Writing: Part 1

Yo!  You made it to my blog, and the first one at that.  The scary place I get to write where Daniel Broder doesn’t come behind me and edit my horrible writing.  That said, beware and don’t judge me!

I’ve decided to “limit” my blog to three topics so that hopefully I will be more likely to stay focused, but if you know me, you know how difficult that may be (run-on sentence).  I will do my best to be sure that everything pertains to Writing, Watches, or Power Metal.

We’ll start with Writing (and I already am disappointed in how many adverbs I’ve already used.  Stephen King would be extremely let down especially after I read his On Writing before I really started writing novels).

Let’s start at the beginning.

On the very first day of kindergarten at Westchester Academy we were required to walk up to the chalkboard and write our first name on it.  I was so nervous.  It wasn’t even my turn yet, and this one kid went to the board and wrote his first name “Scott” and then his last name “Blackwell” on it.  I about cried.  I had absolutely no idea how to spell my last name and I knew that pretty much no one knew how to pronounce it.  And they still don’t!  In fifth grade a principal called out “Daniel Sasquatch” over the speakers at an award ceremony.  Really?  During my sophomore year in high school, it was too difficult for an upper classman to say that they instead decided to call me “Daniel Flyswatter.”  Yes, this is true.  Nowadays I just answer to whatever butchered attempt people make for my last name.  Heck, my cell phone bill still says “Daniel Ficellos” on it and they refuse to change it.  It’s not that hard.  It’s like “Ice” and “Off” with an “S” before the “Ice” and an “L” before the “Off.”  But whatever.

I think that may be a bit too far back.  Let’s go forward a bit.  Let’s get to some writing.

The year is 1994.  I’m a senior at Thomasville High School.  Our AP English teacher Mr. Covington decides that our class is going to put out a magazine/book of Poetry, Prose, and Art all contributed by the students in the class.  It’s called Passage and this is Volume I.  (I have no idea if there was ever a Volume II.)  On page 1 it says the following:

Passage (Pas’ij): n. V. A process or course, as of events.  An act or instance of passing from one place, condition, etc. to another: transit.  The permission, right, or freedom to pass.  The route or course by which a person passes or travels.  A usually brief portion of a written work or speech that concerns a point under discussion or is noteworthy for content or style.  A way of exit or entrance.

Policy

Creative pieces of prose, poetry, and art were submitted to Passage by individual students in the Advanced Placement English class and the art teacher.  Each work was evaluated by staff without bias towards the creator.  Pieces were judged on content, form, style, and overall excellence.  The staff has the right to edit all work.

Colophon

Passage, the the literary magazine of Thomasville High School, is printed by Premier Printers Inc., Thomasville, NC.  Press Run: 100 copies of 40 pages plus cover.  Paper: Cover stock is 8 Point Scott Gloss Coated Cover; text stock is 80 Pound Scott Gloss Coated Text.  Binding: Saddle-stitching.

There.  That should be a good enough description of the type of magazine we put out during my senior year.  And, yes, I DO keep everything.  I wouldn’t call myself a hoarder.  I’m more of a collector.

Anyway, this is one of my contributions to Passage.  Enjoy!

Moving On…

As we exited the highway on the way home from Greensboro, we recognized the familiar roads.  There was no way that we could become lost driving from Greensboro to Thomasville.

“Left here, right?” I asked to affirm my memory.

“Yes, I think so,” he replied.

“And left here,” I said.

“Yep.”

We continued on for “a ways.”  We continued on for a long ways.  I say “a ways” because I do not know exactly how far we drove.  We passed a church and a small community.

“Oh, yeah, I remember this,” he spoke, interrupting the silence.

We came to another stop sign.

“Where to now?” I asked.

“Uh, right,” he answered.

We drove for a long ways.  Few cars passed us.  We drove until we passed a hill where many sheep were grazing.  This was the final straw.  I stopped the car.

“Where are we?” I cried out.

“Ha, ha, ha!” he laughed.  “We’re lost!”

“No, we’re not; no, we’re not,” I tried to reassure myself.

I quickly completed a U-turn in the middle of the road and raced back in search of our way home.

“Do you think you remember the roads we took?” I spit out.

“Yeah, I think so,” he replied.  “If not, we’re in deep trouble.  I’d hate to have to call my mom from a pay phone to come find us.”

We found our way back to the highway and returned on our journey home.  We had gotten off one exit too early.

“Let’s not tell anyone about this,” I said.

“Okay.”

And so the story was never told until now.  Many times in my life I have thought that I was on the right road to find my true purpose in life only to discover that it was the wrong road.  I had to turn around again.

I have learned not to single out one road before looking over the others.  Although I may not be headed in a certain direction, I haven’t limited myself and still consider all of the possibilities as to the purpose of my life.  I now seek a little from everything rather than a lot from one thing.  I believe that I am becoming a complete, self-assured individual with my own thoughts and beliefs conceived from many experiences such as my journey home.  Even though I may never find the right road, as long as I keep moving and trying, I have succeeded.

ds

March 31, 2025