For some reason, I broke out my old Trixie Belden books over the long weekend. Well, they are old but only acquired within the last couple of years. I had collected a bunch of them in my younger years but left them all when I went to college and my parents got rid of the them when they moved. Which is what I would have done. But I had a hankering for them and found a bunch on Paperback Swap. It’s funny, they’re from the ’50s or so (my favorite covers are from the ’70s reprint because that’s what I remember) and so wholesome. My favorite character, besides Trixie the girl detective herself, was Jim Frayne. Ah, that probably started my love of redheads–at least in cartoons where they’re always losing their temper and I just start laughing. Also, Japanese cartoons always make them somewhat catlike.
(Tasuki’s looking especially ’80s on the right, that probably helped) But since Trixie herself is 13/14 and the books were written in the ’50s, they unsurprisingly chaste. They focused on the mystery on hand and the group of friends, both boys and girls. Ah, friendship, one of the best things in life. I find that of all the stories, those are usually the ones I like best, the ones I can read over and over. So I reread Trixie Belden, or Maia, or anything where’s there’s a strong friendship element involved. And I go through life looking for the people that will still be a part of my life in 10, 20, or however many years I get. I find I am fortunate to have friendships that go back 20 years – amazing, and we’re not sick of each other yet.
After digging out my old books, I dug out my old drawings and writings. Old letters, journal entries, lost loves and lost people. I could barely stand to look at them, my writing was so dreadful. The drawings, at least, I could laugh at. But it made me nostalgic because I remember how my friend Katy in high school would always read whatever I wrote, all of it, poems, letters, short stories, my small fragile attempts at novels, my even worse attempts at *cough, cough* romance. . . and by that I mean *cough, cough* sex. (Man, I wish I had copies of that – virgins writing about something they had never done.)
“I have always have loved your writing,” she told me, more than once. We were the kind of friends that told each other we would’ve have married each other – if one of us had been a guy. So sadly, we were going to have to go out and find real guys. I loved that acceptance of me, the naked, vulnerable, unpolished, really dorky me. ‘Cause, god, I was a mess. Even now, obviously the blogging doesn’t bother me too much, at least when I bother to do it. But my poems, my stories, I share them very, very rarely. It’s too much, I don’t want to know if they’re bad. They’re part of me, the part that doesn’t want criticism. A little bit of the stereotypical Cancer after all.