Torn Pages

The words of my first story are forever lost in a landfill somewhere on Long Island. Maybe they still exist, if they haven't already been burned to ashes layered into the quickly forgotten history of mundane life. The pages disintegrated, piled on top of each other, just discarded trivial pieces of everyday life from more than twenty years ago.

When I was only nine years old, I started a notebook intended for poetry and short stories. Even as a nine-year-old, I was methodical and organized, planning out the Table of Contents on the inside cover of my notebook. I don't remember writing any poetry, but I do remember the name of the main character of my first short story: Mrs. Periwinkle. Mrs. Periwinkle was a mouse (or maybe she was a rabbit) with other small animal friends, not unlike the countless other stories with animal characters intended for children. Unfortunately, the specific details have faded from my memory and I cannot go back to the physical pages. Only now do I realize the significance of those first few words written with a cheap fluorescent orange pen with indigo ink smelling of blueberries on wide-ruled pages that no longer exist.

At some point, I decided that my efforts as a young writer were frivolous and tore out the pages that now seemed to be filled with silly words. I took my pencil and frantically erased the names of my potential short stories from my Table of Contents. The numbered chapters and page numbers still remained, but the titles of my writing faded away along with my confidence.

If I hadn't ripped out those wide-ruled pages from my old red marble notebook. If I hadn't doubted myself at such a young age. If only I had kept those pages to prove to my nine-year-old self that writing was an important part of my life.

Mrs. Periwinkle's story is gone. My early stories were lost with my creative innocence as I already started to question my ability and potential as a writer.

Mrs. Periwinkle's story is gone, but not completely forgotten. It planted the seed for a new idea, a different story that began several years later. One that has evolved and matured over the years along with its creator.

Just as I had started Mrs. Periwinkle's story, I started my current novel in a marble notebook. The idea came to me at some point in middle school, only a few years after I had thrown out the pages of my original stories. For years, through middle school and high school and college, I wrote, scribbled, and rambled in multicolored pens in several different marble notebooks. I watched my handwriting mature (and decline) over the years as I wrote. More pages were torn out (but kept this time), words were crossed out, lyrics to the songs playing on my stereo were laced through the margins as I sat on my bed with my notebook on my lap. My writing was always done in solitude in my bedroom with music and my bedroom door closed. Sometimes I would write during the day, but writing at night by the light of my bedside lamp was my favorite.

Now, I still have the stacks of marble notebooks with the beginnings of my novel from over fifteen years ago. The story has morphed and grown over the years, just as I have. For years, my notebooks and my writing remained stashed in the depths of my night table drawers, hidden away from critical eyes. But I'm slowly learning to trust them out in the light. And maybe one day, out in the world on bookshelves other than my own.