Portrait of the Artist as a Young Girl

I read somewhere that as an adult you become whomever you were at age 7.  Part of me thinks: scary thought.

The 7 year old I was—always trying to write the longest story in Mrs. Fountain’s class—with the neatest handwriting (we received a grade for penmanship) is not wholly unlike the woman I have become.   I wanted to imitate her perfect script so-o-o-o-o-o bad I probably burned holes in the cursive border that lined our classroom wall.  I was a determined little girl, erasing holes into that thin paper—it was a the color of recycled paper, about as thin as parchment, and lined so that we could keep our upper and lower case letters at a proper height; there was a big empty white space at the top—so we could illustrate whatever we had written about.

On the “quiet side” of the room  Doreen—my twin—was on the “noisy side” with Tia and Damon, I would draw my pictures in pencil before coloring, even going so far as to “blend” my 8 colors—I doubt I owned the 64 pack then.  After all, this was going in the “gallery” outside the classroom—everyone who passed through our hall would see it hanging along the picture rail a head above our 3 and 4 foot heads!

Writing and drawing were two of my biggest hobbies.  Following closely was chewing my nails, pencil erasers, and pretty much any food I could get my hands on.  So, thankfully, some things change.

Today I’m still a little on the quiet side, am creative but can do without the fanfare I used to seek, and I try not to chew my nails, pencil erasers, or all the food within sight.  But I am a notorious snacker, preferring to graze rather than have meals, and I have been known to chew on my left forefinger when I’m in deep concentration.  (Gross habit I know.  Please don’t judge me man).

So I’ve decided to blog about this writer’s evolution since age 7.  And maybe keep the momentum from the 30 day challenge.

27 years; 27 blogs (cause I’m still working on year 28—give me a minute)!  Stay tuned for the stories (if only I had as much money as I have stories) and poems (pretty bad ones I should’ve probably burnt long ago) and whatever other hijinks ensue.

Here’s a taste:
Age 7: I can write my name and some other words, too.
Age 8: Mommy, What Does Nigger Mean?
Age 9: Langston, My Man
Age 10: Harriet Tubman ain’t take no stuff
Age 11: Playground Politics
Age 12: Wordsoun’ ‘Ave Poweh, or She Really Was a B#?@&
Age 13: Mrs. Kopay
Age 14: Blueberry Square
Age 15: Race Day
Age 16: The Iconoclast
Age 17: “If ‘if’ was a fifth, we’d all be drunk!”
Age 18: Flipping the Script
Age 19: The Cipher
Age 20: Invictus
Age 21: So Much T’ings to Say
Age 22: Church Girl
Age 23: Writers Anonymous
Age 24: Doing it like I’m doing it for t.v.
Age 25: The Vine
Age 26: moss
Age 27: I’ll bring the matches.
Age 28:  I wrote this when I was 28.  Aww shizmishginet.
Age 29: Maneater
Age 30: Searching for Colon
Age 31: Fresh Out of Words
Age 32: A Dream Deferred
Age 33: Mad Dancer
Age 34: What is in the marrow is hard to take from the bone.
Age 35: Stall…*crickets*