I was just down in Southern California in the city where I’d spent my teen-aged years and I found my old high school yearbooks. I looked through the one from my sophomore year and was completely fascinated with the signatures at the end of the year. I didn’t have many, but half of them were poems about satan. Imagine what kind of lovely child I was then, in my 16th year of life. I wish I had my yearbook so I could scan some photos and poems for you.

In the summer before my sophomore year, I went to Andover, Massachusetts and had my first taste of freedom going to summer school away from my parents. I hung out with some privileged kids cum hippies. Very educational. But it was also the first summer I spent in a serious creative writing course. I would not say I excelled at it then, but I did write some creepy, depressing shit. Nothing at all like the depressing shit I write now. Now it’s more serious. And award winning!

High school isn’t something or some place I think about often, but being back in the home that I lived in when I went to high school spurs on these nostalgic memories. I think about people I haven’t thought about in a long time, I remember events I’ve forgotten for years, and when prompted, I remember being someone else…that teenager that I think I’ve outgrown but have never fully outrun. Part of me is that same person and most of me isn’t, but you are who you are and the past is part of what makes you who you are now. I like the person I am now and the past makes for good stories. As well as the heart wrenching pain and agony any good writer needs to shed the tears that’ll dampen the drying quills ;)

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