Alphawriter2007

As for me I live in Illinois with my wife, Teresa. We are recently married. We moved to Texas after the wedding on June 28, 1997. Our honeymoon consisted of packing and traveling for three days. We moved here to get away from the winter weather. We returned to Illinois later to experience the seasons again.

I haven’t always written. In 1980 when I was in college, I discovered I had a poetic nature. I once spent an entire day between 1979 and 1980 sitting in a small dormitory room writing poem after poem to express the moments of my heart. I used poetry to express grief, questions, doubts, fear concerns, hopes and dreams of my life. I found this through the years to be a comfortable medium. I developed this talent. I began to be able to express myself. I could place moments with my friends, relatives and co-workers in the poetic style. Poetry has suited my ability to relate almost everything in my world to something else in my world. I truly see with the eyes of a poet. I feel deeply. The poetic style has allowed me to provide the magical illusion that allows many people to place themselves at any point in the writing walk in their shoes coming out saying he knows me or it is about me. My concern with the poetic style is that while writing poetry comes naturally it for me lacks the discipline and direction of thought.

I have written seriously only in graduate school. The professors demanded a more constructive paper than they demanded in grade and high school. I wrote some thirty-five papers of 3-5 pages in length in my first year. It came sort of as a culture shock. I wasn’t used to writing paper that required research. I didn’t really know how to quote sources effectively without plagiarizing. I found it difficult. I wondered why I ever got myself into the position of a graduate student.

On a more positive note, I found my writing improved. I had been reading since I was in the service. It was my only escape from the boredom of army life. I paid attention to what I read. I could document what I wrote and why I differed from their position. I could always argue but now I could have the facts to back up my position.

I told stories from the beginning of my recollections. There are two that continue to stick in my mind that I tell quite often. The first is of my birth. I attribute this story to my mother. I was once told by her that I was born in a pickup truck, during a blizzard on the way to the hospital. If this is a true story, it is good for explaining unacceptable behavior. The second story is one of my only experiences of smoking in the family. I was walking home from school when I was in second grade. I saw a cigarette butt still smoldering on the sidewalk. As I was reaching down to pick it up, I saw my mother coming from the opposite direction. I quickly retrieved the cigarette from the sidewalk. I placed it in my pocket for safe keeping. My mother passed. She suggested, I put out the fire in my coat pocket. I looked down. She was right my coat pocket was on fire. With my school books in my other hand I began beating on my coat pocket with them. The fire was out in my coat pocket. Soon though another part of my anatomy felt the fire that didn’t get a chance to touch me. I wore that coat. It was a light and dark brown plaid wool coat that I had received for Christmas. It now had a scorched pocket that was a constant reminder. The odor of the coat was enough to bring back painful memories. It also kept me from making the same mistake again.

I told stories to impress and stay out of trouble. I never called them a lie. They were always believable. I usually had enough facts to make them seem true. I guess you could call me a magician with words. My stories for the most part kept me out of trouble. On occasion I would use a fact that could to easily be checked. My story then would slowly begin to unravel. The questions would begin. I would forget the facts I had already placed in evidence. The truth would under usually more favorable circumstances to me be presented. The new story or amended would contain facts already verified. I had the ability to use what was questioned. I could discern what they knew and make my story more solid. I have used my ability in this way for most of my life. It was a great way to get what I wanted. Now though I suffer the curse of not really knowing my past. Is it the truth or the fiction of a small child?

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