Ten Years Later

Today is September 1st, 2017. It's nineteen years later, and Albus Potter boarded the Hogwarts express this morning, ten years after we all turned the final page.

It's silly, really, to care so much about an arbitrary date in an imaginary universe. It is only a story, of course.

But maybe not. After all: fiction is hardly the same as not real.

Harry's story meant a lot to me as I grew up. In many ways, it defined large parts of who I am today. The books, after all, matured alongside me. As so many have noted, Harry and his friends grew up in tandem with their audience. Harry's trials were my trials. Not the werewolves and the Dementors, but the crushes and the insecurities. The loneliness, the fear of a confusing world. These I could relate to. Harry's story was my Hogwarts, a place I could always retreat to and feel welcome.

Harry's adventures were my escape and my inspiration, an example of what the fantasy genre does at its best. Not only did the books inspire a lifelong love of reading stories, they helped me define how I came to understand my world. By holding a mirror up to our world, the story showed me the insidious malaises of celebrity worship, mob mentality, and economic, racial, and gender inequality.

Harry helped make me empathetic for the world. In the Luna Lovegood I saw my quirky school peers, and wondered who might need a hand in friendship; in Sirius Black, I saw the father figures in my life, and wondered if perhaps the bad guys aren't always the bad guys. After reading Chamber of Secrets, I remember wondering who the "mudbloods" of my world were, and how I could avoid being complicit in such awfully hateful attitudes. These are just a few examples, though I could easily fill a book with ways the books inspired me to an awareness of and a genuine desire to fight cruelty and injustice.

These desires did not evolve solely out of Harry Potter of course. The series was merely one of numerous forces that shaped the person I've become (a mother who predisposed me to empathy, the crippling loneliness and insecurity of the introverted, to name a few more), but I always felt a special kinship with Harry that filled a hole in my soul where nothing else could. This, perhaps, is why the books transcend the medium of mere literature in my mind. Harry Potter represents the first time I found a book and my connection to its world truly magical. Since then, I've found hundreds of worlds such as this, hundreds of characters that feel truly real to me. But Harry was the first. And the first is always special.

Of course, Harry was never my favourite character in the series. Oh no, far from it. Harry was always flawed, frustrating, and often foolish. But he always had good intentions. And don't we all succumb to our flaws sometime? You see, I am not, and never have been, the favourite character in my own story. Yet Harry gave me hope that perhaps I could still bring some good into the world. Perhaps one day I might even become the favourite character in someone else's story.

Harry's story is not for everyone, and many of those who came late to the series have not connected with the stories as I have. In this way, the series' popularity has perhaps been to its detriment. I would no longer consider myself a "potterhead" (a term I have always resisted, much as continue to resist the asinine "Whovian" label). I no longer reread with the same avid obsession. Yet I still pick up my worn hardcovers every now and then, and revisit a part of myself that will never leave me.

For those who understand I need say no more.

All is well.

September 1st, 2017

Published Work

So for everyone who is interested in reading my creative writing, I recently had my first piece published (by an actual magazine, not just my blog!). This is a personal essay I originally wrote for a creative nonfiction class that I decided to submit for publication in Beautiful Minds Magazine. The piece is an incredibly personal recounting of my struggles with mental health, depicting a particularly dark moment. It was quite difficult to write about, and even more difficult to share.

You can read the piece here:
https://beautifulmindsmagazine.org/2016/07/17/i-cannot-repair/

Let me know what you think! I also want to take this moment to say that I really appreciate everyone who takes the time to read these rambling thoughts I write down. I do harbor dreams of someday making a living as a writer, so it's quite encouraging to know that people are interested in reading what I have to say. I appreciate the support.

As always, thank you for reading.

Cam

Odd fiction

So I recently wrote a piece of short fiction inspired by a conversation with a friend, where one of us said something about "living at the bottom of a cereal box." We sort of both paused and looked at one another, and then she said, "That would make a good story."

So I wrote a story about a child who lives at the bottom of a cereal box.

It's as bizarre as it sounds, but I'm inclined to think it isn't terrible, though it certainly isn't for everyone. It's very short, and doesn't have a conventional plot. However, I'd really love some feedback on this, so give it a quick read and let me know what you think :)

Untitled

This is a story about a child who lived at the bottom of a cereal box.

This child’s name is Samuel, and one can see from the start that Samuel’s story is hardly typical, not in the least because its conclusion has yet to be reached.

