For much of my life I have been told, “you should be a writer!” Many of these comments have come from friends and family but also from a variety of teachers I have had through the years. My first recollection of loving to write was in the fifth grade. My teacher Mrs. Benton encouraged me to express my creative side and write stories. On the surface that probably sounds very noble and an incredible teacher who saw raw potential in a student and challenged him.
That all may be true, but the fact of the matter is I was a horrible student. Not because I was slow or unable to do the work but quite the opposite, I always finished assignments much earlier than my classmates meaning that I had a lot of extra time on my hands and those who knew me then know that meant one thing; disrupt the class. I probably spent more time down in the principal’s office that year than I did in the classroom. This was more likely a self-preservation mechanism by Mrs. Benton to try to salvage at least part of her sanity.
Regardless of her intentions it did have an effect on me. I began harnessing my imagination and putting thoughts down on paper. Stories seemed to come at me from every direction. All I had to do is write down the thoughts that were appearing in my head and add a few punctuation marks and paragraphs. Much of that early writing was about the life of a young boy and his imaginary friends. The first story I remember getting any kind of reaction was to a story about a boy meeting Ernie from Sesame Street and their adventures trying to find Ernie’s rubber duckie. I remember having to read that one to the class and that went over so well I did an encore at a school assembly.
In junior high I was again disruptive to the point where there were countless parent teacher conferences. The first day of school we were told we would get two grades. The first would be a letter grade for the work we did in the class. The second would be a “citizenship” grade which was a number from 1-5 to grade behavior. Parents were assured it was impossible to get an A-5 grade meaning acing the class but being a complete terror. I mistakenly took this as a challenge, a fact that my mother continued to remind me of until she passed. Throughout those years the one constant was writing stories which seemed to either appease the teachers or get me into more trouble due to the disruptive writing methods I employed.
By high school you would have thought I would have learned but that seemed to be the one thing that continued to escape me. I remember as a sophomore I had Mrs. Litzenberger for English. She was a small woman of German descent and was also the drama teacher. She was also pretty fast as I remember being chased around the room with a ruler after one particularly disruptive episode. You would think that would cause her to detest having me in class, but she was a saint. She would sit me down and explain things and challenge me. She would read my writing with a critical eye and provide constructive feedback which just fed my eagerness to improve.
Mrs. Litzenberger worked with me on diction, character development, and story traits. She would read my work and tell me how I was modifying voice or using some sort of story paradigm that they teach in college. To be honest I had no idea what she was talking about most of the time. I simply wrote from the heart.
After school my writing became more irregular. Life seemed to get in the way. Still there were outlets that kept me coming back to the screen and jotting down thoughts. I remember when my grandfather passed away. I was asked to write his life history and deliver it at his funeral. Not exactly the kind of writing I was ever thinking to do but out of love I wrote about his life. Soon afterwards I was receiving requests for copies of his life story. He was a well-loved man, it was easy to write about his life.
That of course started a tradition whereby I was asked to write the life history for each of my grandparents and also for my mom when she passed away a couple of years ago. Each one I tried to capture the essence of their lives. What it was about them that made them so special. It was my way of cementing their memory and their legacy to those who knew them. Those writings are my most prized works that I will probably ever write.
So, I cannot say I ever abandoned the thoughts of writing, I just never thought of myself as a writer. I don’t know how other writers approach their craft. For me it is almost like an out-of-body experience. I can see the story and I can feel the characters. Writing in this state is kind of like just recording your experience of what is around you. It is an enchanting process and one that I truly enjoy.
When blogging became a thing, I used that as a new avenue to write down a few things. My blogs are very eclectic. The subjects and the stories are varied and come from many life experiences or things I find interesting. I’ve never attempted to advertise my blogs nor monetize it. To me they were almost a form of therapy that allowed my creative personality to break the boundaries of a mundane life and bring passion back to my soul.
Still, friends and family continued to say to me that I needed to write a book. The thoughts of that scared me. Who am I to write a book? What have I done that could be interesting to a reader? I remember a quote from Ernest Hemmingway, “In order to write about life first you must live it.” I was just not sure I had lived enough.
The funny thing is that age has a way of creeping up on you. We always think of ourselves as younger than we are and more mundane than what is real. Each of us has an opportunity to live every day; we must seize the moment. Perhaps all those people in my life were more confident in me than I am in myself. Instead of doubting my own abilities I should grasp the lightning rod of life and not just live it but turn those experiences into things that can be shared.
Everyone has a story deep inside of them and there are countless people who need to hear that story. We are not destined to travel our lives alone with only our own experiences. We were put on this Earth to find travelers who have similar dreams and achieve those together.
So, I am going to see where this path leads. Perhaps Mrs. Benton, Mrs. Litzenberger, my mom and dad, my lovely wife Trina, and the countless others are right. Maybe I should be a writer. Maybe I do have a book begging to be released. The time just seems right for me to try and see what will happen. It may be a failure but what if it is an epic adventure how much fun would that be?
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