In school, we used to receive termly “reports” on how we were doing in class and how we were progressing in each subject. Each time I received a report, I would sit down with my parents and discuss what the teachers had to say about me, if it was good then I was allowed an extra scoop of ice cream and if it was bad I was forced to sit through a lecture of “do’s”, “don’ts” and “Try harder”. in my own defense however, it was never really THAT bad, in fact, it always seemed to say the same thing. My legacy at primary school was remaining in the top reading group throughout the whole 7 years. This of course was due to my abnormally fast and slightly intimidating reading skills and the fact that by the age of 8 I had already worked my way through the first 4 Harry Potter books and the Chronicles of Narnia. But surprisingly enough (and quite disappointingly I must add) , my school report never seemed to focus on this, what can only be described, as an amazing feet of intelligence. Instead, my teacher always managed to highlight the fact that my spelling was absolutely atrocious.
It would be wrong of me to say that this was a drastic understatement because, alas, I was never one for spelling. Right up until Year 6 I had private lessons during “art time” where I would sit in the library with the supply teacher looking, covering, writing and checking for what felt like a millennium.
Personally, I blame my poor art skills on these spelling lessons. Who knows, I may have been the next Van Gogh or even Banksy… but no, I was too busy writing and rewriting “Superstitious” and “Wednesday” to discover my hidden artist.
Alongside this, my teacher would always add a comment about my “marvelous but slightly overused” imagination. I can only guess that this was due to the fact that almost everyone of my pieces of writing included either fairies, pirates, aliens or talking animals. Yes, it is possible to incorporate these things into a newspaper article about the great fire of London, trust me.
It may have been overused back then, but this imagination has done me well throughout my 18 years, I can honestly say that there is hardly ever a dull moment when you are able to lay and think and amuse yourself for hours, simply with your own thoughts.
Yet, the problem I seem to be having, especially recently, is the fact that so many of these “thoughts” have lead to a story, and I don’t mean a little tale, like the kind you tell to a child before they go to sleep. I mean seriously novel worthy stories with sequels and prequels and plots and characters that I’ve thought about so much that they almost seem real.
It’s these stories which I have, for years, been trying and failing to get down onto paper. I honestly can’t explain it, it’s like it’s all “up there” and it all makes perfect sense and the more I think about it the more I just want to share it with everybody, but as soon as I try… nothing.
My younger sister has sat, time after time, listening to my story lines, practically begging me to just “write the damn thing already”. But I’m starting to dread that it will never happen, that these thoughts will just remain up in my head for forever and and no one will ever get to enjoy them. I think I might have to leave my story notes to somebody in my will, just in case the worst happens and I never finish writing them. Until then however, I think I’m just going to have to suck it up and keep trying, maybe just power through it all, leaving the criticizing and editing until the whole thing is done.
My plan this summer is to try and get something down,
I’m remaining optimistic, maybe this time it will work?