Crafting Cookies

I spent the majority of last weekend at the Salem Literary Festival, participating in workshops and feeling like a writer again. It was so fun. I LOVED my writing classes in college. The amount you learn in a workshop is invaluable, even if it's not your piece that is being workshopped (most of the time it isn't). Talking about specific words, word order, word choice, tense...in a nutshell, craft, is, believe it or not, fun. And inspiring. I'm such a dork.

The workshops I took at the festival were not specific to a piece, they were specific to a genre. But they were small and so informative, and by the end of the day my hand hurt and my head was spinning...you know, in a really good way. In both workshops we did exercise after exercise, writing and sharing, writing and sharing. So I want to share here what I wrote last week...with the caveat that these were 10 minute exercises that I have not polished since scribbling them in a journal. But I'd love to hear which ones catch your curiosity, and decide if there are any here that I should pursue further.

Really. 10 minutes. I'm not kidding. Keep that in mind before you laugh. The exercise and goal are written at the top of each.

Random Word Throw Exercise: Started with “I haven’t been the same since…” were thrown the words Squid, Gelatinous, and “The phone rang” while writing.

I haven’t been the same since yesterday, when I decided to get a cup of coffee. He stood at the register, smirking, like I had a blob of grape jelly on my face. I actually reached up to check, my hand fluttering over my lips: my jelly, my nose: no hanging boogers, my hair: no bird poop. I looked quickly down at my chest to make sure I wasn’t exposing a nipple, and then glared back at his smirk. It didn’t change when he said:
“Squid?”
“Excuse me? I asked.
“You’re not squid?”
“Ummmm…no.” I started to laugh but turned it into a cough because I didn’t want to insult the man. He clearly had mental problems.
“I’m sorry,” He said. “Can I get you something? I don’t recommend the coffee cake.” He pointed at a sagging frosted ring in the case. “It’s gelatinous.”
I laughed this time. “Just a cup of coffee,” I said, still smiling.
“I can do that.” He turned, and while pouring my cup he asked, “do you know Squid?”
“No.” I couldn’t handle the 5 seconds of awkward silence. “…Is squid a person?”
He turned, the smirk smacked back on his face like a red colorform. He placed the coffee in front of me. “Squid,” he said slowly, “is not a person. Squid…”
The phone rang shrilly and as he turned toward it his smirk melted. “I need to get that. $2.53 please.”
I took out 3 dollars, laid it on the counter and walked out, clinging to the coffee, warm and solid, with both hands.

"I remember" sentences

I remember the sound of the bullfrogs, vibrating in the heavy dark, as I tried, I tried, I tried to sleep.

I remember how he looked straight at me and said: Why can’t you just say you’re sorry?

I remember peeking past the curtain, feeling the cold rush at me through the glass, and seeing him walk steadily through the snow, axe over his shoulder, down to the frozen pond.

“The first time I heard X song, I was doing X” Exercise

The first time I heard Madonna’s “Like a Virgin”, I was spying on my older sister, sitting curled up at the bottom of the stairs to her third-floor attic room. Just because she was older she got an entire floor as her room and the closet was so big it had two doors, but it also meant the only door she could shut was at the bottom of the stirs, and she couldn't hear me open it or hear me sit there for an hour or more, listening to her sing: “like a vir-her-her-her-gin…”
Sometimes I would creep up step by step, so I could hear her talk to Tommy, her greasy boyfriend with hair in his face, on the phone. They said I was like the hippo in Fantasia once. Well, Tommy did. My sister just laughed. Therefore, the spying was deserved.
“I’m so bored” she would tell him. "I miss you." She'd lie on the carpet with her legs up in the air, and sometimes I could see the tips of her toes on the wall and I would think how mad my mom would get if she saw that.
But here’s the truth. I didn’t know what a virgin was. I didn’t even put two and two together: "Gonna give you all my love boy. My fear is fading fast.” I didn’t understand enough to know what my sister was starting to feel, what singing those words meant to her. What I did know was that she lived in this brand new third floor world, high above me, full of mystery and longing, and sitting at the bottom of the stairs and listening was about as close as I could ever get.

Story in 54 words exercise: First sentence is 10 words, second sentence is 9 words, third sentence is 8 words, etc!

