Daily Archives: July 3, 2012

Writing Me: I Remember

It is a new month… and here at Bigger Picture Blogs we are excited to introduce a new writing exercise for our Writing Me series! In the next 12 weeks we will be working off of the phrase “I remember…”

The requirements are simply to write a piece where each sentence, or simply each phrase, begins with the two thought provoking words I remember.  Your piece could start off with general phrases, and end up in a specific memory. Or start specific and end up general. It could be a poem. It could be a story. It could have a theme, or each phrase/sentence could stand alone. Go where your words and recollections take you. A few lines, or dozens, write as your heart responds to the prompt.

Starting today {and below!} we will feature our own seven writers. After that we would love to feature you {yes, YOU!} and your piece here on the Bigger Picture Blog. We would love to encourage and support our community in this writing exercise, and we hope you all will join us!

There are two ways to get involved:

1. You can write your own I Remember piece, grab our Writing Me button {above} and post onto your blog any time. Link up here to join in our community.

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2. Be one of our guest writers and have your post featured on our blog! Complete this form and we will email you with a feature date and information for submissions.


And now, for our first I Remember feature, our very own Alita of Alita Jewels Treasures. Her interpretation of this prompt was originally posted on her blog here, but she has graciously allowed us to repost her words here as a beautiful example of the exercise:

I remember the sharp flush of water as my eyes fluttered open in shock right after I was pushed into the kiddie pool. I was 4, I did not know how to swim, but I was most bothered by the simple fact that my brand new blue jeans were soaked. My mother was surely going to be very upset with me.  The dread of disappointing her filled me then more than the fear of not knowing how to swim.

I remember quenching fiery sighs with sobs of salty tears the first time my heart broke. It was over the phone. I was 15. And it was nothing less than devastating then, but still painful to this day.

I remember candle light. Coffee. Hastily torn college- ruled spiral notebook paper… and a pen gripped tight in my greedy hot right hand. My first poem sashayed off my fingertips like a dancer in full pirouette, it whirled about in a swift fashion. Each word my fingers spun with the pen, whirling, gyrating, reeling, rotating, rolling in ball-tip fashion.

I remember the dull blade of mediocrity upon learning that my writing was sub-par.

I remember holding my mother’s hand in church. Her hand was clasped tightly around mine and she would squeeze once, and I would squeeze once in return. A couple minutes later I would feel two strong squeezes, and I would return the same amount. This game stretched on through out mass. This memory squeezes around my heart, it plays with my own sense of motherhood.

I remember the cleavage bearing “hot stuff” v-necked tee shirt that I wore the night that he decided to introduce me to his parents, on a whim, and how I still have not forgiven him for that moment. You can’t ever take back a first impression.

I remember the nail that pierced the soft under flesh of my right foot, the throbbing pain in my foot, my mother extracting said nail and a little rub of alcohol. Then I remember going right back over to the scene of the crime to finish building the perfect tree-fort.

I remember I was seven when they wrapped my skinny arms behind my back, and tugged hard at my red corduroy bottoms forcing them down to my ankles. I will never forget the boy that lunged for the other boy who held me, forcing my captor to set me free. I will never forget, even though I don’t want to remember.

I remember red stained nails, seedy teeth, and crimson juices spilling down my chin on top of my tank top.

I remember the wide grin full of teeth. The unruly blond hair underneath a brown newsboy cap, and the unsettling feeling that I would never see him again, but always feel his presence.

I remember how the night shimmered in a tangerine glow, and how the sun dipped down behind illuminated clouds until it sank seemingly into the molten gold lake before I drove us all home. It was one of the best sunsets of my life.

I remember his eyes were apple-green. So green that they lit up like wine held up to the sun. So bright that sunbeams spilled out of them.

I remember the clown he gave us. The clown laughed a guttural chuckle that verged on insane. I didn’t like the clown. Heavy stones of dread filled the bottom of my stomach every time the clown was squeezed. You see, the laugh was just like his, who I feared, and I will never look at a clown in quite the same way.

I remember “pour some sugar on me” sung loudly out of the windows of the school bus.

I remember when he tried to run me over in a parking lot.

I remember the torrential rain storm, and wet fingers quickly working to set up a tent in a downpour. I remember pumping hearts, and heavy breaths. I remember pulling out a bag of bbq chips with cold wrinkled fingers, crumbles lining my lips as I pushed down shot after shot of meyers dark rum. I remember the seriousness of the moment when you asked me to camp with you for the rest of your life, and I remember that the answer then (and now) was yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. The answer is yes!

I remember being disappointed in the engagement question, but it was us. It is us. And it will always be us. My vows are the same now as then.

I remember holding hot dimes in our meaty palms, making a dash to Nina’s drugstore to buy candy cigarettes and skipping home with our sugar high still in our mouths.

I remember the very day. the very minute. the heart-stopping second that I decided to stop lying to myself, to you, and to everyone else.

I remember how he taught me how to fight back. He was my first crush,  it was never meant to be, but he’ll always be my he-man.

I remember my first goal in soccer, and the words said by my coach to the other team right after. Those words still sting.

I remember the day I was accepted into private college of my choice, after my high school counselor told me that I would do no better than community college.

I remember the clock. I remember looking at the clock hundreds of times that day. I still hear it ticking in the soft long night, and I think of you.

I remember the very second that I knew that I was yours and you were mine, and my life has never been the same.