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Rated: E · Non-fiction · Writing · #798464
My first real writing experience; the first spark of my imagination.
Opening the back door, a backlash of heat soaked into my ivory skin. I tipped my face upward and squinted my eyes, then pulled the door shut in front of me. The roar of the air-conditioner breathed forth a refreshing breeze. Bored, I collapsed on my bed.

Lingering in my head were ideas of what to do. I lifted my head to see the small blank television screen, then dropped it back on the soft pillow. I wanted to accomplish something. Not wanting to stay in bed all day, I dragged my restless body away from it "What is there to do in here?" I asked myself.

A thought slapped me in the face as if to say, "Wake up!" Opening one of my many slender drawers, I found a pile of clean typing paper. I took a few sheets, then more, just in case I might run out. I reached into a smaller drawer and felt for a pencil.

After grabbing a hardback book, I flopped down beside my bed. Staring at the blank paper, I searched my brain for something to write about.

All of the sudden, vivid images of people doing certain things came to my mind. Like a dream in the night, they continued. My imagination breathed life into these images. These characters were my puppets, whom were doomed to what I scratched down on paper.

"Where do I begin?" I thought. I have never written about imaginary people before. I didn't know how to convey what I wanted the readers to know about these people. The blank paper stared up at me as a reminder of my abilities of a writer. I shut down the intimidation by jotting down the title, which was Mystery Woman. Tapping my pencil in a nervous rage, I began to formulate names for these people.

After I figured out names, my pencil took over and I didn't have to think. Words flowed from my pencil that I never thought I would use. It works! I can make these images come to life on paper! The situations seemed so real that I got caught up in the storyline that silently erupted from within my mind.

My concentration couldn't be broken. Sentence after sentence, I sped ahead, my aching fingers trying to catch up with my ideas. The pencil flew free like an eagle across the paper, leaving words behind.

However, one problem was yet to be solved. I had entertained not a thought into where or how I was going to tie the loose ends together. The ideas came one after another, but they had to stop somewhere. I clenched my pencil in one fist and shook it to the side of my head. I felt like I was trapped in a pitch dark hallway with no end in sight.

My mother called out, "Time for dinner."

Finding no solution for my dilemma, I glanced at the gray markings on the used paper and laid it aside. Pulling myself up from my cramped position, I rubbed my worn eyes and walked slowly to the kitchen, leaving my story with no end behind.

Note: I did finish this. I still have it on file and a revised version has been typed with the help and support of a wonderful 8th grade English teacher. Thanks Ms. Michele Peers, where ever you are. I'll never forget you. This piece I started so long ago led to "Invalid Item,"New York City Calling, and "Caring For A Suffering Soul.
© Copyright 2004 Beth Barnett (angellove at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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