I wrote this for my practice blog, but it is a good writing lesson. This was the first time I wrote this story, I have referred to it often, but this was the first I went back and stood in front of my Grandmother. Hearing her, seeing her. The fear, the shame I felt as a kid. Who tells an 8-year old they are disgusting and you can’t look at them. This is the truth you are seeking as a writer. In this moment, I realized why I can’t write young adult fantasy fiction. There are no magic answers. I learned something new about myself personally and as a writer. Now I have to use it.
As a writer I like to focus on the experiences that aren’t the monuments in our lives; birthdays, graduations, Holidays, death of parents, going to college. Of course these things change us. I would say I grew the most going to graduate school in New York City.
However, there was an event in my childhood that shaped who I am more than any other.
When I was five, my family moved to a new house. It was a bigger house with a basement and upstairs. My Grandma P, my mom’s mother, lived with us. There were three of us kids; my older sister, my younger brother and me, the middle kid.
I was the new kid in first grade and every grade until we went to Middle School. I don’t remember when I became friends with Diane Kirda, but by third…
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