"Writing is its own reward."
– Henry Miller
In my junior year of high school, an English teacher encouraged my writing. She seemed to think I had an interesting way of phrasing things and a certain style to putting sentences together. Some of the things I turned in for homework made her smile, a few things made her laugh. Even now I am not totally sure what prompted this teacher to warm to what I had written then. I’ll choose to believe Ms. Buttram, who just passed away a few weeks ago, saw a little potential then provided a little encouragement in order to fuel a passion inside me.
Of
course, at 17 I knew it all. I had it figured out, you know how the world and
it’s ways just had to bend to what I wanted. So, when pressed about what I
planned to do when I was on my own, I would often tell people how I was going
to become a writer. My parents were typical parents for our hometown and their
generation. They had reached a nice level of accomplishment in their lives by
working hard and honestly. They had earned what they had providing well to their
family. Between the two of them, there wasn’t a great deal of formal education but they
did understand the value of education. They also understood the folly of living
off a dream not rooted in reality. Understand, they encouraged me to live out
my dreams but they also very realistically tried to inform me how difficult roads
could be when they required hard work and perseverance.
Meantime,
I would read about writing. Write what you know, all the articles said. That,
and the obvious, just write. So, I did. I tried. As I did, some of what my
parents had talked to me about began to sink in at some level. This was going
to be work.
In
college though I could prove my ability with my first essay for a veteran
English professor. She looked the part, too. A headful of grey hair,
harsh-framed glasses and a tough personality was what I found on the first day
of class. I just knew though I could win her over with that first essay. Of course, when
that essay was returned to me a few days later there was enough red ink on the
paper to make me believe she had somehow pricked her finger on the paper then nearly
lost her life bleeding all over it. I still had work to do. I began paying
attention and started making some progress. By semester’s end, the only red ink
Ms. Scott left on the final essay were the words, “Nice work!”
Other
opportunities came to learn more about writing. Writing for radio and television
had it’s own unique tricks. Writing in a more journalistic approach also
brought different skills to bear over time. Time passed. A living had to be
made. Sometimes those skills were called upon and they, frankly, to this day, never
seem to be too far away. Still, that teenage dream of writing the great novel just
never came about.
I
don’t feel cheated though. I have put my hand to writing various things over
the years. Some see the light of day here. Some will likely be discovered by family
after my time on earth has ended. Some are worth keeping to remember then to
re-read. Some are worth keeping to remember, re-read and learn how to do better
the next time. Mostly, writing today for me is just some way to crystallize my thoughts away from
the noise of a world that never quiets for anything or anyone and that feeling is satisfying enough to quell any hunger that longing produced years ago.
When
I sat down to write this piece I was struggling some with what to say and with where what I wanted to say needed to go. So, I just started to write. Yes,
that is lesson one from that playbook I first read when I was much younger. And,
of course, I began writing about what I know, that other first lesson learned from
before. And so, I just began to build, one idea then another. Along the way,
other lessons that just writing, and writing about what I know, popped up and
each time this happens it brings home the hard work that writing can often be
and the lessons, hard-earned, learned from doing so. There’s pacing your
thoughts. There’s placement of ideas. There is finding just the sweetest spot to
place a dash of humor or irony. There’s the whole idea of re-reading just to
revise or even rewrite, a concept I long fought against but one I have come to
realize is my bestest buddy. There’s also knowing how lengthy what you write
should be. Then there's finding just the right way to determine how to wrap all of it together
into a neat-enough package to safely be tucked away inside someone’s memory.
After
all these years these things I have learned
along the way are still enough to stir up some passion about writing. This particular piece marks the 200th published post for this blog. Thank you for taking the time to visit now and then. Thank you also for providing encouragement to someone who likes to work hard at finding ways to say things through the written word.
“We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.”
—Ernest Hemingway
“We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.”
—Ernest Hemingway
