A Piece of Writing

This morning in my creative writing class, I had a pretty interesting assignment. The assignment was this: There was a slip of paper on everyones desk. Whatever was written on the paper had to be the first line of your own fiction piece.

My line was, "Mother disapproved of him," from a book by Rita Mae Brown.

What I wrote about was based on true events in my life, but had a fictional twist. So, I guess it'd be called realistic fiction.

Here it is:

Mother disapproved of him.

But that didn't stop me. No matter how awful Mother said he was, I still loved him. The worst part of it: Mother was right. This man, who I loved so much, was nothing but a scumbag. In my opinion, he was a borderline sociopath--using people as items for his own gratification.

If that was the case, I was the best "thing" he ever put his burly hands on. My skin still burned where his fingers used to be. I could still smell him on my clothes. Grimacing, I shook my head.

The thought of him was sickening. Almost as sickening as when I went on a cruise to the Bahamas and got seasick. He was that feeling, complete with nausea and...

The next thing I knew, my face was in a porcelain toilet bowl. I was vomiting until I cried. Wiping at my eyes, I flushed my stomach contents down and away.

The mirror was cracked in my bathroom. I was angry one day (Mother's fault) and I had thrown my hairbrush at the shiny glass. Surprisingly, it didn't shatter as I hoped it would. My face's reflection was interrupted by those raged lines. But, I could still see the light blonde waves of hair, the tearful blue eyes, and the long, dark eyelashes that crowned them.

Why would he do this to me? What had I done to provoke such treatment? How does one lie in another's bed, lovingly, and feed them lies? He was a heartless monster, and I loved him so much.



So, yeah. My teacher says in class everyday, "Work is not done, only do." This piece was not finished but she made us stop writing and that was as far as I had gotten. In my opinion, I thought it was pretty good. I mean, considering it was written at 8 in the morning, by force. I did the best I could to relate the topic to me.

Through this assignment, I've come to realize that writing is my way of healing. The more I wrote about heartache, the less I felt it. At this moment, I'm smiling. I'm so grateful such remedies are possible. If we all, as humans, couldn't find things that made us happy, we'd all go insane. And a lot of us are insane, because a lot of us haven't found that happy activity or hobby.

About a year ago, none of this was clear to me. I would have sulked when someone--ex-boyfriend, or best friend--would break my heart, even though I knew I had a greater ability to write. Now that I've accepted writing as a passion, it helps me through a lot.

Hopefully I'll have more interesting assignments to post from creative writing class.

:)