Ok, here is a little secret that a lot of people don't know about me. In school, until high school, I never did very well in one subject. Lots of mediocre grades and the occasional "F". So what was the subject you ask. I'll tell you. In Math, I got all "A's", in Science "A's", everything was always "A", except in English. I hated it. I still do. What a technically complicated language. What? Did some lawyers sit around and draw this up? Goodness, makes my grey matter hurt.
In High School, it was a much different matter. I breezed through it. Had I been struck by lightening and suddenly known what a dangling participle was? No, I still don't, to be truthful. You see, in High School, we weren't required to explain the usage of the language. Just read the classics. They were classic alright, Same classics that are force fed to every teen in America. This is only my humble estimation, but I think that only maybe 1 in 10,000 kids liked "A Tale of Two Cities", "Romeo and Juliet", or anything Shakespearean.
It was just to deep, to involved for our minds at that time, but we were forced to read them and do the obligatory report on our "Feelings". Perhaps if we had been allowed to mature,and then pick up these titles at a later stage in our life. We just might have been able to produce a more honest evaluation of the literature, and quite possibly even appreciated them. As it was, my reports were filled from front to rear with so much fertilizer.
Let me tell you, it was some high quality fertilizer, grade "A" material. My teachers, bless them all, encouraged me to write as I surely had a firm grasp of the English language. They didn't know my secret, and no, it wasn't the internet. Al Gore hadn't invented it yet. I read. I read a lot. I still do. Three or four books a month, anything and everything, true stories, fiction, text books. Everything except the "Classics" from those school years. With a great imagination, and having a feel for how a sentence, paragraph, and story were strung together, thanks to the hours of reading exposure, I was able to successfully BS my way through High School with straight A's.
So where is all this leading, I'm writing again. Nothing majestic, just short stories, letters and such. For sure nothing I would share with the world at this point in time. And why now, at my age, some thirty five years after High school would I decide to pick up the metaphorical pen? Why the desire to create something that perhaps only I shall ever read?
Perhaps, just maybe, there is a Voodoo Queen out there that has me under her spell, giving me inspiration, causing me to express myself in this small way. If she reads this I hope she knows I love her for it. She has entered my heart, mind, and soul to unlock things that have been hidden even from me for so many years. If this should in fact be true, I would surely like to meet with her someday to express my thanks personally.
Enough of this. Or as they say in the writing world. The End. :)
ps. Please don't correct my punctuation, or grammatical deconstruction of the English language.
Just enjoy it for what it is.
Smile and be happy.
In High School, it was a much different matter. I breezed through it. Had I been struck by lightening and suddenly known what a dangling participle was? No, I still don't, to be truthful. You see, in High School, we weren't required to explain the usage of the language. Just read the classics. They were classic alright, Same classics that are force fed to every teen in America. This is only my humble estimation, but I think that only maybe 1 in 10,000 kids liked "A Tale of Two Cities", "Romeo and Juliet", or anything Shakespearean.
It was just to deep, to involved for our minds at that time, but we were forced to read them and do the obligatory report on our "Feelings". Perhaps if we had been allowed to mature,and then pick up these titles at a later stage in our life. We just might have been able to produce a more honest evaluation of the literature, and quite possibly even appreciated them. As it was, my reports were filled from front to rear with so much fertilizer.
Let me tell you, it was some high quality fertilizer, grade "A" material. My teachers, bless them all, encouraged me to write as I surely had a firm grasp of the English language. They didn't know my secret, and no, it wasn't the internet. Al Gore hadn't invented it yet. I read. I read a lot. I still do. Three or four books a month, anything and everything, true stories, fiction, text books. Everything except the "Classics" from those school years. With a great imagination, and having a feel for how a sentence, paragraph, and story were strung together, thanks to the hours of reading exposure, I was able to successfully BS my way through High School with straight A's.
So where is all this leading, I'm writing again. Nothing majestic, just short stories, letters and such. For sure nothing I would share with the world at this point in time. And why now, at my age, some thirty five years after High school would I decide to pick up the metaphorical pen? Why the desire to create something that perhaps only I shall ever read?
Perhaps, just maybe, there is a Voodoo Queen out there that has me under her spell, giving me inspiration, causing me to express myself in this small way. If she reads this I hope she knows I love her for it. She has entered my heart, mind, and soul to unlock things that have been hidden even from me for so many years. If this should in fact be true, I would surely like to meet with her someday to express my thanks personally.
Enough of this. Or as they say in the writing world. The End. :)
ps. Please don't correct my punctuation, or grammatical deconstruction of the English language.
Just enjoy it for what it is.
Smile and be happy.



