D is for Diary; Blogging A to Z Challenge

D IS FOR DIARY

I've always kept a diary of some kind as far back as I can remember. I've always loved writing, so jotting down my thoughts, feelings, and personal experiences on paper just felt like second nature to me. I suppose its obvious that I chose "Diary" as part of my blog title. This diary is open to all of you to read. It's not private and that's my choice. I want to tell you about a different diary and how it felt having my privacy invaded and that choice taken away.

This is me in 8th grade, one of four students chosen to learn on this new thing called a computer. #atozchallenge

That's me on the flute, Christmas 1985, post-diary tragedy. #atozchallenge

It was the summer of 1985. I had just graduated 8th grade and was preparing to start high school that fall. I was almost 15. We were living in an old farm house, complete with barn, so I decided to have a good old-fashioned barn dance party and invite everyone from my eighth grade class. To my surprise and teenage delight, many of the "popular kids" showed up that afternoon. (I was, and always shall be, a huge, proud, nerd-band-science-math-geek!) We had Cokes and snacks, hung out in the barn, and I was thrilled when my best friend Sherri showed up.  There was music and lots of innocent fun until...

Sherri was dancing, spun around too fast, tripped and fell right on her face. Blood everywhere. I wasn't embarassed, I was concerned for my friend. My mom called her parents and herded my party guests into the house to hang in the kitchen. That was the idea anyway. While we were busy tending to Sherri and waiting on her parental unit to arrive, my "friends" decided it would be fun to go upstairs and sift through all my belongings. (Can you see where this is going?)

Once Sherri went home, I went upstairs to get my friends and try to salvage what remained of the party. My mom was making snacks downstairs in the kitchen. I go upstairs, turn my doorknob, and...IT'S LOCKED. I knock on the door. Someone asks, "Who's there?" I tell them it's me. There is much whispering ang giggling, then silence. I kneel down and look through the keyhole. I can see everyone sitting in a circle on my bedroom floor and one of the girls is holding my diary and reading it quietly to the group. I am mortified. Shame, fear, then anger wash over me. I start beating on the door, yelling at them to put the diary away and unlock the door. They laugh at me. Finally, I am so humiliated and sad I just cry. This makes them all laugh even more. My mom hears me crying and comes upstairs. She asks me what is going on. When I tell her I am locked out of my room and they are reading my diary and laughing, she changes. Quietly, her face turns red and she goes to my door. With three powerful bangs she pounds on my door with all the ferociousness of the FBI on a raid.

(Thanks to my dad, a police officer, for showing us how to do the "triple knock of terror".)

After the power knocking, my mom shouts to all of them to open this ******** door RIGHT NOW! Someone runs over and quickly unlocks it.

My mom marches in, looks around, and tells the whole room, "You should all be ashamed of yourselves. Everybody downstairs right now. This party is over. Take turns and call your parents to get a ride home or I will be happy to call them for you. You're not welcome in my house again, none of you. Go. Now!"

I have to admit, I was pretty proud of her. I was glad she threw them out. I don't know why I thought they were so cool to begin with. Real friends wouldn't behave that way and I knew they were only at my party because, well, it was a summer party.

Since that incident, I've been paranoid about what I write on paper and where I leave my journals. It didn't help that I later dated a man who routinely went through my things and afforded me zero privacy (his own insecurities). Today, I'm happy and confident (and happily single!) with what I write and where I leave it. It's taken me many years to get to this place of confidence and ease.

I could try to summarize and moralize this story but I'm not. It was just my memory of a time when some really selfish kids did a sh*tty thing to me at my own party.
I'll end by saying the most important part of the whole story:

My mom rocks. 

Thanks Mom.

I LOVE YOU.

C is for Calling Stephen King; A to Z Blogging Challenge

CALLING STEPHEN KING

(yes, I really did!)

The year was 1983.

I was almost 13 years old and already a die-hard Stephen King fan.  

That summer, I had just finished reading, "Salem's Lot" and I was hooked. The book was so good and the writing had moved me in such a way that I wanted to talk to the author.  I had to tell him that he had inspired me to become a writer as well.  I wanted to pour out my young heart and soul to this man whom I felt understood the dark passionate things that lived inside me too.  I felt connected to Mr. King in a way I hadn't felt about another writer.  It wasn't a crush, it was sheer love and admiration of a man who wrote about the demons and the dark side that were beginning to emerge and blossom in my adolescent soul.  

