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Kay, so this story is making me go psycho with inspiration right now, and I want you guys to read it. But I'm going to warn you that the part I'm going to post is extremely dull in comparison to the parts I've written that come after it. It's just sort of setting everything up. But please read it, so that when you read the other parts (WHICH YOU WILL) you understand them. And give me feedback; I need some! Grammatical help is appreciated as well, but mostly content feedback, especially after I've posted another part or two....

November 14th, Eighth Grade
The first time I ever realized that my mother was not ordinary, I was six years old. My brother, Edgar, had been outside throwing a ball back in forth when he started making fun of my crush on Tony, the little sandy-haired boy with a small nose and freckles who lived across the street. I’d gotten annoyed and kicked Ed in the shins, at which point he chased me back inside brandishing a small stick and yelling that I was an idiot. I’d run for my mother’s study, seeking her protection, and found her quite focused tacking notebook paper to the wall. When Ed caught up, he had paused at the doorway.
“What’re you doing, mom?”
My mother, Josephine, had turned around, raising her eyebrows mildly, then reached for another piece of notebook paper. “It’s the plan for my latest story.”
I walked forward to look at the wall of faded, blue-lined sheets. They were covered in green pen- the words “She wavered indefinitely at the door” written in my mom’s vague, harried scrawl. Written over and over again, on each sheet.
I had looked up at my mother and shaken my head. “That’s not a story, mom.”
She’d continued her work without looking at me. “A story is a story is a story. It is a story. It is my story. It’s brilliant. Nearly ready.” She let out a light laugh. “Go on, now, leave me to my brainstorming.”
Edgar had given me a mystified expression, our quarrel of the previous moments forgotten, and we’d left to go raid the box of cookies in the pantry.
God, I haven’t thought about that day in years. I don’t remember where my sister Alice was- probably at a friend’s house, or in the back woods by our house. Come to think of it, I don’t even know where she is right now. My guess would be at a girlfriend’s house, or at the dance studio. I don’t even understand why she’s been dancing for so many years- what’s the point of it, if you refuse to perform? She insists she doesn’t have stage fright. Apparently, being in front of other people takes away from the “emotional appeal” of the art. I don’t get what she means by that, exactly. But I suppose I’m the same way, with my writing. It’s private. There’s a kind of censorship I’d use if I thought people were going to read it that would take away the freedom it gives me.
But she can’t be at the dance studio right now, because her dance shoes are hanging, tied by the shoelaces, from the side of her door. So I guess she’s at Marissa’s house. Or was it Alyssa? Marina? God, I don’t remember, it’s a different girl this week than it was last. You’re probably wondering what I’m talking about. Or you would be, if you were a person with a brain, and not a lump of writing material made from trees and bound by leather. My sister, you see, has had a different girlfriend at least every month for the past year. Since she was 16, a year older than Edgar is now. Of course, this was after Eva moved away. Eva, the only girl she dated for more than three weeks. The girl she actually dated for ten months, before that girl left for Europe.
Anyways, I guess she’s getting out her sexuality with Marissna or whatever. Ugh, twitch.
I have to go, my dad’s calling me for dinner. Check in later.

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