Learning to Write in Color
 

Mike hesitantly rose from her seat in the traveling coach and lagged behind the
others; after a torturous journey with bumpy roads and several robbery scares, you'd
think she would have been elated and practically skipping down the remaining three steps
to the familiar and dusty road of downtown Colorado Springs. Yet she didn't.
Hmmm.

She sighed heavily and chanced a glance down the street, squinting as the first
direct rays of sunshine bathed her face.

A movement caught her eye and--without bothering this time to not look
obvious--she craned her neck out the stagecoach doorway and caught sight of
Sully standing at the fork in the road.  Her breath caught in her throat and she hoped
that he was pleased to see her. Suddenly, she was certain about her life.  She knew
what she wanted was here, in this town.  Life in a small town may have disadvantages,
but she'd been blessed with so many gifts: sunshine, fresh air, and a wonderful, loving
town.  Smiling, she hopped down the last three steps and ran down the street--and into
Sully's waiting arms.

Palms sweating, heart pounding, I debate on hitting "select all"  and then "delete."  Do I really want to share this with my classmates, with my teacher, with the hundreds of eyes at the colloquium?  I watch the cursor blink, anticipating my next move, and the time seems to beat in sync with my heart as I weigh my options for the little lines that create my story. Composing for yourself is one thing; sharing your heart with others is quite another matter.

The cursor blinks and I could swear I hear the Jeopardy tune.  I decide to risk. Taking a deep breath, I hit "print."

Composing this particular piece of creative fiction was both exhilarating and frightening; although I had written many creative pieces before, this was my first attempt at writing for a public audience. (This resonates again for me as I compose this creative piece that will be published on the internet.) I wrote this fiction--of which the proceeding is a part--for a group project my sophomore year.  Our task: write our own version of Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales.  My chosen theme was happiness.  I wrote several versions and I was nervous and not quite pleased with either my content or my message.  So I resorted to my own perception of happiness; I based my story, then, on not only Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman, but also my long-time love of the pioneer life.

In essence, it all started with Laura Ingalls Wilder, really.  I mean, I remember many books from my childhood, but my love affair with reading--with words, with stories,with composing--actually began with my introduction to Little House in the Big Woods
when I was in the third grade. I can still see where I was sitting--I can touch the desk, the cool, smooth, blue chairs with the metal trim, and hear the sound of my teacher's voice as she read aloud the story. I can only look back now and smile as I think of how the sheer joy of actually buying books began this year. Starting with Charlotte's Web and concluding with Where the Red Fern Grows, I began my trips to the local bookstore to buy my own copies of the stories, simply because I wanted to read the stories on my own.  Once was never enough for a good book, even then. I always wanted to reread, to experience the words and the subtleties that only multiple readings reveal. But on to my experience with Little House in the Big Woods, which has to be my favorite childhood story to read and my mother's favorite to tell.

I've heard my mother tell this story many times over the years, but somehow actually writing about it myself, thinking about my own beginnings as a reader and a writer in this specific context, is helping me make the memory more vivid; I honestly don't know how--or more specifically why--I haven't done this sooner, for to this day, this book is a part of my literacy, my composing. Whenever I am frustrated with my writing, or when I'm frantically searching for that "perfect word," I always remind myself
of this experience and either physically or mentally picture this book--more specifically, the cover.

I'm sure that the binding, format, and pages have changed through years of editions, but one constant is the cover picture: a young Laura, hugging her favorite doll, is surrounded by her family, each frozen in bright, colorful, and smiling poses. I didn't know then why this book, this cover illustration, appealed to me so. But the story doesn't end here; the following year, as a fourth-grader,
I had to pick a pen pal (a fellow classmate), and as part of our reading homework, write letters to her describing our individual readings throughout a given time frame. I'm not sure of the details of the assignment now, but I know that it was a fairly routine exercise that we'd done for other projects earlier in the year.  Oh, but now I was reading the second installment of my Laura books: Little House on the Prairie.
 
And heavens, I had much to say.

Rather than simply writing about the book, using my love of not only this story, but my beloved Little House in the Big Woods, I decided to assume the role of Laura and write as her.  This was my first creative writing endeavor and I loved every minute of it! I searched my mom's collection of writing supplies and selected a stationery in an off-white (to look old-fashioned), and after propping up the cover on my pillow, I began composing my letters, pausing every few minutes to look at Laura, her house, the sunlight streaming in through the window, the red gingham dress, and the simplicity of her homemade doll with button eyes.
 
With every detail in the picture, I saw parts of the story which helped create the character that I adored.  I can still recall her envy over he sister's beauty, her annoyance with cleaning and chores, and her discovery of inner strength during her first days at school.  Simply looking at the way the colors blended and the individual characters are timelessly positioned, I could write about not only Laura's life but her  feelings as well.  In a way, I became Laura, incorporating her strengths into my personality and learning from her life lessons as I mused on her experiences and adventures. Before I knew it, I had written my series of letters and I happily packaged them all up.  I had enjoyed the process, but the product was really not important (ahh, to be that young again!) The completed pen pal assignment was, like most work back then, completed, handed in, and soon forgotten as new projects were presented that demanded my attention and occupied my time.

However, the parent-teacher conference that year rolled around and my mom and dad went to hear about my progress (and this is the part that my mom loves to repeat). My teacher, Mrs. Eackles, had saved my letters and handed them to my mom, saying,
"Sandy seemed to really enjoy this project, so I thought she'd appreciate having these letters back." (Of course, like most mothers, this sentence has evolved from "enjoying the writing" to "genius with words," simply depending on who my mom is bragging to.)
 
Up until this point, I hadn't given the assignment or my writing any thought at all; I had simply done what I was supposed to do.  But seeing the tears of pride in my mom's eyes as she handed me the letters, asking in detail about how and why I wrote them, I began to realize that not all readers and writers found the act of composing to be, well, fun. I had thoroughly loved becoming immersed in the story and the characters, envisioning the book as more than just black ink words on cream pages.

Looking back now, I can clearly see that this was a pivotal moment in my growth as a writer. This book had become a page that I had mentally colored in, creating vivid images that had wanted, had needed to share with  others. Although, at the time, I didn't know why the Little House collection or my favorite cover rank as part of my favorite childhood memories, now, though, I think that I do have a bit of insight.  They are part of my definition of happiness--snapshots and visions that reminds me of sunshine, simple joys, and happiness. Laura Ingalls Wilder once wrote, "I am beginning to learn that it is the simple, sweet things of life that are the real ones, after all." And I am grateful that my childhood experiences have helped me make this part of my philosophy of life as well.

Reflecting on my childhood reading experiences now, I realize that words had become more than just letters when I discovered Little House in the Big Woods (pun intended). I had, referring to Frank Smith's thoughts, joined a specific literacy club at this point; I had so enjoyed the act of reading that I had wanted to join the writer's club.  I was learning how to be a writer, how to be a member of this club through modeling myself after another member.  One of my favorite lines from Joining the Literacy Club fits with my conception of how important this experiences is for me: "To learn to write we must read like a writer" (Smith 25). Unknowingly, I had done just that--I read, processed, and modeled my first creative work after that which had intrigued me.  I had made words an infinite array of communication tools that I could color with happily and endlessly as a writer.

my fun page
a collaborative Writing Center visions page
my computer literacy narrative: sunshine