The grass is long enough to hide us almost completely. Hearing the loud count down, we sit, feeling small. The sunlight makes stripes on our faces. “Shhhh,” she whispers, “they can’t find us.” I smile under my sweaty hand. We huddle closer, feeling giddy. A bird flies overhead. I hear footsteps. Grass rustling. “Boo!”

Dialogue Exercise: You can use a maximum of 5 non-dialogue sentences.

“There isn’t anything left to say.”
“That is crap and you know it.”
“Well I don’t have anything left to say.”
“That’s because you’re been talking for an hour. And you haven’t listened.”
“I don’t really want to.”
“Did I ask if you wanted to? In the very least, you owe me one listen.”
“One listen? That’s not even correct English.”
“You’re a shithead.”
“Whatever.”
She took a deep breath. “What you just spent the last hour telling me is a really nice way of trying to justify your actions.”
“Thanks.”
“That wasn’t really a compliment.”
“Well--”
“—Shut up, it’s my turn. Really. I mean, really? What I’m trying to say is that it doesn’t really matter what you think your story should be. Here is the truth: you did this. You did this. It’s your fault. It will always be your fault….And I am no longer your sister.”
“That’s impossible.”
She took another deep breath. “What you think is crazy.”
“That may be.”
“That is.”
She got up, stepped out of the pew and walked down the aisle, the casket silent and alone at the other end.

Cookie Dough. Forever.

I sat quietly on my back deck, in the shade, pen poised, with a brand new journal in front of me. And nothing happened. Well, that's not completely true. There were several birds that flew by, and I thought about the out of control bushes I need to prune. But the first page is still blank, because I sat there, completely intimidated with the first blank page of a brand new journal, even though I have a trunk full of finished journals in my basement. Who said I was any good at this, anyway?

So I stopped thinking and went inside to watch last week's episode of Mad Men. And as I watched the well-dressed, well-conceived, well-endowed, and well-written women on that show, it hit me. Women.

I spent the majority of this long, blissful weekend with girlfriends. Friends that I've had for years, and friends that I've had a few months. When I made my weekend plans, I was excited to see these friends, but I didn't realize how much I needed to see these friends, until I was with them. I think most people know what I mean: the talking, the wine, the laughter, the cookies and the cookie dough, the shopping, the laughter, the talking, the wine, and the laughter. There is a part of the female soul that glows after time with her friends.

I just finished a book this week called The Girls From Ames. It's a journalistic view of 11 female friends, now in their 50s, who literally grew up together. It wasn't phenomenal, but it was thought-provoking and nostalgic and made me feel equal amounts happy that I have some amazing girlfriends and ashamed that I don't have 10 female friends with whom I have yearly reunions. This book talked about how women live longer when they have close girlfriends, and, when diagnosed with life-threatening diseases, women actually heal faster and heal more often when they have close female friends. It certainly made me think about the women I love, the friendships I have, and the friendships I wish were different.

What I don't think the book captured very well is how difficult it can be when women who are so close start to feel dissonant; how difficult it is when a friendship, for whatever reason, is no longer the kind of friendship it was. I know I've shed as many tears over certain friendships as I have over romantic relationships in my life. And I think that is because there really is that part of a woman's soul--that part of my soul--that grows and shines and dreams because of and with her friends.

And what The Girls From Ames touched on, and what I've recently learned, is how friendships with women change as you become an adult. Time is so precious when there is so much else to be responsible for: your job, your home, your marriage, the family you are creating, and the family you came from. It is so hard to find the time to spend with your girlfriends and those friendships can sometimes suffer for it. But what is so amazing to me is how, despite all those distractions and responsibilities, I can call my friends I haven't spoken to for weeks and, spend the entire conversation being immensely grateful that it feels like we spoke the hour before. There is an understanding between us that life is busy and life is also really, really hard, and because of that and through that, we'll be there for each other.

Obviously not every friendship works like that, and those are the ones I did shed tears over and sometimes still do. Sometimes there are people I want to call but it's just too hard to dig through the emotional crap as out of control as the bushes in my yard that need to be pruned. I'm sure “better people” would say it’s worth it, that they would dig through, and sit on the phone, or across the table, and nod and smile and listen and emote. And sometimes it truly is worth it. But I'm also going to be brutally honest and say what those “better people” would not: when I have one hour to myself every day, and during that hour I am commuting, I would rather call one of the friends who isn't going to judge me for not calling the week before.