So, I picked up the phone and called him.

Let me tell you how THAT went ...Remember, we are dealing with early 1980's "technology".

I go to the kitchen and get the phone, take it into my room, pulling the cord under my door.  I shut my door and lock it.

I get my copy of "Salem's Lot" (hardback of course) and flip to the back of the dust jacket.  I know that he lives in Bangor, Maine.

I got my handy-dandy phone book and looked in the front section for area codes by state and region.

#AtoZchallenge

Finding the area code for Bangor, Maine (207), I picked up the phone and dialed (literally, rotary dialed) the following number.  If you are over 40, you'll recognize it immediately.

1+207+555-1212.

Back in the 80's, you could dial any area code plus the "555-1212" and be connected with a live, local operator and ask for a specific phone number.  This real person would then look it up and read it back to you.  Live.  (Really, I'm not making this up.)

I dial Bangor information and wait.  The operator answers in her thick New England drawl.

Operator:  "Bang-ah infahmation, what listing please?"

Nervously, I say, "Stephen King, please."

Operator:  "One moment please.(clicking and whirring noises in background) That numbah is two ah seven...(and oh how I wish I still had the rest of this information...)."

Me:  "Thank you."

Operator:  "Thank you for calling New England Bell."  (Click.  Dial tone.)

I place my finger over the handset cradle, resetting the call, and proceed to dial Mr. King's house just like a kid calling her uncle on his birthday.  I have no idea what I'm going to say or if I'll even get to speak with him. I'm not nervous,  just giddy with excitement.

A man answers on the third ring.

Man:  "Hello?"

Me:  "May I speak with Mister Stephen King please?" 

(my parents raised me to have impeccable phone manners)

Man:  "Speaking."

Me:  <shocked silence>  "Oh...HI!  Um, hi, um, my name is Tammy and I just wanted to call you and tell you I love your books and I want to be a writer just like you."

Stephen King:  "Oh, (chuckle) well thank you very much.  I'm glad you like my books.  (pause) Which one did you like?"

Me:  "Salem's Lot.  It's soooooooo good! It's really scary and I'm gonna read it again."

Stephen King:  "Glad you liked it.  So, you want to be a writer?"

(At this point I am THRILLED to be talking with my literary hero and the *famed writer* Stephen King.  I am ecstatic.  My heart is pounding in my chest, my tongue is doing knots and twists, but I manage to eek out a somewhat cohesive thought in the English language.)

Me:  "Oh yes, I love to write and I write all the time and I keep a diary and I do really well in English class at school."

(Floating on air and feeling like I've died and gone to Heaven,  I think to myself, "I am ACTUALLY having a conversation with Stephen-Freaking-King"--when I am rudely knocked back down into reality by...)

*POUNDING ON DOOR*

My mom (gawd love her):  "Tammy SUE! Is that LONG DISTANCE?"

Stephen King:  (background laughter) Um, ya know I should probably let you go now.   Ah don't want to get you in trouble.  Thanks for calling me though, I appreciate hearing from my fans. Keep writing."

Me:  "Okay, um, sorry, it's my mom. It was really awesome talking to you Sir.  I will keep writing, I promise.  I gotta go.  Bye."

Stephen King:  "Bye." (Click.  Dial tone.)

Me:  "Maahhhh aaaamom!  That was Stephen King! I'm totally embarrassed."

Mom:  "A boy?  You called a boy?  Who is Stephen King?  Was it long-distance?"

Whatever the 1983 version of the *facepalm* was, I did it.  It was probably something akin to an eyeball roll combined with an angst-y sigh.  

I still couldn't help but smile, even though our talk was brief and cut short by my mom's knocking.  From that day forward, I read every Stephen King book that I could get my hands on.  I never did call him back and I never told anyone his phone number.  I know I wrote about that call many times in my diary but I didn't brag about to my friends.  To me, it was something sacred that I wanted to keep to myself and treasure.  I cherish that memory but I thought it was time to take it out, dust it off, and share it with the world.  I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

Well.  There you have it. 

My one claim to literary fame.

I'll never forget that phone call for as long as I live.

And Mister King, if you ever read this, THANK YOU.

I never did stop writing.

All images are either my own photographs or free public domain photos.  No copyright infringement intended.  Used for illustrative and artistic purposes only.  No part of this this blog may copied or used without giving proper credit to the author.