You see, most stories begin after the fact. They are a recounting of events past. Samuel’s story is ongoing, and shall be for quite some time.

Right this second, Samuel sits at the bottom of his cereal box. Where the cereal box is, he does not know. He has a vague understanding of where such items end up, but he can never be sure so long as he lives inside the box.

He remembers the children in the factory where he came from, his friends before they were packaged and placed in their own boxes. They always did wonder what would happen once they were placed in their boxes. Samuel remembers the stories they told about the big people who took the cereal boxes into their homes and would collect the children from their cardboard bottoms.

This frightens Samuel. He does not wish to be collected from the bottom of his cereal box. It is a simple, safe place. There is the occasional jostling and shaking, and sometimes he thinks he can hear voices coming from the other side of his box’s wall, but it is an otherwise peaceful existence. Some children are scared by their boxes, by the dark and the oppressive boundaries of their homes, longing for the freedom and possibility of the outside world. But not Samuel. Samuel is a simple fellow, and a simple life holds the most appeal to him.

Hence his fear.

What will he do when the day comes that his simple life is interrupted? He has never experienced the world before, and he would prefer to keep it that way. His friends in the factory always did tell stories of the outside world. Of course, none of them had ever experienced it firsthand; all cereal box children go straight from the confines of the factory to the safe darkness of their cereal boxes. Yet the fact remains that the world has always seemed to Samuel a scary place.

They say that some cereal box children find happiness in the world, when the big people free them into the light. Some big people cherish and love their cereal box children, embracing them and helping them face the terrifyingly boundless new world beyond their safe havens. This thought is intimidating, but it does not frighten Samuel.

What frightens him are the other stories he hears, of children being left and forgotten, stolen from the safety of their boxes only to be tossed aside when the big people grow bored. As Samuel now sits in his box, wondering if he can hear voices on the other side of his wall, he remembers these stories and fights back tears. He must be strong.

The balancing of safety with freedom is one of life’s great paradoxes. As comfortable as Samuel’s cereal box may be, it is indeed a prison. One cannot experience life from the confines of a cereal box, however cozy that box may be.

Samuel does not understand this truth. All that the poor cereal box child can understand is the fear as his world is shaken and voices come from above.

Will he be cherished, in the open world, he wonders? Will his big person care for him, or will he be discarded, as he has heard so many are?

He sees a light above, the outside world seeping in. Samuel is scared.

This is not the end of his story.

Only a page break.

The Internal Monologue of a Frustrated Lifeguard

You. Yes, you, with the bottled blonde hair and the fake breasts. I’m sure that your new husband has something profoundly interesting to say, though you do seem paying more attention to his bare pecs than his words, and I understand that parenting 24 hours a day is hard. You’re seizing the time with your new meat while little Timmy is distracted by Frisbees and water guns, taking what moments of respite you can. I respect that, and I wish you whatever rest you can get.

However, I feel the need to inform you that little Timmy is, in fact, drowning.

Now, please don’t look at me like that. I know you’re trying to teach him independence. “That’s how they did it in my day,” you’re thinking. Difficulty what growing up is all about. Challenge builds character. Toss him in the deep end, let him figure the rest out, and he’ll be all the better for it.

Unfortunately, I can’t let that happen. While I’m all for challenging kids in their learning, there are limits. You see, at no point as he is learning to swim should little Timmy be thrashing about in the water like a seizure victim, screaming bloody murder like a death metal rocker. This behaviour does not mean he is learning to swim. Rather, it means he is drowning.

I see your expression has not changed. Very well. If the threat of your child dying in his sleep due to residual inhaled water in the lungs, perhaps I can appeal to your pragmatic side. You see, we are reaching a point where I am legally and ethically obliged to intervene. Not only do I wish to avoid the hassle of laundering my shirt, I imagine neither you nor I have any desire to spend time completing the paperwork involved with these sort of incidents. Your time, and mine, is valuable, best served on more useful activities. Please, don’t waste it.

Still the look of disgruntled disdain. I’m impressed at your ability to sneer so well with your head that far up your own ass. Can you not see the terror on little Timmy’s face?

No?

Fine, we’ll do it your way.

I suppose I could do with a swim.

Writing

I've added some new pieces of short fiction to the "Writing" section of this website. For anyone hasn't looked, this is the section where I post my creative writing. The pieces are arranged (mostly) in chronological order, and there are some that aren't too bad (if I do say so myself!). I welcome any and all feedback, and I'd really love it if you guys took a look, as I've worked really hard on them all!