My most Malicious Memoir
Most memorable moments in life are often the most surprising, out-of-place, and disturbing.
Mine is no exception.
This memoir is a collection of my experiences in writing, and my journey of literacy, possibly written in no particular order, but then again, it might just be organized, like what my mother might do.
My first experiences in authorship began when I first learned how to read, which was at an early age. I was actually reading The Hobbit at a grand age of seven years old. Then came writing. I took a pencil and began to move it around in a motion that induced words to appear on the piece of paper. This sometimes caused mishaps, like when I stabbed myself in the hand with a pencil, to this day, my hand bears that little blue-ish black dot. Still, I could not be stopped. I wrote stories on paper as any kid might.
Then, there came that time when I could simply press buttons on a keyboard and make words.
How simple! How wonderful! Such a magnificent invention! Pencil and paper were soon forgotten as I explored this wonderful new thing. I, with the help of my mother, made stories of fiction, stories of truth, and stories of whimsicalness. I wrote a story about my pet bird, I wrote a story about a baby kangaroo, and I wrote a story about a monkey. I wrote many things with the help of my mother. But I didn’t write nearly as much as I read.
That became a trend for many a winter, just reading and no writing. Then I created a blog, and for a year or so I typed faithfully for my only audience, which was my family. Then, as I matured, I started to hate my blog because of it’s immaturity and shameless plagiarism. Posts slowed to an eventual stop, and it was forgotten and not even left on my favourites anymore.
My spelling had since become top-of-the-line pernickety near perfection. My vocabulary continued to expand until I was quite beyond text-speak by a long shot.
My hand writing had become abysmal with neglect, and I still had the habit of always writing capital D’s and B’s no matter where they were. But no matter what, I would always enjoy sitting back and picking up a new book to read. Always.
Then I didn’t write anymore for a very long time, until one day, inspired by C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien, I decided to begin a fantasy book. The movement failed and the story sits without new written word in it as a word document on my computer. Still, I might continue it someday. Shortly after that, I attended a writing workshop and listened to an author (That I had never heard of before) and learned her back story. I had only been in a writing class with a famous author once before a long time ago, where the author in question was Sigmund Brouwer. After the author has presented herself, we learned how to write a memoir.
This brings me back to the start. I have written a memoir as was required of me and put a nice alliterating title on top of it. I have written it in approximately twenty minutes while stuffing candy in my mouth and drinking African Chai tea. I have saved it as a word document and have printed it in black ink. If I ever write another memoir about writing, I shall include my experience in writing this memoir about writing.
I will spend my time writing loopholes and cliffhangers, hopefully with tea on hand.
The End (For now).