Since today is Bad Writing Day, I've been tearing through the house looking for the one diary I ever kept.
I began my green velvet journal on January 28, 1986. Coincidentally, it was the day of the Challenger explosion.
My profound thoughts on the tragedy:
"Today there was a bad space shuttle accident. It's sad."
Here's a more revealing glimpse into an eight year-old psyche:
"I saw Enemy Mine today. It was sad but good although I didn't want to admit it. They [my parents] forced me to see the movie and I didn't want to make them happy that they were right and it was a good movie."
So much anger at such an early age.
This is not bad writing, however. This is just a child's writing.
Something had gone wrong, and this upset little girl had cracked. It seemed to her that nothing had ever gone right, and this final blow had caused her to plunge deeper into a dark void.
Seriously, I dare you to write a worse anecdotal story.
Prismacolor Madness was written for my senior-year creative/expository writing class and it was actually published in the Amused, my high school's literary journal.
Oh, but it gets worse.
I did a reading of this "work" at the Amused publishing party at the local book store/coffee shop.
Do I win the embarrassment award?
