My Natural Born Talent. Let Me Show You It.
August 31, 2010
Hey! Remember when my mom gave me that big stack of embarrassingly preshus mementos from my childhood? And I was all gung-ho with the scanner for a few days there, on a gleeful stretch of self-mockery, until I guess I got distracted by something shiny (or maybe my toenail polish, or wondering where I got this bruise from, or the construction of that pneumonic burrito delivery device) (I mean, have you tried applying for all the necessary patents for shit like that? It's a bureaucratic nightmare.) and...wait, what was I talking about again?
Oh right! The scanning and the bag o' relics were promptly forgotten about for awhile there. Until today!
Now, I've already shown you my very, very first attempt at short-story writing, but this little book...well, this was EPIC. This was my MAGNUM OPUS. This was a coloring book my six-year-old self procured during a family trip to Arizona, but each picture faced a blank page, designed for you to write a story or poem or something about the picture. (The pictures were by artist Ettore DeGrazia, and I believe this was purchased at his gallery's gift shop, where I was suddenly struck with the realization that I WAS AN ARTIST AND MUST CREATE ART, THEREFORE SOMEBODY BETTER BUY ME THIS COLORING BOOK AND THOSE COLORED PENCILS RIGHT THIS MINUTE BUT MOM I NEEEEEEEED THEM.)
Judging by the range of handwriting abilities, I worked on this thing for YEARS. Later pictures are written in cursive, while my earliest attempts were...well. MOAR LIEK DIS:
Or that graet and lovly oringe horse! Otherwise you might be forgetting this time that is not to be forgot.
Jesus!!! (The most important!)
I wish you
I distinctly remember going back to put in those extra exclamation points and MOST IMPORTANT! caveat out of Protestant guilt because some of the pictures seemed possibly kind of Catholic.
The Christmas story, according to a highly religious first grader. Jesus, God Son, was born this one time and he will not ever again be born, but we will still have Christmas which will be like the day Jesus was born only we will not have him born. Got it? Good. Now gimme some presents already.
In my own pre-politically-correct defense here, the name of the painting ACTUALLY IS "Dream Horses and Lovely Indians." However, I cannot explain why I the consistently misspelled "lovly" all those other times and also why I was telling stories in my lame valley girl style already: They are sitting there like, "I wish something would happen, like I dunno, dream horses or some shit, like, OMG, look up, LOL!"
(Actually, not really. There are quite a few more pages, in which I attempted to take a more literary approach to "real" story writing, with actual named characters and varied narrator voices. Also: a talking mule. I don't know either, but I am sure as hell going to inflict it on the Internet-reading public anyway.)