I was applying for a writing job today and was asked to send some samples of my writing. As I have never sent anything in for publication (except for that story in Adoptionmag but I still don't think the word "published" really applies there) I decided to send a few different types of writing - to show off my talent for different styles. I sent a couple of research papers that I had written and then was searching for something a little more fun as I sensed this person might have a sense of humor (at least I hope so or I'm probably screwed!!)

Anyway, while digging I came across this and I decided to copy it here in case anyone would care to read it. I actually wrote it for a class but the assignment was creative rather than academic so it's a little more fun than you might expect from a school assignment. I hope you enjoy but if not, tell me and perhaps it is time to give up my dream of becoming a writer (I did however get a gold star along with my 98% from my prof...seriously, it's still on the copy I handed in - a REAL gold star!!)

On Why I Don’t Keep a Notebook (Title borrowed from Joan Didion’s "On Why I Keep a Notebook")

"Should’ve been a yield," the note reads. These are the words scribbled on the back of a gasoline receipt; an artifact from a long ago journey. They words are almost illegible, hurriedly scrawled, my unsteady hand jerking as the car bumped across the railroad tracks in some dusty Alberta town. It was written just minutes after stopping for gas and only mere moments after the police car with its flashing red and blue lights finally pulled out from behind us, the officer giving a friendly wave to accompany the traffic ticket he had issued me for running the stop sign.

The gasoline receipt is dull and withered after more than ten years of being crammed into a shoebox along with several other mementos of my life. Despite its fading looks, however this little scrap of paper is capable of conjuring up distinct memories of a trip from Kamloops to Edmonton which changed the course of my life. The first image that comes to mind is that of the stop sign, but the whole trip soon comes into focus, beginning with the phone call that set it all in motion and ending with a two-hour drive around West Edmonton searching for West Edmonton Mall. You’d think this would be easy given the mall is almost the size of the entire city but alas, this is me we’re talking about and I apparently inherited my sense of direction from my Dad.

The stop sign in the tiny town about two hours outside of Edmonton was truly an anomaly. To this day, I cannot even remember the name of that town without squinting to read it on the receipt, but I will never forget that stop sign. It was about five times the size of an ordinary stop sign, and I’m sure it must have been the largest object in the entire town. As we crossed the tracks on the way to the gas station, we marveled, first at the size of the sign, and then at the fact that there was a need for a sign there in the first place. The gas station constituted about half the town (although it appears there was a police station nearby as well), and there were no other cars in sight, never mind one that would necessitate my stopping at the sign. Hence the "should’ve been a yield." Evidently the police did not agree and I was sent on my way with a ticket as a souvenir of my visit.

I have never been organized enough to keep a notebook, so the little note scrawled across the back of a gasoline receipt is typical of the way most of the defining moments of my life are recorded. Actually, to tell the truth, I have never really cared enough to put that much effort into it. Having a notebook has always seemed like too much of a commitment to me. I dress it up, take it out with me once, and next thing I know it expects to come with me every time I leave the house. I try to leave it behind once in a while – sneaking out the door with the new James Patterson novel hidden inside my tote bag as I head out to the beach – but the notebook always finds out and later, I can’t escape that accusing glare as I sheepishly try to record the story of the girl at the beach who cried after she executed the perfect back flip off the dock but left the top half of her bathing suit behind when she resurfaced. Or wait a minute, maybe that was me…? In any case, the notebook is not pleased at having missed out on the chance to catch some rays and the guilt is just not worth it. Besides, the James Patterson novel really was a lot of fun, and I was thinking it might be fun to take it out again sometime.

My image of serious notebook keepers is not really all that favorable anyway, so it is likely that even without my fear of commitment to a notebook, I would have a hard time with this concept. I just don’t think I want to be that girl lurking behind some interesting woman at The Gap, scribbling furiously so I will not forget a single detail of a laugh I would kill for, or how that wonderful laughter died and the bright spark in her green eyes dimmed when her boyfriend (huband?) told her to buy the plain white T-shirt instead of the cute yellow tank top she was holding up against her bronzed skin.

Despite my aversion to notebook taking, I did try the popular custom of keeping a diary once. My entries were typical of centuries of diary entries across the world: "Dear Diary, today was a great day…blah, blah, blah." This forced optimism (or outright lying if you want to be technical about it), just doesn’t really work for me. I mean, let’s be honest, today was certainly not a great day. I woke up late, went to school with wet hair, couldn’t find a parking space and had to hike about ten miles to get to my class. Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration but when you are already running late and to top it off, your soaking hair is freezing into a solid mass that is threatening to snap off at the slightest touch, it feels like ten miles. Anyway, after all was said and done, there was nothing even remotely good about today, and there is no reason why I would ever want to think about it again, never mind reading about it in some silly little book with one of those useless little locks that even my dog could break into.

Are those pathetic little locks really supposed to keep people out (I’m not even going to ask about those ones that come with the keys that open the locks attached right to the diary??) I have these absurd nightmares about my dog actually breaking into my diary (that is if I kept one of course) and finding out all about the day I played Frisbee with Alvin, the dog from next door. He was suspicious that afternoon when I came home smelling like another dog, but of course I denied it, saying I had just "run into" Alvin when I ran over to the neighbours to borrow a cup of brown sugar. If he actually could break into my diary, assuming of course that I had one, he would have the proof and I know he would still be holding it against me today. I’m certainly not brave enough to tempt that kind of fate.

Basically, all I have gained from writing things down in the knowledge that it gets you in trouble. Just ask my dad about the time he discovered the entries about the crush I had when I was 10. That’s why I prefer to store my memories on little scraps of paper that I can hide in my drawers, or on funny souvenirs crammed into a shoebox, under the seat of my car, or even inside that James Patterson novel. It is the essence of the memories that is most important, not whether they are recorded neatly in some perfect little notebook. So that is why I keep the crudely fashioned blue-and-white pom-pom from a junior high football game, on which I have written "We Won!" It doesn’t matter that our school’s team was awful and only won one game during that entire season. What matters is that the pom-pom instantly calls to mind a cool October night at Norbrock Stadium when we did win and that I remember cheering so loud that night that I lost my voice.

Even if someone discovers my hidden cache of treasures, all they will see is some insignificant comment on the back of a Wal-Mart receipt, or a hospital identification bracelet that reveals nothing other than the name of the person who was unfortunate enough to be wearing it that hot summer night. They may even get really lucky and come across the ticket stub from a WWF match that I never even attended but nevertheless will never forget. These items will mean nothing to anyone else, but for me, they are able to evoke a flood of recollections and connect me to the past; simple memorials to a life I’ve long since left behind but will always carry with me.

I'm gonna check now as I have no idea if that whole thing will even fit in one entry but if it worked then this is the last you will hear from me today...otherwise, do not fret, I shall return to finish!!

Talk soon