Becoming Someone Else

Most of my writing is at least loosely based on someone or something I know well. I have found that it makes the stories seem more realistic. My first stories in elementary school were about my own life and some of best work in college has been the same. But now my fiction writing teacher is pushing me out of my comfort zone. All weekend so far, I have been trying to write a story with characters and circumstances absolutely foreign to me. Actually, right now I am having writers' block but I don't want to stop writing so I'm blogging until I can come back to it.
In some ways I am frustrated about this assignment because I think I have found my forte and shouldn't have to change, but in all reality, I've always wanted to write as another person. Like so many kids of my generation, I dreamed of being the next J. K. Rowling. She never went to a school for wizards or fought the Dark Lord, but readers fully believe that her characters did. I even read a news story last semester that fans of Sherlock Holmes constantly send letters to him as if he were real. That's so amazing. So, since I know this blog is not super thoughtful or exciting, I'll share an exercise I worked on this week in order to try out becoming someone else. Thanks to everyone that keeps reading my blogs. It means a lot :)

I had my first beer in the 4^th grade.

            My father had been working cows all day. He plopped down on the brown recliner in the living room and dust filled the room. I wasn’t sure if it was from his shirt or the chair, which probably hadn’t been cleaned since mom was around.

“Could you hand me a beer, Kels?” he asked.

            I paused for a moment, hoping he would say something more. I adored that gravelly voice when he wasn’t hollering about my God-damned whining. Then, I scurried off the couch and opened the fridge. And there they were. Two cans of Bud Lite sitting side by side on the top shelf. Without hesitating, I grabbed one in each fist and carried them into the living room. I handed the first one to him and carried the next to my place on the couch.

            He didn’t say a word. He didn’t even look up from the rerun of Walker, Texas Ranger on the old television set when I handed him the beer. I waited for him to pull on the tab of his can and then I pulled too. A long hiss filled the space between us. He tilted the can up and starting chugging. I saw some drip down onto his beard. I began to mimic his style and let the beer run down my throat. I wasn’t awfully good. I remember grimacing for the first few gulps. Then I looked up and Dad was staring at me. He was silent for a few moments and then he chuckled. We spent many nights after that bonding over beers in that dusty room with cowboys on the TV.