I read somewhere about the first stories people had written and I thought of my first recorded piece of fiction. Plus, considering it is the first day of the new year, I thought it might be appropriate to blog about it.
I wrote it in my first year at school, right after I had figured out letters and what happens when they come together. You reckon it would be about rainbows or a little girl who wants to be a princess, right? No. In my terrible hand writing with loads of spelling mistakes, and lines all over the page, there lay the story of a boy who secretly takes drugs he is hiding in a cabinet. In the end, he dies.
Final verdict: It is disconcerting for a 7 year old kid, isn’t it? Well, why were my parents not disconcerted when they read this? Probably they were relieved to see that I had finally figured out how to read and write. I think I was the last one in my class. (You know those people who learned to read when they were 3? Hell, probably you are one of them. Well, I am among the few that learned to read at school, where I was supposed to.)
We should take lessons from our pasts. What this past experience has taught me is that I ought to have gone to bed when I was told to do so.