by Lisa Black

Should you ever want proof that I was not a prodigy–and I’d rather you didn’t–witness the first time I wrote my very own thriller, a mystery titled (with brilliant originality) The Haunted House. Except there was no mystery and very little thrills. As I recall, one of our teachers had decided we should all enter the town’s book fair. I don’t remember what prize was on offer, if any, but I have the distinct impression that this would be part of our English grade and entry was not optional. Not that I argued–I always loved stories and making up stories, and immediately expected not only to win but to enter the running for the Pulitzer…whatever that was.

In my defense, I was only ten years old. But when I see what some of our young writers can do, I squirm in embarrassment. Squirm, I tell you.

At least the cover was bright, though I can’t even take credit for that. My older sister provided the artwork; the project must have caught her attention, somehow, since I don’t recall her ever helping me with any other school assignment.

The plot, such as it is, involves two brothers taking refuge from a rainstorm inside an old house. There, they meet a mysterious girl named Cheryl (a moniker I must have found irresistibly glamorous at the time) who is directed by the resident ghosts to guide them through the house. They walk around, see some ghosts (none of which are threatening in any way), fall into a dark pit (without getting hurt) and leave. The end. Oh, they convince Cheryl to leave with them and not live out her days as the only human in a house of ghosts.

This interests me. Were a lot of 5th graders writing nonfiction?

More of my sister’s artwork. She can actually draw much better than this–I cannot, not then, not now–but there’s only so much one can do with dull crayons.

There are so many cringe-worthy aspects to this tome. No mystery (at least not ones that were ever explained, such as why the house was haunted in the first place, why cops never combed the city when Cheryl disappeared at the age of 8, and what she’s been living on all this time since ghosts don’t eat) and, as I said, not much in the way of thrills. They only fell in the pit because my sister, typing the manuscript for me, suddenly stopped and delivered my first critique: “Something has to happen.”

And why boys, my post-#MeToo self asks. Did I think only boys could have an adventure? Did I turn my crushes into characters (if so, it wouldn’t be the last time…just sayin’). I threw in two sisters later in the story only to appease my two closest friends by using their names.

I could make the argument that the mysterious Cheryl, in her cool outfit of all white, is the true protagonist. She is the most interesting, though that bar is nearly on the ground. Nor does she evidence the slightest shred of kick-assery–but to be fair, neither do the boys. The characters, the kindest critic would say, do not pop.

I did not win, obs. After listening to other entries, I received my first dose of publishing reality and stopped waiting for the Pulitzer committee to call. But maybe seeing my name on that cover page started something, a vision, a goal, a ghost (no pun intended) of an idea of a possibility, one that was not realized for another thirty-two years.

Okay, I’ve showed you mine. Now tell me about your most cringe-worthy childhood efforts in the arts!