Note: This was something I had to do in high school. I figured, why not include it here.  The writing is...primitive.

All it takes is a subject, and practice. Nearly finished with my (first) novel, I like to believe this. I also like to believe that one is one's own worst critic. It gives me hope; hope that I can actually become published, for that is my dream. Few people realize their dreams as early as I will, if my novel becomes published, so I am not so concerned about it. It is a learning experience, I think, one's first novel, in which one discover's one's own talents, and limitations. Whether it becomes published or not, it will make the next easier, for there will be a next one.

I didn't always consider myself a writer. I used to be just another kid, one who got good grades, played video games, the trumpet, few sports, and liked to read a lot. I have, however, always dreamed of being a writer, ever since I read my first Choose Your Own Adventure. I even still have my first major attempt at writing, a choose your own adventure of my own. It is contained in a small, Mead, spiral, pocket size notebook, yellow in color, bent in several places. The pages are yellowed too, from age, and printing, in pencil, bespeaks the hands of a young child. An occasional picture breaks the hurried words; childish, definitely not the work of an artist. The "book" is only about 55 pages or so, an average of about 15 lines per page, but I remember being so proud of my accomplishment, titled, The Cave of Adventure. The "copyright" was July 4, 1987, making me eleven years old then. I know because that is the date in the opening sentence, and I remember using the actual date. So there.

There was, of course, several years in my life before then, before now, and it is those years and experiences that make me who I am today. It is quite possible that if some things had happened differently, I would be quite different than I am now, but I think one thing is for sure, I would still have the yearn to write. Whether I would write well or not is not the question. Everyone who writes, writes well. The question is if other's enjoy the writing. Everyone is a successful writer, I feel, for writing itself is the biggest reward. However, not everyone realizes financial success. Not everyone realizes recognition in the world of literature. Those things are different altogether.

Nearly 19 revolutions of the earth around the sun have passed since I was born. That date was August 5, 1975. I was given no middle name, just as my sister was not given one. However, I don't miss something I never had. My legal name was, and still is, Glen Vomacka. My parents were, and still are, Theodore Henry and Larisa Vomacka.

I was raised, up until about my sixth birthday, in Dublin, California. Life was grand. My best friend's father lived two houses away, but, due to his parents divorce settlements, his father only had custody every other weekend. I knew him since his birth, about a year after mine, and, according to parents, we must be blood brothers-I bit his tongue. I went to preschool, which one day was broken into, where several other children attended. It was essentially day-care, like all preschool are.

When I about six years old, however, everything changed. My parents filed for divorce, for reasons I still don't know, and don't seek to. My mother assumed custody of myself and my sister, but not the of house. Thus, my mother being an Australian citizen, possessing only a "Green Card", we moved back to her family, in Balcatta, Australia, a suburb of Perth. As a side note, it may be interesting to point out that, my mother be an alien, I was able to file for Australian citizenship, and now retain dual citizenship of the United States and of Australia. As a further note, my sister was born in Australia, three years before myself. In Perth, however, we moved in with my grandmother. She died about a year ago, of a heart attack; she was a little overweight. I saw her for four times in my life, two summers in America, the year I was in Australia, and Christmas vacation in 1992. She was quite a jovial women, and, though I didn't see her too much, I loved her still. I remember how, as a child in Australia, she would sneak my sister and I chocolate after my mother left for work. Nonetheless, we weren't very close, and neither her death, nor my other grandmother's hit me very hard. My mother's father died when I was about nine, but I have very few memories of him, and my father's father died when my father was a young boy, so I never met him. Even to this day, I know little about my father's father, except that he had been in the service. My other grandfather had apparently been a Russian General, and had been awarded a duchy or some type of title. He had fled, however, for some unknown reason, changed his name, and settled in Australia. Thus, I am descended from some type of royalty, albeit a rather new, and short line.

While I was in Australia, I attended Balcatta Elementary school. It was different than in America, but the only thing I remember well was the fact that reading wasn't stressed early on, like here in America, and that personal cleanliness was extremely important. I remember getting in trouble for having dirt under my fingernails once.

I only remember bits and pieces of that old school, the school "olympic" competition, watching Herbie when I was good once, learning about primary colors, on hands, and figuring out these little metal puzzles my friends would try to stump me with. Since I had started school in the middle of the term, they had progressed to the next grade, while I had had to stay back. However, they were always coming to me at recess with these little metal mind puzzles, amazed that I could solve them. One day, though, I remember not being to figure one out before they had to go. Although none of them had minded much, I had.

Out of al my memories of Balcatta, however, the funniest one was when it hailed one day after school. My sister and I had never seen hail, and we thought it was coming from the little snack shop open for the bigger kids.

