the Art of Secret Noveling

  It was grade six when I perfected my art.  The awkward, funny grade six where boobs begin and one has to become accustomed to wearing things like bras.  Very strange indeed.  Stranger still for boys who had to get used to noticing that girls wore bras, and that those bras could be snapped.
  I wasn't what you'd call popular, or even cool, but I had my niche.  I was the nerdy kid who loved English class and didn't seem to have the proper hatred of spelling every proper grade sixer had.  I didn't even struggle too much despite the fact that I rarely paid attention in class.  I was an avid note-taker, or so my teachers thought as I wrote furiously in my notebooks. The perfect student really, unlike any grade sixer they'd ever seen.  At least, I assume so based upon my report card comments and lack of any reprimand. 
  I wasn't taking notes at all, I merely wrote down the most meagre of necessities to get me through my unchallenging classes.  I was writing, though, oh yes I was writing furiously; secretly writing story upon story and even the occasional poem.
  At recess my friends would gather round to read them, giving much praise and no real criticism at all.  That was my niche, to provide stories for the others to read and come up with the imaginary details necessary to survive middle school.  Then, I was fascinating.  Without those words, I was merely a nerdy usurper into their ranks. 
  Stories back then were always ten handwritten pages long, never once edited, never judged harshly, and never read beyond the class.  "The writer" was my identity, my niche.
  There was a joy to that secret writing I haven't grown out of.  A naughty adventure in my otherwise very well-behaved day that I relished.  It still amazes me how good I was at getting away with it back then, simply by leaning my binder between my belly and my desk so the teacher couldn't see what I was writing all along.  Unless, of course, they were behind me.  With one eye in the present I could see that coming and simply cover up my looseleaf stories with my class notes.  When I was stuck on a word or unsure of how my protagonist should proceed, I would simply stare at the teacher intently and get lost in my musings while they believed I was hanging on their every word.  No harm done, really, and great deal of pre-adolescent literature was thus produced. 
  A recent NaNoWriMo post was dealing with the adventures of secret noveling at work.  Delicious.  BUT...I do have a good job I'd hate to lose, so those adventures will have to wait for another day.