The year continues to be challenging, but I’m hanging in there. This past weekend was spent avoiding snow and cold temperatures and pretty much staying inside. We also stayed home on Monday, partially because of the conditions and partially because we were both feeling under the weather. Today was my first day back at work, and it felt like a Monday. Jon also got news of a wrench thrown into our budget plans for the next few months, so that was pretty disheartening. I’ve been depressed anyway, so I’m having a hard time going with the flow right now.
On a positive note for the night, it was chilly but not horrible, so Jon and I took a walk down Poyntz. I was in a funk, so I didn’t really stop to enjoy things, but being outside was somewhat therapeutic. We also attended a geocaching event at the mall. It was just a quick flash mob, but it gave me a chance to wear my jersey, which still doesn’t fit well, but I can put it on now. Progress!
One interesting thing I did this weekend was to read some of my old journals. Blogging really isn’t new to me, I just did it using pen and paper for years. Oh, and I kept it secret. Which is good, because the first journal I picked up to read was from my second semester in college, and boy…was I strange. I was angry and stressed, my priorities were completely out of whack, I had mean thoughts about everyone and everything, and I spent a lot of time “having fun.” I always remember college fondly. When anyone asks me, I truthfully say that I had a blast in my time at Lake State. But my journal reminded me that not everything was sunshine and roses. Of course, it was only a short time frame I was reading about because I tended to write pages and pages for just one night or one event. Still, it was a bit uncomfortable.
After traveling back to freshman year, I went even further back and pulled out my diary from third grade. Hilarious! I talk about all kinds of important things, like what I had for lunch, who I hung out with at recess, the recap from the latest episode of Jem (because she was, and always will be, truly outrageous), and the boys I thought were cute (2/3 of the list was actors). My favorite thing, though, was a story I started writing. Besides the content, it was funny to see that I’d very carefully written out every word, like I wanted it to look like it had been typed.
To perk myself up and to show what a goofball I was at such an early age, I’m going to share my story here. Feel free to skip if you’re not into the (word for word, I kid you not) creative writings of a nine-year old.
The Stranger – by Amanda S.
A man in a black suit walked down the street. His pants were tight-fitting. His shirt hung loose around him. His black jacket was slung over his shoulder. His black boots were dusty. His shirt was tucked into his pants and his pants were tucked into his boots. His hair was black, and he wore dark sunglasses.
Nobody in the small town of Alonta, Michigan had ever seen him. Little did they know, he would become their worst nightmare.
Sue Antonio was daydreaming as usual on the job in the “St. Luey” coffee shop. She was an unmarried woman of 23. She was tall and slender. She had frizzy, strawberry-blond hair, and bright blue eyes. On either cheek, she had a small sprinkle of freckles. Sue worked in the St. Luey coffee shop from 9:00am to 12:00pm. She lived with her boss, also her best friend, Maria Maio.
Sue got payed well enough to buy herself a house. But she had come to think of Maria’s house as home, so she never left.
Sue was the first to ever see the man. She was working late one night when he walked in.
“Hello. May I help you?” asked Sue.
The man sat at a stool near the counter.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll have a coke.”
She got him his coke, then leaned against the counter.
“What’s your name?” the man asked.
Sue was too wary to give him her name, so she said, “What’s yours?”
“I asked you first,” said the man, without even flinching. Sue didn’t like the way the man was looking at her. “Sue,” she replied, hesitantly.
“Just call me Wolf.”
Epic, right?? Besides the fact that I think I’m describing Danny from “Grease,” I have no idea where I came up with this stuff! Also, do baristas really make enough to buy a house? Especially when they only work for like four hours a day? I really did spell it St. Luey, and I love the melodrama of “He would become their worst nightmare.”
I kind of want to write this as an adult, now. I’m pretty sure I already have some ideas of where to take this.
On that note, I’m cold and tired, so I’m going to shower and sleep. Hoping tomorrow is a better day all around.
One thought on “Writing at 9 Years Old”
Love it! I doubt I used words like “wary” in any of my stories at 9 years old! Mine were probably about unicorns… and really cheesy!