When I spent Christmas at my grandmothers, I went back to the school with my cousins and sister, and it was really odd to see everything at my new perspective, physically and mentally. It really put a spin on my memories of the place, and a spin on life.

There were several more incidents that I remember from my time in Australia. Most of them were of a child playing around, and fond memories of friends, like the ones I made from downstairs at the apartment building we all moved into.

Roughly one year later, or maybe exactly, I don't know, my mother and father got reconciled. My mother, sister, and I flew home to America, making a three or four day stop in Singapore, where all the people would rub my head. In the Orient, it is considered very good luck to rub the head of a blond child, they being quite rare. My hair was pure blond then.

Back in the United States, I quickly reintegrated myself into American society. Any piece of accent I had developed quickly disappeared, and I was soon just another American kid again. I reentered school, Nielsen Elementary, in the middle of first grade. However, my reading skills were so inadequate, due to the differance in Australian schooling, I was forced to take kindergarten over. This would allow me to catch up. It amazes me to think that I have such a love for literature and art, even though I was introduced to it later than other children, who, in many cases, do not harbor the same love.

Once we moved back, I became involved in two sports: soccer and baseball. I was quite good at soccer, for I was fast for my age. I was relegated to being a defender. From what I can remember, however, the first two years of soccer went badly, one win out of two seasons, but, after that, I had enormous success. The next few seasons I seemed to be on almost unbeatable teams. In 1984, my time took second place at a large tournament, The Crossroads Invitational, played at the Dublin sports complex.

Soccer wasn't the only sport I was good at, however. Baseball was strong for me as well, and every baseball team I was on excelled. I can't remember ever losing in Pee Wee baseball. I can also only remember getting out once in Minor League Baseball; I was so short, and had such a small strike zone, I was able to crouch low and walk to first every time. From there, I literally stole my way home. The one time I got out was on an attempted steal to second.

Unfortunetly for me, the other kids grew, and I didn't. Just in the past few years have I started to grow much-mine is a family of late blooming males. Of course, there are so few male children in the Vomacka family...

For the most part, school was uneventful the next few years. The two big instances at Nielson were my fourth grade teacher teaching me how to play chess, and my entrance into music. One day, in the fourth grade, a man came to the school and demonstrated several instuments. I liked it so much, I decided to try to play one. My first intrest was the flute, but it changed to trumpet a few minutes later, when I overheard a few fellow students saying the flute was just for girls.

I still play the trumpet, and I still play chess, and I shall continue to do both until the undertakers nail my coffin shut.

Soon after my return to the United States, while I was learning chess, the trumpet, soccer, and baseball, Joe Tumminelli got total custody of my best friend, his son, Michael. Oh, life was good then. I had other friends, but not like Mike. Mike and I were the closest ever. When I moved away to Antioch, I could never make another friend like Mike. Maybe I never will. Before this last school year started, however, I visited him for a few hours, to relive old times before both our senior years started. It was strange, driving down streets I never would have driven down before. It made me feel like a stranger. I went to see Nielsen and the old community park, and just walked around. For some reason, though, the years had separated us. Dublin no longer had any hold on me, it seemed. Dublin was my home no longer. Even my house refused to stir up fond feelings of attachment. The biggest surprise was Mike, however. Life had really changed Michael. He wasn't the same innocent boy we both were once. He wasn't the same straight-laced boy we both used to be either-he admitted to smoking marijuana, saying that the high school was full of it. He even told me his dad did it once in a while. I must say, it shocked me. His little sister, Stacy, was a "gang-banger wanna-be". She hung out with a bad crowd, he said. So much for innocence. Dublin had changed, grown bigger. My friend had changed, grown rebellious. He painted a dark picture of the town I once lived in, and himself as well. Dublin was not home. We had both changed too much to ever be belong together again.

Growing up in Antioch was hard for me. I made few friends, being labeled as a nerd, as different, by all the other kids. I was virtually shunned at school, but I didn't give in. I got accepted into Gifted and Talented Education (GATE) and went once a week. That holds some happy, carefree memories for me, and I'll always remember them. However, even those memories have been skewed by the fact that I see Joe Rhodes, the GATE instructor, almost every day I work at Lone Tree Golf Course. Later, I continued GATE in junior high, busing over to Park Junior High for the class, but it wasn't the same, and I didn't even always go.

