There’s a fantastic reading series here in Toronto called “Grownups Read Things They Wrote as Kids.” It’s exactly as its name suggests: respectable adults — writers and non-writers alike — delve into their closets and basements to find their most entertaining childhood writing, and everyone gets together to laugh at them. I have yet to make it to one of these readings (they always sell out!), but the knowledge that they’re happening in my city makes me happy. This event, along with my blogger friend Caitlin’s hilarious foray into her childhood time capsule, reminded me that the last time I was back home in Edmonton, I did some digging around in my room. And oh, did I find things. What did I find, you may ask?
Sister issues! Deep-rooted sister issues I didn’t even know I had! My introverted nature = EXPLAINED.
Without further ado…
Relics of My Childhood
The Tale of Too Many Sisters
Here is a poem I wrote about the precious escape offered by my bedroom. Sometimes sisters want to have fun, and all you want to do is have some alone time. You know, a place for yourself.
Sisters sharing rooms. Dirty cats. Small, orchardless backyards. Some things are just so sad.
Sisters are full of lies.
Sisters steal from you.
It’s okay though. When the real world feels crowded with sisters, simply insert yourself into famous literary classics, taking the place of the main character. This allows you to hang out with imaginary people instead of your sisters.
Better yet, write a book with no one else in it at all! This sisterless story won the Caldecott “Medle,” apparently.
And if there was any doubt about my feelings on the matter…