1. A box of journals I chose not to open, because THAR BE WORMS, MATEY, in that thar can. Ain't got time for worms tonight.
2. An article for a news writing class, covering campus reaction to the O.J. Simpson verdict in 1995. I included a quote in which one student called the trial "a fucking farce," because college. Glaring error: I didn't use Nicole's last name on first reference.
3. Grades for the library science classes I took while trying to find a path, post-college. Books, yes, but not as a librarian. Solid A- Library Science student, what what.
4. A printed email conversation with my dear friend, following my rejection from an MFA program, with the subject line: YOU ARE ACCEPTED. I'd also written her with my mother's comment about the form letter rejection: "You'd think a creative writing program could come up with something a little more creative!"
5. A piece of writing for a class in undergrad, with the following line: "As a teenager, I was too uncomfortable with myself to allow others to be comfortable with me." That seems insightful for that time in my life.
6. Black and white photos I took for a community college photography class, while trying to figure out my path. My baby-faced husband, working at his desk with a pencil behind one ear. My sister with her ex. Two teenage boys in hoodies on the back of a park bench, on a freezing Syracuse night, who said "Sure," when I asked to take their photo.
7. A rather snide reference to a band I was (favorably) reviewing for the campus magazine, calling them "a bunch of middle-aged men from Ohio." Let the record show that even though I was trying to say the band really WAS cool, this now-middle-aged woman from Indiana is mortified.
8. Several pieces of writing that repeat the same thought: I want to write books. I want to write things that matter to people. I don't want to exist without leaving something behind.
9. Short stories I scarcely remember, which were my first attempts at writing fiction. They are simultaneously terrible and not that bad, as things can sometimes be.
10. A binder full of instruction sheets from line dancing class, which I signed up for while trying to figure out my path. Kick-ball-change, kick-ball-change. It's a path, of sorts. Keep moving: sometimes backward, sometimes sideways, and sometimes, when the steps line up right, forward.
*It was a Berrigan. I'm not sure which one. I read about Daniel Berrigan's death and went looking for the postcard. One of the Berrigans -- more than likely Jerry, who lived in Syracuse -- took issue with an article I'd written for The Post-Standard. I'm not sure which article. And probably the postcard wasn't mean but critical, and potentially educative. But when you are 23? Well. I hope I find the postcard. I'll read it objectively after almost twenty years, and many, many writing critiques.
