A WRITER’S JOURNEY, PART 1
There is an apocryphal story of how I became fascinated with words and, more specifically, with writing. Back in first grade, we were given ten vocabulary words to learn on a regular basis. In order to verify our comprehension, we were instructed to use those words in a sentence. Naturally, I was amazed at what was then my burgeoning creativity.
The truth of the matter is that first grade was fifty-four years ago. This might be accurate, semi-accurate, or just a great tale. I was raised in a house in which there were books in every room. And please don’t doubt that. My parents even had a slender tome entitled “Jewish Jokes for the John” in, well, you get my point.
Reading was knowledge and knowledge was valued in my household. Neither of my parents went to college. My dad attended some trade schools. Mom worked before joining the Navy during World War II. So, for them, “book learning” was literal. Whereas our tastes in fiction were different, non-fiction reading in all kinds of categories was encouraged.
The first thing I learned to do upon taking a book from any shelf (in our home, a bookstore, an antique shop) was to blow the dust off the top, from the spine forward. It was a ritual, a kind of literary ablution. You held the book firmly on the back and carefully opened the front cover, admiring the craftsmanship of the binding itself. Given that my maternal grandfather was a bookbinder, I took to this task early on and with veneration.
The point of all of this is that the product, the item, the book itself was revered as special, almost magical. It could instill knowledge or take you away on an adventure. At some point, perhaps those first grade classes or later, I wanted to create the vehicle for those adventures.
Grade school saw the juvenile efforts of short stories that were certainly not prodigious. No one was going to identify me as the Mozart of popular literature. They were certainly derivative in nature, an attempt to replicate the stories that impressed and inspired me. There was a futuristic (something I now realize as dystopian) tale of a society in the fashion of “Brave New Worlds” or “Logan’s Run.” A multi-character Western set against the backdrop of a major poker tournament contained stereotypical characters, albeit interesting ones.
The passion was there. The desire was instilled. It was craft that was sorely lacking. I had a couple of creative writing classes in high school, dove into the term papers with all the inherent research, learned a few things from Strunk and White. I thought I was making progress. Certainly, in twelve years of public school I had. My participation in the Drama Club saw me emulating the same haminess my father displayed when he was my age. It also brought me out of my shell to a certain degree.
Those who know me now (or for some time) may find it hard to believe that I was basically shy, lacking any confidence in myself as a person. Perhaps that was due to trying to determine who I was as a person. Several computer diagnostics helped me settle on a viable career where I could write and maintain an adequate living: journalism.
That was not to be.
NEXT: Let’s see what college has to offer.