So this weekend was special. I saw four different girlfriends, each a different degree of important to me, and I'm definitely glowing brighter because of it. From eating cookie dough to buying new journals to sitting on the beach collecting different colors of sea glass, I valued every second of it. And while we may not be as well-dressed, or well-endowed as the women on Mad Men, we are certainly just as, if not more, well-conceived. Partly because there is that one thing the Mad Men writers missed—women don’t just cut each other down. They make each other glow. And the best friends do so without even realizing it. They do it by being who they are, and by understanding that who we are is all we can be.

A Small Friday Cookie

Flowering

Yesterday, my alarm went off, I dragged myself out of bed,
felt the pain of an injury in a leg growing older,
washed, goodmorninged, hugged, ate, kissed, and climbed into the car.
Listening to the overwhelming headlines, I pushed the buttons
six times, still inundated, and then
pulled onto the long highway. A few miles in, out
of the corner of my left eye, I saw a flash of yellow.
It was a solitary sunflower,
standing tall and bright in between
the brown and gray metal dividers on the grassy median.
It was almost smiling.
I drove past and blinked, wondering: really?
And as the cars passed, it bobbed, happily nodding yes.

One Brave Cookie

There are so many things I can use to describe bravery.

I can think of a dozen off the top of my head: a 5 year old on her first day of kindergarten, a soldier leaving on the bus for boot camp, a woman giving birth, a victim facing an attacker or abuser; bravery takes on many forms every day. And if you asked these people, I think they would describe bravery as digging as deep within yourself as you can, and standing up to whatever it is that frightens you or threatens you. And those same people would tell you that bravery comes with a side of fear, a cup of unknown, and a whole plate of gratitude.

In the past few years, people have called me brave. Quite a few people, in fact. And every time I would shake my head, mainly because I didn’t feel brave most of the time, and when I did, it was usually because my loved ones had just given me yet another pep talk.

This is why.

Six years ago I was a live-in nanny. One night, after the girls were all tucked in and the only sounds were people walking in the apartment above me, I was washing my face before I, too, climbed into bed. As I was rubbing my face, I felt this jolt on the left side of my forehead, a sensation I still, to this moment, have a hard time describing.

That first jolt came with a hesitant mix of fear, surprise, and an odd feeling of fascination. I touched my face again, poked and prodded it, and nothing happened. So I splashed water on my face, and it hit me again: a bolt of lightening through my face, hot and electric, hard enough that I had to grip the sides of the sink to keep standing. That time, the fascination was gone and all I felt was fear.

I called my dad that night, to discuss that “jolt” with him. My father is a pediatric anesthesiologist and the running joke in the family is that Dad would tell you to “take Tylenol” if you told him you broke both your legs. But that night he didn’t tell me to take Tylenol. In fact, he said “huh” a lot. He told me to call him in the morning. I figured, like most things, I would be completely fine the next day. But I wasn’t.

The next day, in fact, I remember walking to my then-boyfriend’s apartment in Harvard Square (this amazing man has since become my husband). It was windy, and the electric pain came back so hard and fast I stopped dead in my tracks on the sidewalk, and turned my back to the wind—turned away from the wind and away from the pain. I must have looked ridiculous, spinning on the sidewalk. And then I froze. I was afraid to move. I remember thinking that I was going to be stuck on that sidewalk in Harvard Square, forever. But I turned, slowly, and made my way to my boyfriend’s, where I climbed into bed. I was in that bed for days. I was in too much pain to do anything. Every time I touched my face it felt like I was holding a live wire to the top of my head, as the current ran down, through my eye, to my front tooth.

Meanwhile, my father was doing some research. He called the head of Neurology at one of the best hospitals in Boston, also a friend. My father told this man that he thought I had Trigeminal Neuralgia.

Trigeminal Neuralgia (TN) is described as “a nerve disorder of unknown origin that causes sudden, shock-like facial pains, typically near the nose, lips, eyes, or ears. It is said to be the most excruciatingly painful human condition in the world.” Trigeminal Neuralgia is considered a “rare” disease by the NIH: “for every 100,000 people, an average of 4.3 people will have TN with a slightly higher incidence for women (5.9/100,000) compared with men (3.4/100,000).” What still remains a mystery about Trigeminal Neuralgia is the cause.

I knew none of this at the time, and my father’s information was limited as well, which is why he called the Neurologist he knew. The Neurologist asked how old I was, and my Dad told him I was 25. The Neurologist’s response was: "That’s impossible".

