Thursday, May 9, 2013

Former creative writer

I earned a B.A. in English (Creative Writing) from University of Southern California fifteen years ago yesterday.  I remember a great-aunt sending flowers.  These same flowers were quickly trashed by me after my grandmother insisted they'd been charmed or jinxed with black magic.  I remember graduating alone, no one from the family able to attend, not even my grandmother.  I remember a classmate inviting me to her celebratory dinner, going, and feeling sorry for myself for not having family of my own to rally around me.  I remember my grandmother's health begin to decline immediately after I earned this honor, to the point where she felt compelled to blast me for wasting my money on what she considered a useless education.  My grandmother died the following May, a little over a year after my university graduation.  I'd inherited a rental property and become its manager by then.  Without any support, and never, ever any encouragement to trust a mentor, I just stopped writing the fiction and poetry I once loved.  Last year, after Belle's unexpected birth and slow growth, I finally nailed my diploma to the wall to remind myself of my own achievement and competence.

Then I read this article about wimpy kids:

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