storms first assignment

[storm]

Have you ever tried to dig deep into the furthest part of your sub conscious and recall your most vivid childhood memory? Most people will tell you stories of trauma or absolute excitement; The first trip overseas, the first car crash, even the first day of school rate highly. My most vivid memory is so clear in my mind it’s as though it was entirely constructed from imagination, rather than fact.

I was five years old, running home from school, as fast as my tiny legs would allow me, breathless and gasping for air as I turned down our driveway. The only thing on my mind was seeing my dad. I was clutching in my hand a single piece of paper, worn in parts, almost completely through, from eraser marks, covered in my writing, as neat as I was capable of at that age, double spaced, written with HB pencil. On the top right hand corner, written in obligatory red ink, was one word: excellent, followed by a simple exclamation mark and a gold star. It was my latest story that I had written in writing class, a story about my brothers new roller blades that he had received for his birthday, and I couldn’t wait to show my dad that excellent. I knew that he would be as excited as I was, and I wasn’t disappointed. It went straight on the fridge, held by a single magnet, white, in the shape of a penguin.

Growing up, writing was the strongest bond between my father and I. My brother developed his love for cars, war history and strange British comedies that I never understood, but the writing bond was mine, and mine alone. I was taught to read and write almost before I could walk, and my father tried his best to instil into me the knowledge that written language could do have a thousand times more impact than any spoken conversation.

I would often read his own writing, and it soon became apparent that my dad had a flair for finding the exact words needed to add the perfect emphasis to any sentence. Reading his work, I would understand what he meant when he told me that work well-written would engulf the reader into whatever world the author was trying to take them, making them oblivious to the outside world. Reading my dad’s work, the page would come to life, as if actually reaching out and grabbing the reader by the throat, pulling them into whatever world was within the margins of a single page, freeing them only after the last word had been identified and understood.

I remember the first time I was asked to professionally write a piece. I spent hours working on a simple 400 word assignment, trying desperately to make my work half as captivating as my dads. Luckily for me he read over the work and made suggestions before it was submitted. The page handed back to me was filled with his elegant style of writing, all comments preceding a question mark, so as not to belittle anything that I had already written.

Funnily enough, that single piece of paper with the tiny gold star, had meant as much to him as it did to me, as years later, when clearing out his house, I found it, amongst other general childhood belongings, slightly more worn than the day I had run home from school with it, yet still in perfect condition. Below that single sheet of paper was my first writing assignment, complete with dads’ ‘suggestions’. Attached to that sheet with a blue plastic paperclip was the final draft of that assignment, edited and published, with my name clearly displayed, directly above the first word.

I now keep those two pages in my own box of memories, and refer back to them whenever I am stuck for inspiration. Something generally comes to me. It’s funny how the world throws unexpected, but nasty punches every so often. I’ve finally found my dream job, only my dad is no longer standing at the front door, magnet in hand, when I arrive home. I’m pretty sure, however, that my dad knows exactly what I’m doing, and that wherever he is right now, he’s beaming with pride at the new gold stars. In fact, heavens’ fridge is probably covered completely by now.

[Sir_G]

I miss my dad. Great story storm thanks.

[TheKnothead]

Fond memories are the best!
Great Story Storm!
I look forward to your next assignment!

[Silke]

*sighs and smiles* wonderful writing, storm...I bet your dad needs another penguin magnet.

[Talia]

Sorry storm...I had read this when you posted it the other day but some how my comments didn't stick...you did very well... I wish I had a day like this...I will send you your next assignment within the next few days.

SB