This man’s reply set the tone for the fight I was about to step into. My father, too, was incredulous at his response. “As a physician,” he told me, “you don’t say the word impossible.”

Most people develop Trigeminal Neuralgia after the age of 50. Most people. But I soon learned that thousands people who are under the age of 55 have Trigeminal Neuralgia or facial nerve pain. Teens can develop it. Babies are born with Trigeminal Neuralgia. Try looking at one of those tiny babies screaming in pain and saying that it’s impossible they have a disorder that causes the worst pain known to humankind. Try telling me that, and see what happens.

The short story is this: I spent the next 5 years in excruciating pain with cyclical periods of remission. The bad days were truly awful, and therefore the good days were truly a blessing. On a bad day I would have over 200 nerve “attacks”. On a good day, I was a normal girl with an intense job, a fiancée, a wedding to plan, and Thanksgiving dinner to cook. But on a good or bad day, I quickly learned I had to work to help myself. I saw 6 neurologists and read countless articles, studies, and dissertations. I read two books. I elected to have sinus surgery because my clogged sinuses made the pain even worse. I have horrifying stories about how doctors treated me. And I have magical stories about how doctors treated me. Sometimes they are stories about the same doctor.

I saw three Neurosurgeons, one who said he wouldn’t touch me, one who agreed happily, and one who tried to cancel my surgery the night before it was scheduled. I took a path that was full of detours, holes, rocks, cliffs, sunshine, and green lights. I took this path not because I wanted to, but because I had to, because there was no one who would help me, truly help me, except myself and my loved ones who would help point me in the right direction.

This isn’t to say that I knew all of this. I had no idea what would happen to me. I had no idea where my life would go. I was scared to death. Sitting in pain, drugged beyond rational thought, unable to kiss my husband, unable to eat anything I had to chew, unable to shower or dress without tears, unable to sleep without narcotics, all of that was not in my life plan. I cherished my relationship, I dreamed of children, I loved my job and was proud of my work. I had so much to give to the world. It wasn’t time, yet, to give it up.

I just kept all of those things in my head. I wanted my life back. And as my mother said, “It’s a good thing you’re so damn stubborn.” She’s right. I wouldn’t take no for an answer. I wasn’t going to give up to this monster. There were times that I thought I would have to, times where my husband or my sister had to hold me as I sobbed, talk me down through my anger and fear. The fact that I owe certain people my life will never leave me, because despite what they say I couldn’t have done this without them. They led me through the moments of darkness so I could be fueled to fight some more.

The turning point came about four and a half years after that first jolt of pain, when I read two books that I ordered from the Trigeminal Neuralgia Association, a nonprofit and an online network where I was able to connect with other patients and learn a lot of information, which, in equal amounts empowered me and scared the living crap out of me. I read about all the surgical options and found the one I knew, I just KNEW, was my answer—a Microvascular Decompression. I also knew, because of my research, that a Microvascular Decompression (MVD) is most effective for Typical Trigeminal Neuralgia (which I had) and is most effective if done within the first five years of the onset of pain (a milestone I had just reached). I had developed allergies to the most effective TN drugs—3 of them—and I saw this surgery as the only option I had left.

Microvascular Decompression is a neurosurgery that focuses on the root of the Trigeminal Nerve, located behind the ear. The theory behind an MVD is that a blood vessel is pressing or looped around the nerve, wearing away the protective sheath and rubbing against the nerve fibers. Moving the blood vessel away from the nerve and putting a protective layer between the two—often Teflon—removes the compression, and, more often that not, the pain itself. Often a thin-slice MRI will show any compressions, but in my case, after 3 different MRIs, no compression was visible. I knew I was just about to have my skull drilled into, and my brain moved over with, essentially, a little brain shoehorn, all without proof that a blood vessel was to blame. But I had to do this—from my perspective, it was a necessary step.

It was a Thursday evening in late January, 2009. I had an amazing day at work—so much love and support from my coworkers, including one friend who braided my hair, leaving out the part that would be shaved off. I came home determined, with plans for a huge dinner and an evening in the arms of my husband. I got a phone call almost immediately after I returned home, from my surgeon. He mentioned that there was a slight problem, and that the Chief of Neurosurgery wanted to meet with me. Next Tuesday.

It was almost a cartoon moment—I shook my head for a second and said “but my surgery is tomorrow morning.” Yes, he said, that would be canceled.

