Know what sucks?
I can't really post any writing on this blog. At least, not any current writing.
Because if you want your stuff to get published, it can't be previously published anywhere else, including your shitty blog.
I know, right? It doesn't seem very fair. Sometimes, even reading something in public makes it "published."
There are a lot of silly rules and lots of frustration and waiting and never hearing anything and head banging that goes on when you're trying to be a writer.
So today (and maybe every Thursday? Who knows), even though it causes me literal physical pain, I am going to post something from my ~*literary past*~.
In 2002, I was 12 years old, in grade 7. I wrote a poem about Remembrance Day for some contest the Royal Canadian Legion puts on every year. And it won! I can't actually remember how far it got...if it was just a regional or a provincial win. I know it didn't win nationally, 'cause I didn't get no trip to Ottawa. But it meant a lot, because my grandpa was a WW2 vet, and he was very proud. So yeah, here's the poem:
I don't know how, I don't know why, but poppies never seem to die.
They represent death in every way, the death of men who gave their lives away.
Many said that they were forced, but that's not true, they chose their course.
These men were truly very brave, but now they lie beneath their graves.
Now the everlasting poppies blow, between the crosses row on row.
And truly they do mark their place, a poppy grows for every face.
But in this war, there were others, grandparents, sons, daughters and mothers.
We pray for those who did not return, we rejoice with those who lived and learned.
So whenever you see the poppies grow, in window box or valley low,
Remember the blood that was shed, for us, in those cursed flower beds.
I don't know how, I don't know why, but poppies, unlike people, never seem to die.
It occurred to me as I was typing this out, cringing, that it's probably not the best idea to make the only actual original content on a blog old writing that you would never want to be judged for in a million years but OH WELL.
I love how I rhymed "way" with "away," and also the super dramatic last line.
It also occurred to me that this is somehow weirdly timely with all the tragic happenings in Ottawa over the past two days.
My grandpa died before I was really old enough to understand what being a soldier could have meant to him.
When I won the Legion contest, he gave me an envelope with $40 in it. Way more precious than the money was what he had written on the envelope.