Beyond the End of the Road: My Writing Life IV

​As I continue tracing my writing journey, I realize that many of our personal purposes begin when young--at least they are deeply influenced then. 

My parents, now both gone in body but alive in spirit, loved me, no doubting that, and their strengths and great personalities positively affected me. However, their alcoholism did not. Some of my earliest memories are that I could prevent it. I couldn’t, but I always tried. I lived most of my life with migraine headaches stemming from that, from trying to help, please, and just create happiness. These were conscious thoughts even when I was very young.
 
What does any of this have to do with writing? Well, by the sixth grade, I had become a real master at faking so that I could stay home and preserve the family. In fact, I faked myself right into a tonsillectomy that, looking back, I know damn well I didn’t need because my throat was rarely sore. While home, I read. I studied. I learned. I went through reading phases: Jacques Cousteau books, Jules Verne, baseball players, composers. Those are some of my memories. I thought I want to write and make different worlds. I want to make people laugh. I got my own subscriptions to Reader’s Digest and Sports Illustrated. Reader’s Digest seemed the perfect way to begin my writing career. If I sold enough, I probably wouldn’t have to go to school ever. Now, mind you, I was only 11 years old, but I thought that I could surely get something published in the “All in a Day’s Work” section or “Laughter Is the Best Medicine” or “Humor in Uniform.” That should cinch it.

Wait, though, I had to learn to type, so on one of my visits to my otolaryngologist’s office in downtown St. Louis, I begged my mom—who had taken us by bus—to go to Famous and Barr. I loved riding the old wooden treaded escalator with the clackety sound it made on the way to the book section. I got a how-to type book, Gregg’s, I think it was. On that same visit, I happened to see a Berlitz Traveler’s Guide for Spanish, and I got that little yellow and orange, spiral bound book. In one fell swoop, I fell in love with writing and with Spanish. 

I got home that day and retrieved my dad’s old open-faced Olivetti Underwood manual typewriter. I dutifully followed the instructions in my new book and repeatedly typed asdfg ;lkjh aqaz swsx dedc frfv gtgb ;p;/ lol. kik, jujm hyhn. Then, the numbers, of course, and all else to follow. I got good. I was ready. 

Now, how did I know anything about the categories that I thought I would submit to in Reader’s Digest? Well, my dad told some pretty good stories about WWII in Europe; he wouldn’t talk about the bad times, but there were some funny times. I could make something work. I typed and erased and typed and erased and finally finished what I thought would be a good story. Wait, there was a word count? So, I counted words. Too many. Start over. What? Oh, no, I didn’t have a copy because they didn’t send it back. How to use a sheet of carbon paper? It smelled good, but it was a mess to correct! I dreamed of writing a book. No, I think I will become fluent in Spanish. Yes, como se llama? Why isn’t the E key working? 

I came up with dozens of reasons that I couldn’t get finished and send something to Reader’s Digest, but I finally did. I don’t think my mom really mailed my story, though, because surely it would have been published. Didn’t matter. I was proud, but I didn’t keep writing. No, I let life mess with my dreams; however, over the course of the years, I still had the dream but not the drive or direction. 

I would occasionally produce actual writing, but my mind was always writing. I learned that it takes more than that to be a writer, though. I also learned that a true dream, if neglected, will keep your heart reminding you that you have a purpose to live, and one’s heart is persistent, even when it is ignored.