And I just said “No”, like that could have made a difference. “No,” I said, “I don’t understand.” And then I got mad.

I told him everything I had done to prepare; I told him I took two weeks off work. I told him my mother had flown in from London. I, ridiculously, told him my hair was already braided!

I was shaking. Everywhere, shaking. He told me he would look into another option, and we hung up. I pressed the button on my phone and just started to pace, talking to myself like a crazy person in the street, never having felt so helpless. I called in reinforcements.

My father answered the phone, groggy, as it was about 1 AM in Italy, where he was working. He listened and asked for the surgeon’s phone number. I gave it to him and hung up, wringing my hands, still pacing. When my husband came home, I didn’t even know what to say; I don’t think I was coherent, but I did get most of the story out between my tears. And as I did, I felt the last threads of hope drain from my body. I became so angry and so hopeless. I said, “This is it, I’m done. I have no more options. I’m done.”

At that moment, I had nothing left, no more fight. I was exhausted from pain. I was tired of fighting, tired of swimming upstream, tired of being so numb. I was tired of being drugged to the point of not being able to spell 5 letter words; I was tired of living a shred of the life I knew I wanted and used to have. I was done.

However, the moments tick on. My husband, my mother, and my sisters just kept telling me, “we can do this, we will get through this.” After another hour of weaving a phone web between the Neurosurgeons, my father, myself, and a nurse, the agreement was made that I would meet with the Chief of Neurosurgery at 8am and if he felt comfortable, I would then take the afternoon surgical slot, at 2pm.

I’m not completely aware of what was said on those phone calls, but I do know that my father was able to play some medical and political cards. As grateful for that as I am, it still makes me angry that without him, I wouldn’t have had that meeting, or that surgery.

The next morning, my husband and I drove to the hospital in an odd fog. At the meeting, I was seething, yes, but I was also petrified. This man sitting before me had just tried to toss me aside, and he could do so again. He had the power to change my life, and I was acutely aware of that. I was like a Sunday school student, my hands folded in my lap. I answered his questions, I nodded politely; I even smiled. He told me he had to be sure I did not have MS. I said that the 6 specialized physicians I had seen all agreed I did not. I had Trigeminal Neuralgia. And at the end of the meeting, he told me that yes, he would do the surgery, but he also very clearly said that he did not think he was going to find a blood vessel pressing on the nerve, and that we needed to have a plan B. We decided a plan B would be for him to “rough up” the nerve to help prevent the errant pain signals from being transmitted, and that there would be some numbness associated with this plan. I said yes, knowing, knowing, knowing with everything in me that he would find a blood vessel.

I will never forget slowly waking up from surgery, slowly becoming aware of sounds and voices, being aware of how ill I felt, being aware of how people were talking to me and I was talking back. And then the nurse said to me, “Someone is here to see you…” And I opened my eyes to see my husband’s sweet face, smiling. I saw him and I closed my eyes again. Seeing him was enough.

Then he whispered to me, “Baby, you were right; they fixed it! They found the veins; you were right!” And I remember nodding, and smiling, and squeezing his hand, not having any words. There just were no words.

After that there was a stream of people, two at a time, coming in. I remember their voices; I remember their words, I remember their kisses. I remember feeling pain and discomfort and nauseous and semi-conscious, but never, ever, had I felt as whole.
And never, ever have I been as grateful as I was for that moment, for those people, and for the fight we fought. For the fight we fought and the fight we won.

What I did I would not describe as brave. What I did was a necessity. From my perspective, I did not have an option. The bravery came from the people who supported me, who stood by me, who held my hand and understood, who lifted me when I needed it, and who helped give me the gift of my life back. Those people are brave.

And it is because of those people that today, when the wind hits my face, I do not turn away. I turn toward it, I close my eyes, and I say thank you. Thank you.



Footnotes:

About Neuropathic Facial Pain and TN, The Facial Pain Association, Inc.
Mark Obermann, “Treatment Options in Trigeminal Neuralgia, ” SAGE Journals Online, 29 Jan. 2010 < http://tan.sagepub.com/content/3/2/107.abstract>

Song and Dance

When we were little
we'd make up dances
& practice all the steps over and over,
& perform them in the living room
for our dolls & our mommy & our dog,
wearing costumes picked out from
the trunk downstairs.

We still dance together
to songs we know all the words to,
but now we wear heels
& sometimes have drinks
& don't care about the steps so much.

