Saturday, January 8, 2011

12 pages of wonder

Being the rather a well read and obnoxious child that I was and after having read through our library at home under my covers by torchlight long after my mother had come in to tell me to turn off the lights, leading to a lifetime of ocular health issues, I decided that I would write my own book. I remember sitting down with my blank A4 exercise book and a pen, aged 7, to write what would undoubtedly be the first of many best selling novels that I would write.  With every page of literary genius that I churned out I experienced a growing feeling of satisfaction so naturally I plugged on. I was born for this! I was a writing machine! Tolkien? Shakespeare? Wordsworth? Pffft if only they could see the glory that was spewing forth from my pen!  After a while I began to lose inspiration but the yearning from that page-by-page satisfaction was such that I couldn’t stop…I was a junkie! In a desperate attempt to maintain that high my already large and as yet undeveloped handwriting became massive scrawl. After a few pages of writing large enough for those with the visually impaired to read clear as day, I ran out of sentences and began writing single non-related words one letter per page until eventually it was just letters, numbers, punctuation points and the occasional drawing of a horse, every so slightly mutated due to the extreme writers cramp…A4 page sized letters can be quite taxing on the hand muscles of an under sized 7 years old.

When we were moving house 2 years later I found my book, it was written across 4 exercise books actually, there were 397 pages of wonder…well…361 if you discount the drawings and scrawling…about 200 if you take out the parts that don’t make sense and around 12 if you ignore the bits that I had unwittingly plagiarised from my favourite series of books about horses which 9 year old Cakes had long outgrown. I was devastated to learn that 7-year-old Cakes was so free of literary integrity and proceeded to tear out every page…getting angrier and angrier, finally throwing them in the bin.

To this day, I still can’t remember the name of that horse themed series that I loved so entirely that I subconsciously rewrote it. 7-year-old Cakes would be so disappointed in me.

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