I’ve had a passion for writing since I was young, as I’m sure I’ve mentioned before. I started writing both poetry and prose very early on, although the quality of both may not have been the best ever. I still remember the first poem I ever wrote. (At least I think it was the first..) About the first story I’m not that sure.
I remember writing these horrible, depressing little semi-truth, semi-fiction things when I was about 14 or 15, but before that everything is sort of hazy. It also doesn’t help that my memory is so stupid I can’t place anything in a specific time in the past. (I actually have to think of things like where I lived, what school I was in, or who I was friends with at the time to remember how old I was when something happened.)
One of the first pieces of writing ever, that was an actual story, was about a girl who had lost her horse in a riding accident, but now had a new one, which she didn’t care about, since she missed the other one, her darling little thing. I remember the name of the story was “The Only One” (yes, in English), but I can’t remember which of the horses was called that. I also don’t remember whether I ever finished the story, or if the notebook is still there something, in the boxes of my parents’ cellar, waiting for me to go finish the piece of text.
So, what does this have to do with my first literary critic? Quite simple. It was the first story I ever showed to anyone. Of course might be that my mum, for example, stumbled upon (voluntarily or involuntarily, that’s beside the point) a story or two, but this one was the one I showed to someone on purpose. The purpose to get some feedback, and to show what I’d done, what I’d enjoyed doing, all on my own. As mentioned, I don’t remember how old I was (I’m sure my mum could tell me right away if I revealed it was when I went with my grandparents and my grandpa’s brother – I think, to someone’s cottage. Without my parents or brothers, just me).
So here, it’s more or less revealed; the first one to ever lay their eyes upon my writing was my grandmother. She’s the one in the featured image, holding my mum. (Isn’t she pretty?)
I had written my story in a notebook, with a shaky handwriting, as usual, I can’t tell now how bad it was, but since I was writing for myself, only, it wasn’t the best it could be. And it covered some pages, too, it wasn’t a thing of just one or two paragraphs. I remember she read it trough, beginning to end, and then told me that it was very ‘mature’.
She was always there for us, to support our little efforts, no matter what we chose to do. Sometimes I wish she was still here, to see how far I’ve gotten with all this. I don’t know why I never showed her anything more than that one story…
(featured image: from personal files)