It's hard to, when we're
trying to hold each other up
from all the laughing.

Rocky Cliffs, Grilled Corn, and Thanks

Chad and I went to one of our favorite restaurants in one of our favorite towns last weekend. Imagine a cove, quiet and rocky, with a little cottage on a cliff to the right and nothing but grass and birds on a cliff to the left. And ahead there is ocean, ocean, and a little more ocean, with some sky at the end. Sometimes a sailboat slowly whispers across. That is where we were, sitting at a copper topped table at the window, the sound of silverware and plates and clinking glasses and chatter with some laughter stirred in around us.

We ordered enough food for all four seats at the table and proceeded to eat it all, slowly, smiling. I had scallops grilled with bay leaves and orange rind, and grilled corn and a beautiful green salad with mustard vinaigrette. Chad's calamari had chick peas and paper-thin slices of lemon battered and fried with the calamari itself. Everything was just so good. I had this overhelming feeling of gratitude while sitting there, full of all of this food and scenery and just plain old happiness.

We had been there some time when the mother and daughter sitting at the table next to us finished their meal and got up to leave. They stood, and the mother turned and pointed at my grilled corn. And she said exuberantly:

"How was THAT?!"

It took me a second to answer her, because I swear to God, if her fingernails had been one day longer, she would have been touching my corn. She was that close. I finally stuttered that it was amazing, and she turned to Chad and said:

"And how was the Peekytoe crab?! I saw you had that!"

But Chad had his mouth full and couldn't answer. Because we were EATING DINNER. So I said:

"Actually, that's the buttermilk fried chicken."

And she said, still exuberant:

"No, I mean his appetizer!"

"Oh, that was the calamari." I tried to smile, but I was really distracted by her hands floating over my food.

The woman's face literally turned to stone. "No! It was the Peekytoe crab!"

And here is where I had that slow-mo cartoon moment, where I stood up out of my body, everything frozen around me, and took a good hard look at the situation. Then I sat back down into my body, looked at the woman, smiled really really big, and said:

"Oh RIGHT, the Peekytoe crab. It was great!!!"

The color came back into her face, and she clapped. "Oh, I'm just going to have to get that, next time!"

Then she and her daughter shuffled off, and I thought about how completely ridiculous that last minute of my life was. And then I thought about my mother (no, not because my mother is like that, but because she isn't). My mother is a stickler for manners--and when I say stickler, I mean there was never a time when manners didn't matter. They always mattered. ALWAYS. My mother and father took us to "training nights" at restaurants when we were little, where, if we were not behaving well, we were brought outside and told very firmly how we should be behaving. And then we went back in and did so.

I always found these manners extremely annoying. But I can also say that the older I got the more I appreciated them. And now I know, because of last weekend, that I am officially old. I am an old person who wants everyone to have manners and not point their fingers at my corn.

Thanks, Mom.

PS: I didn't take this picture. But this is really the place.

Old cookies = OK?

So I went digging last weekend, in a trunk, in my basement. This trunk was full of magical treasure--from pictures to diplomas to old letters from old loves to lots and lots and lots of writing. So I took a smattering of it and brought it upstairs to lose myself in my silly old self.

Just to give you an idea--this smattering included a "book" I had written in the 2nd grade, about my favorite pony. In my story, Misty the pony wasn't just a pony that I took lessons on, but was a famous racehorse, of course. And the story was a mixture of two of my favorite Little House on the Prairie Episodes and a Ramona Quimby book...with Horses. I laughed out loud at points--especially at the "illustrations" I added, in magic marker.

It was funny to read the pieces from my early college years, too--not only to see where my brain and heart and soul were at that time, but also to see how much they changed over four years. It really is amazing how much you learn in college: about your past, about yourself, about how those things affect each other, and about how they affect your path.

As a whole, the essays and stories painted a picture of a girl trying to learn to like herself and deal with the cards she had been dealt. And they're melodramatic and girly and nostalgic. But at least they're not recycled episodes of Little House (I learned SOMETHING!).

And one of the pieces, only one, I actually was really impressed with. It was my final story in a creative writing/short story class I took my sophomore year in college. It's complete, and it's creepy, and I love the ending. But here's my big question--is it OK to go back to something that old and resurrect it? I think I can improve it even further...but is that...allowed? It feels like the new me cheating off the old me!

In any case, I'm going to keep digging in that trunk. I think there are a few years I missed. And I miss them.