The Timeworn House

I’ve always loved writing and have always wanted to “be a writer,” whatever that means. I guess I always thought that to call myself a writer, I had to earn money for it. When I was a kid, in high school, college and years after, I never earned a cent for my writing, even though I did a lot of it. I was even published in school literary journals and received awards for my various writing whether it was an ethics paper, a creative short story or poetry.

But some people still look down on you if you’re not established as a writer of some kind. My dad thought I should be a journalist, a friend suggested taking a course where they teach you how to write and publish children’s books and others figured I would be the next great genre novelist. And the problem with all that was I just liked to write whatever I wanted. I never have and never will follow trends or tropes. Thanks but no thanks for the thoughts and suggestions. I’ve been all over the board with my writing. Poetry, short stories, novellas and memoir.

When I was young, in the mid-1990’s, I studied literature and writing, and those years were some of the best in my life. I wrote papers, poetry, creative non-fiction, plays and so much more. I didn’t know if I wanted to specialize in anything, though I knew I should. I continued to study and write what I wanted. At one point, I thought it would be fun to try children’s stories. I enrolled in a correspondence course and began the lessons and assignments.

Not long ago, I was organizing a closet and came across a big folder filled with these long-ago assignments. I’d like to share one for fun. The assignment called for a 500-word article about a childhood memory that included lots of description. I remembered an old, abandoned house on the street I grew up on that was considered the “haunted house” of the area. Here it is:

The Timeworn House

I rode my bike by it many times one summer, wondering if the rumors were true. Was the ancient, little house at the end of the street really haunted or was it just what it seemed–an old house. It stood out on my street like a dandelion would in a bouquet of roses. It was situated in the middle of a square piece of land that was big enough for all my friends to run around and play in. The towering oaks surrounding the yard blocked out the sun’s radiant rays. Bushes and weeds were scattered in several places and well overgrown.

I still wonder how I mustered up enough courage to enter that murky yard. Thanks to my extreme curiosity, I did. I stood in front of the house expecting to see a ghost fly out of it. Instead, I was intrigued by the house’s simplistic architecture. The house had a square shape with two rectangular windows on either side of the front door. The long windows were covered with countless layers of dirt and cobwebs. The chipped brown door was struggling to hang on its rusty hinges. The wind blew and the clanging of the tired door jarred my nerves. As I stepped a little closer I detected an odor of a three hundred year old cellar. I covered my nose in disgust. Whoever had lived there did not have to climb any stairs other than the two worn wooden steps that led to the front door.

I trudged slowly around the left side of the house, looking over my shoulder, never putting my back to the house. The grass was so high I had to lift my feet like I was walking in several inches of snow. Peering through the darkness, I noted that there was only the old and cracked olive green siding and moss living on the side of the house.

As I rounded the corner, I hesitated, held my breath and looked around. The only sound I heard was the rapid beating of my own heart. When I didn’t see any ghosts I stepped carefully around to the back. The darkness and silence increased my heartbeat. The back of the house included one square window and another door. The window was dressed with identical grime as the others and the rotted wooden door was nailed shut.

I began to walk around the right side a little faster and observed that there was a small window large enough for a child to climb through. I moved closer to it, stepped on my tip-toes and peered inside. Blackness stared back at me. I wiped my hand across the window and cringed when I felt the thick dirt and silky cobwebs. The palm of my hand was as black as the inside of the house. For all I knew, ghosts could have been making faces at me through that little window.

Not quite brave enough to attempt going inside, I tripped over my feet running out of the yard.

***Final draft written on July 31, 1995***

After all these years of writing and studying writing, and self-publishing, do I consider myself a writer? It depends on the day. And I’m guessing almost every writer would admit the same.

Here’s to writing and here’s to all writers!