Now That I Write

My high school experiences included friends, fun, and learning. In all honesty, I experienced mostly fun and friends. I knew the purpose of friends and fun, but I sometimes questioned the same with regard to things that required study time, such as Algebra, World History, and Nineteenth Century Literature.

Possibly the time I spent doodling on my notebook during classes accounts for why I missed important information that could have lead to me being a more informed individual. I thought I was saving my sanity.

Although I loved to read, “studying” literature was not the same and I thought Edgar Allan Poe’s writings were dark and chilling. I did not consider his works to be great reading during the daytime and they were downright frightening when tackled as late night homework.

My take on learning about nineteenth century authors could have been summarized with one question: Do I care about dead authors? I’m sure my lack of interest screamed to my teachers that I was not a serious student. However, I did learn enough to earn grades that did not produce frowns from my parents (and for many years I could quote a large chunk of “The Raven”).

Now that I write, I’m much more interested in the lives of those dead writers and what made them tick. What I have come to realize is that possibly all writings somewhat reflect the lives of authors, as Poe’s dark writings reflected the darkness in his life.

While I’ve had people ask me if my novel is about my life (perish the thought) it’s worrisome to think that maybe someone out there is analyzing my story and assigning me a classification from the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM).

Yikes!

Novel: Child of Desire

Clipart from Acertijos y mas cosas