by Kimberly MacCarron
It was hard to think of the worst advice I’ve ever
received. There was probably a ton
of it through the years, but I’m a bit on the hardheaded side. Unless it lines up with what I want to
do in the first place, I don’t generally take it.
I guess the worst advice (or maybe the best, depending on the circumstance) I’ve been given that would also
influence my life today would be:
Don’t Add Spice to the Story!
Now, I’m sure you’re all wondering what that means. I won’t sugarcoat this. When I was a kid, I lied. A lot.
My mom lived her life vicariously through me, and that’s a
lot of responsibility to heap on a young girl’s shoulders. She lived to hear my stories about
school and friends, but how exciting is elementary school? Not very.
Now, all my stories started with facts. They were based on facts. Just the final tale wasn’t a true
reflection of the actual event.
Yes… I lied. I told you
that!
If we had a fire drill at school, in another girl’s story,
we went outside and then came back in.
My story usually had people running in various states of panic, kids
getting lost and hiding under tables. Oh, my, there was a lot of drama going
into the telling too. Don’t get me
started with my hand gestures and body language. And I’m not even Italian!
My mom slowly—maybe a little too slowly—picked up on my
special art form, and she would ask, “Kimberly, are you adding spice to the
story?” Then I would nod and look
away. Or sometimes I even lied
about that. Because if the end
story was super duper good in my head, I had to let it out. The story had to be told!
I didn’t have much money growing up, but apparently I had
enough to have a complete circus come to my house. I’m not sure why the other kids believed that one. Then there was this time I saw
this tiny little monkey in the Guinness Book of World Records. He reminded me of that stuffed koala
bear whose arms attached to the end of my pencil. Oh, my God! I
wanted that Pygmy Marmoset! I
dreamed of the little fellow. I
showed all the kids at school the picture and then told them that I had
one. I went on and on about
my cute little Pygmy. How much he
loved me and would climb right up my thumb and attach himself there.
Then Show and Tell Day came. My turn up to bat.
I needed a Pygmy Marmoset, stat!
I went home and told my mom about the lie I told (because by
this time she was in on my super-secret power) and I needed her help to get me out of
it. At that time I thought my mom
would do anything for me, and she probably would have. Unfortunately that didn’t include a
quick jaunt to the Amazon and overnight transport of my record-holding
friend. Most people would own up
to their lies. Be a better person
and all that jazz. I calmly went
into school and told an outrageous story about climate issues not being good
for my tiny teeny friend, and he sadly passed. But I was able to show them the decorated shoebox where he
lived those last few hours.
This “story-telling” gift I managed to make for myself came
with lots of problems though.
Although my mom understood, kids really didn’t get that I was telling a
story without much fact. Who knew
that was important at that tender age? But I loved being the center of attention when I told a
story. I loved that people
couldn’t walk away. I loved that
wide-eyed I-can’t-even-believe-this-happened look.
And God help the poor girl who actually had a truthful story
that was better than my imaginary one.
On a trip to an all-day Girl Scout camp, this girl started talking about
how she had ridden horses before.
Well, that got everyone’s attention. We all listened.
I thought about the horse I used to ride at Camp Kon-O-Kwee, where I
used to go to summer camp. I
thought about my favorite and what it would be like to own her. For her to be my very own horse. So, I stole that other girl’s spotlight
lickety-split with these words: “I
HAVE a horse. Her name is Misty.”
Yes, folks. I
told that busload of overly excited girls that I had a horse. To make matters worse, my mom had
driven to the camp to chaperone for the day, so when Colleen Lynch ran over to
my mom and said, “I didn’t even know Kim had a horse,” that ball of lies sat uncomfortable-like
in the pit of my stomach.
My mom smiled, nodded and looked away. By that time Colleen had found
something extremely exciting—like the leather braided bracelet station and took off. My mom gave me THE LOOK and mumbled to me,
“Yeah, neither did I.”
These harmless stories went on and on until the sixth grade
where I ventured into rumor about real people. And that’s where my story isn’t funny anymore. The girl who made out with this one guy
didn’t really do that and I knew it, but I said it anyway. And I ended up creating a huge mess for
myself that wouldn’t go away since she lived right next door. It was ugly. It was, in fact, so ugly that I ended up going to an entirely
different school. My mom enrolled
me in this Christian school, and I made a pact with myself that my fibbing days
were at an end.
When I started the new school, I turned over a new
leaf. I didn’t add spice to the
stories anymore, and I felt this hole inside me. I wondered what it meant that I felt lonely without the
lies. Then I realized I was lonely
because I just wanted to tell a story.
And my writing days were born. In the comfort of my room I could make up all kinds of
stories and put them down on paper where they would never hurt anyone. Where nobody would know the stories weren’t
real. They were real to me.
In a way, I’m still a liar. I still make up stories and switch facts around to suit my
needs, but now it’s considered a profession. Go figure.
I’m off to add spice to another story—a written one. I guess that’s advice I never followed
either. That’s such a shock…
Kimberly MacCarron