this week where it was stuffed in the top of our basement closet. Flipping through it I found all sorts of little jewels; a short story from high school, descriptive observations, a story I wrote for the little Park's girls I used to babysit, poems from the seventh grade, and the crowning jewel- the beginning of a book I wrote: A Haunted Summer.

I know the title has you begging for more.

A little background info: My BFF/sworn enemy (and I say this because it is pure truth, we were best friends, or she was throwing a brick at my head, there was no in-between) Wendy and I were obsessed with Ann M. Martin's series The Babysitter's Club when we were kids. Who wasn't, right? They were the best :). Well, I began this book based on that series. The hook that is written on the front of the book is, drum roll please, "Eight stories about eight girls and their seven weeks of haunted summer."

I kind of want to post it on here, but I'm afraid Ann M. Martin might feel I'm breaking some copyright laws or something. Instead I am posting two poems: a bio poem from the seventh grade and one entitled The Gift that I wrote as a senior. Classics, both.

Amy Wilson (1996)

Funny, pretty, responsible, athletic
Sister of Cami, Sam, James, and Clay
Lover of boys, soccer, and Christmas
Who feels lonely when there's no one around, happy during the Christmas season, sad when someone dies
Who needs more rabbits, perfect teeth, and a boyfriend
Who would like lots of presents at Christmas, everyone to keep the golden rule, and to find a cure to cancer
Resident of Lolly Land, Bubble Ville, and Kaysville

The Gift (2002)
My childhood was...
the royal emerald green grass that caressed my bare feet as I skipped along the lawn.
the crowded room, and the one lone mattress on the messy and cluttered floor that was my solace, my bed.
the sweet smell of the fragrant spring blossoms that permeated the crisp air on an April morning.
sounds of familiar voices echoing in my ears as I hid so silently and carefully in the blackness of the basement closet.
admiring my graceful sister as she waltzed down the hallway to meet her Prince Charming who was waiting so gallantly for her arrival.
allowing my worn out body to lay and rest anywhere it decided to fall, even if it was in a pile of smelly soiled laundry.
dipping my tired and worn child feet into the cool babbling creek while sipping a bubbly and refreshing Coke.
playing kick the can, hide and seek, and cops and robbers for hours on end without tire, or the slightest inkling of boredom.
the comfort of the large, strong arms that encircled my skinny body with the love of my father every morning without fail.
spinning in circles and tumbling to the ground, only to watch the trees spin in circles quickly around me.
pedaling my bike up endless hills as the herd of neighborhood children followed close behind at my heels.
putting on a brilliant show for whoever would pay attention to the music and the dance that was all choreographed and performed by me.
sloppily licking my dripping fire-stick ice cream cone as the cinnamon taste flooded my mouth with flavor.
spending time on a painting, and making every stroke as tenderly as my tiny hands could manage until the colorful flower on the white sheet was completed... only to hold it up and have the paint drip and the colors mix.
skipping, napping, dancing, painting, giggling, running, hopping, and experiencing the world without a single worry or care.
...a precious gift; something that for the rest of my busy life, so filled with worry and concern, I will treasure as something rare, beautiful, and impeccably close to perfect.

I want to put one more on here. It was the final poem I wrote for my creative writing class:

Solace (2002)
Elegant Gaea, cloaked in a glittering black;
I bow like narcissus in submission of night.
The warmth fills my soul and I begin to relax
as sleep comes like Eden, and I no longer fight.

My mind drifts away on a pillow of clouds,
and my thoughts explore endless seas;
I could live in this place, if time allows,
and like a nymph, I could roam as I please.

This sleep is ambrosia to my mind,
immortal thoughts of a fairy tale land;
where all is possible, and easy to find,
and in reach of any mortal man's hand.

My solace is dreams that come in the dark,
and lift me from days that are dull;
these dreams are a light, a new found spark,
and are worth more than Midas' gold.

Lovely, right? I'm so glad I'm a pack rat.


Erin said...

I love that your first poem mentions boys and boyfriends. How old were you? Just kidding!

I have stuff like that too. Being a packrat isn't all that bad!

Trent and Whit said...

I read these and feel like I should be in Dave Thacker's basement snapping my fingers. :) I'm glad you're a pack-rat, too!

marciea casselman said...

I discovered a story that my mother had saved that I wrote in elementary school about Halloween.
It is quite a treasure but certainly not as prolific and beautiful as your writings...

Wendy said...

You did need more rabbits. Can you imagine the races we would have had?! You're the coolest :)

k.k. chamberlain said...

How could you forget magnetic poetry at Matt Farr's?? Painted love will shine like red/ chains of love rust on/ I need sleep/ before I need like this again.

LOVE IT. Love you! What a fun post.