Elementary school came and went, and junior high, Antioch Junior High, loomed into view. Here I made more friends, like Cynon De'Leon. We met by a discussion about a series of role playing books, the Lone Wolf series by Joe Dever and (for the first few books) Gary Chalk. Dever still writes them, even today. During junior high, I quit my Daily Ledger paper route of four years and got a job from a customer, Pat Cain, at Lone Tree Golf Course. Pat was the head profession there, and he gave me a job on the driving range, at $5.09 an hour. My primary duties were picking the practice range balls up, utilizing a cart and trailer, and sometimes a hand tube. Also, I was in charge of washing golf carts, and parking them in a storage shed. It was there that I met a man I am pleased to call friend, Angel Soto, a Puerto Rican who immigrated about six or seven years ago. I have acquired much wisdom from this man, who, at about 62 years, has experienced quite a bit worth telling.

Accompanied by friends, playing in the band, working part time, and still getting good grades, junior high passed by as well. There are good memories, and bad memories, but such is life. I still work at the golf course, to this day, and shall until I leave for college.

Bidding my farewell to junior high, education lifted me to a higher level of learning, high school. College prep classes filled my day, but yet, my fears of high school, like the fears of upper elementary school and junior high, were dispersed. The basis for those fears had been my sister's indifference to education, and the constant fights between my father and her, about school.

My first year of marching band came upon me, that year I came to high school, and with it, my first band reviews and football games. I shall dearly miss the nights the band and I marched out onto the field, for pregame and half-time. I am going to miss the laughs and joy I had while watching the games, cheering on our team, ready to play On Wisconsin should our team score, or Jaws should we encroach the goal line. I shall equally miss the band reviews, the two week band camp before school, the memorizing of the music, the days of practice on the school track, and finally the reviews. My first review was the Walnut Parade, our only night parade, and I recall it vividly. Although that first year, we were rooked for first place, or any place, I had an unforgettable experience. The next year, we got rooked again. Both years, all the other band directors, from other schools, agreed we should have won. Finally, however, my last year, my last Walnut Festival, we took our rightly deserved first place. There were other band reviews, other first places, even a couple of sweepstakes awards (first place out of all the divisions, not just the one your school falls into. There are normally four trophies, Showmanship, Musicianship, Marching and Maneuvering, and Grand Sweepstakes. We took Showmanship twice during my three years, and were less than a sliver of a point from Grand once). Out of it all though, nothing meant as much to me as that Walnut Festival award this season.

I shall always, forever and ever, remember my junior year. It was this year that I began to seriously write. Thanks to an empty semester, (the other filled up by my last required P.E. requirement) I took Creative Writing, in the hopes I could learn to write. I remember quite clearly my reason for wanting write at that time. I was into some serious junk fantasy, produced by a company called TSR. I wanted to write one of these junk fantasies, and that was my primary goal in taking the class. However, through the course of the teachings, the poems, and the short story, this goal vanished, and I finally began to see the junk for what it was, junk. This realization was aided by my other english class, taught by Miss Teranova. It was these two teachers, Teranova and Swicegood, that taught me how to write. Miss Teranova taught me, through study of several novels, what symbolism was, what theme and structure was. Swicegood gave me experience in writing. It was, point blank, these two women who allowed me to begin my novel. Armed with all my knowledge, my new-found love for real literature, my experience, and my determination, I began to write on my own. After a few short stories, my novel took root.

It seems a bad omen to me, but my novel had no planning whatsoever. All I had was a character, a homeless man. I had no plot, no sense of direction, no theme, nothing. I sat down at our computer one night, though, and I started writing. It was like magic. Pounding away at the keys, things came to me. Plot came, structure came, symbolism came, everything I needed. I explain it simply as my subconscious yearn for literature spewing itself forth. Held in check all those years, my subconscious exploded with a frenzy. Sitting down, often I will start to write, and things just come to me. I might have no clue before I start a passage, but by the time I stand up, everything is clear. Things just happen. Being an athethyst, I know it isn't the classical definition of inspiration, but only my locked away thoughts.

Even with this incredible power within myself, the going was slow. I wouldn't write very often, and the amount of writing declined. I would write perhaps a few pages a week. It took me almost six months to write sixty pages, but once I had, a strong sense of accomplishment, and the good review from a friend spurred me on. Due to school and work, and other related things, going still didn't zip along. About 13, or 14 months into the book, and I only have 200 pages, published novel length. However, I hope to have it done soon, by the end of June, hopefully. This summer, I shall attempt to publish it. Who knows, maybe I'll get lucky and someone will like it enough. I don't expect much success, though, even if this does happen.

My senior year came, and my senior year has gone. The balls, winter and senior, have passed, as has Disneyland. Standing, my graduation gown in my arms, I end this chapter of my life. Nothing shall ever make me realize how short life is as the passage of these last twelve years of school. My childhood, which I had always believed would last forever, that adulthood was too far away, is now gone forever. No longer little, no longer a kid, I graduate from high school, realizing how small it is compared to the rest of my life, and reach for my dream..