Okay, we all have dirty little secrets in our pasts that we've never ever told anyone. I'm about to share one with you.
If you're a regular reader of "Memos from the Moon," then you've surely realized by now how long I cling to guilt. I still feel guilty over things I did ten and fifteen years ago. I guess I have my Mormon upbringing to thank for that.
So, I still feel guilty over—heavy sigh—commiting plagiarism in the seventh grade. With any luck, the statute of limitations on that particular crime has run out, and my confession won't lead to my arrest and prosecution. But sadly, for me, the statute of limitations on guilt never runs out.
I knew from an early age that I wanted to be a writer, and most everyone who knew me knew that. So when we got the assignment in Ms. Easton's English class to write a physical description of a fictional character, I knew that I had to write the best one. Days went by, however, and inspiration failed to strike.
So, the morning the assignment was due, I rifled through one of my Brains Benton mysteries—sort of a low-rent analog to the Hardy Boys series—and cribbed the author's description of the main character. I don't remember most of that description, but one line has stuck with me all these years. It painted Brains Benton as a "long, skinny drink of water."
Well, I got my A. And Ms. Easton read my plagiarized paper in front of the whole class. She also read to my father and mother when they came for their parent-teacher conference. I was terrified that someone would realize that I couldn't possibly have written such a fine bit of description—where in the world would I have picked up a phrase like "drink of water"?—but no one ever did. All I ever received was praise for my fine and precocious way with words.
I didn't need to be punished for my plagiarism. I punished myself enough. I felt like a fraud. And I vowed never to plagiarize another piece of writing again in my life.
And I haven't. So will you absolve me now, please? Please?
