At Sixteen

When I was a teenager back in the sixties, I started to write my first novel. The Gothic romance genre was huge and I loved reading them. They all worked on a similar theme - a governess in some sort of peril in an old spooky mansion or castle in England. They were soooo bad, but also an enjoyable read. Phrases like "I felt the earl breathing on my neck and turned to find no one there"(eyelids flapping). Oh the melodrama. Oh the mood. I absolutely adored them. They all followed the same recipe - young girl, usually orphaned, of a good, but not wealthy family, leaves her home to become a governess to the children of a rich and widowed lord. The pictures on the book cover were all pretty much the same and easily picked out. There was always a beautiful girl, dressed in 19th century garb, running terrified into the night, away from the mansion or castle. It was dark and there was always ... I mean always, the yellow glow of candlelight illuminating one of the turreted windows.

My own novel was titled The Hour Glass and much to my astonishment, it recently turned up in a box of old papers I hadn't seen in years.

Here's the beginning. Don't laugh ... unless you feel you must. After all, it was written by a young girl who really, really tried. I mean, really tried ... tried too much.

My days in this life have passed quickly and I have aged into an invaluable antique. After all these twisted years, time has finally shattered it's glass (Oddly enough, I still love metaphor) in my garden and the one-thousand particles of sand are slowly disappearing into the soil as inane trespassers. I feel a strange awareness that soon I will be dead. No, not dead ... just gone and my house and possessions will leave with me. No trace of my existence will remain, but somewhere in this wooded lot, an hour glass will sit amongst the fallen trees, waiting patiently for another decade, another century, another victim of this madness. The day's sky is abounding with hazy wintry clouds, so I must tell my story quickly before the snow falls and washes away my last hopes and dreams. Makes absolutely no sense at all, but there is a slight glimmer of a premise and at the time of writing, I'm sure I thought it was the best beginning ever written in the history of best beginnings. I have no idea what the rest of the story entailed or would entail as it wasn't finished, but the next paragraph started like this (and it actually gets worse here).

I remember the year was '32 (I know, but I wrote '32 instead of) and some time in February. Yes, I'm sure it was February. Everything always happens to me in February.......

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Also, I might add, I proudly received my first rejection letter at that age. A poem to Seventeen Magazine. So writing, it seems, was something I always wanted to do. Good or bad, doesn't matter. It's the doing, that does.