The Making of a Storyteller ( Part 3 )

Okay so where was I when last we visited? Now I remember. I was telling you about my recounting TV shows to my fellow students. Let’s carry on.

In grade school, I managed to compose some poetry. I know now that I was only sticking my toe in the water to see how it felt. It must have felt okay because I kept at it, and once I got in high school; I started receiving some positive feedback from people whose opinions I valued. That feedback encouraged me to keep putting words on paper. My sophomore year English teacher labeled me a romantic. This shocked me. How could that statement be true? I wanted the stories I’d started to write to reflect Poe and Sterling. I resisted accepting that brand applied to my writing.

Now – after more than thirty years – I know she had me pegged correctly. It’s funny how sometimes people looking from the outside in can see more than the person on the inside looking out. Even though I now accept that label, it took years to get comfortable with it. Such is life.

In college, I continued to straddle the fence of storytelling. I wrote poems and some short stories. Some were okay but most fizzled out and didn’t amount to much. Once I graduated from college, I decided I wanted to see if I could sell some of the words I’d written onto the page. I became a Writer’s Digest subscriber and a book club buyer. With no typewriter available, my stores were poured out into notebooks and loose leaf sheets of paper. I entered contests not hoping or expecting grand prizes or awards. Sometimes a simple nod can go a long way, and I think most writers just want someone to say, “I liked that story.”

Starving for acceptance or appreciation is a difficult path to walk. Every moment without feeling that joy is like existing as a water starved houseplant. Every day, the dirt gets a little harder and the leaves become more brittle. Then one day a stiff wind comes along and kills the last bit of life left in your dream. The books go onto the shelf. The subscription is canceled. The notebooks with dozens of stories and pages and pages of poetry go into a box that finds its way into a dank dark moist basement. Years later that box degrades and falls apart. The papers damp and rotted beyond rescue find their final resting place in a bag of trash.

Years later, I typed some words into an email and hit send. I didn’t expect anything. I just wanted to let the lady on the receiving end of that note to know how I felt about her. With her words of encouragement, I continued to peck out more and more lines. She insisted I write more, and I did. Before long, I had the first attempt at a short story in years. When she read it, she liked it, but wanted it bigger, fuller, and bolder. I stretched the story and bulked it up, but it never became more than a short story. Wake Me Up Someday is hanging around on a hard drive waiting for a little work and a rough polish. Someday it’ll get both. I'm sure.

Keeping company with that story is others. These orphans may one day get their chance and come back to the forefront again. If not I’ve learned some things from them, so they haven’t been works without merit. Each one has given me more and more confidence in what I love doing. Also they’ve helped me embrace the romantic inside me, and that’s okay. What would this world be without love? Thanks Theresa for all your love and encouragement.

When next we meet I’ll give you the back story of The Hurting Place. Until then keep reading. : )

The Making of a Storyteller ( Part 2 )

Looking back now, I think it would be safe to say that Robinson Cursoe was an ambitious book for a ten/eleven year old to attempt. However, when the book was finally finished there was a feeling of great accomplishment. Completing that book gave me the confidence to read other books. Most of the books will never be measured against Defoe’s tale, but each had its own value. If for no other reason, they provided entertainment.

The library of Griffithsville Elementary School was no public library, but it did offer a wealth of reading opportunities for its students. Many of which I read or at the very least perused well enough to decide not to read. Among the books that entertained me were Between Planets, Red Planet, and Space Cadet. These books were written by Robert Heinlein a noted master in the realm of science fiction.

Another writer I enjoyed reading was Curtis Kent Bishop. He wrote sport stories dealing with football, baseball, and basketball. Two of those three interested me and I learned if the book had his name on it, it was worthy of reading. One of his books – Lank of the Little League – is still with me as a fond memory. That either speaks positively for my memory, the quality of his writing, or both.

The first book I ever read more than once was Sabre Jet Ace written by Charles Ira Combs. This book is the story of Joseph C. McConnell a fighter pilot in the Korean War. He was the first triple ace jet fighter pilot. I think I enjoyed this book the second time I read it as much as I did the first. Once again, I can thank my mother for this joy. Having told her I couldn’t find anything at the library  I hadn’t already read, she suggested I reread a book that I previously enjoyed. Hesitant at first, I soon realized really good stories can be read and reread over and over. Thanks again mom.

But reading isn’t the only thing that played into my love of telling stories. During my time in grade school and later high school, I was blessed with the task of being one of the first students to arrive at the school every day. In those days in the sixties, when students arrived at school, they entered their classrooms and found something to occupy ourselves with until the beginning of school. On many occasions, we would gather to talk about what was on TV the previous night.

“Did you see Gunsmoke last night?” I might ask one of my classmates.

“No, what was it about?”

That was all it took to launch me into a detailed oral reconstruction of the entire show. I felt I needed to speak to every lift of a hat, every order of whiskey, or every draw of a gun. To tell of the goings-on’s of an hour TV show took time. But somehow I finished before class started. On the rare occasions when I didn’t there was recess to complete the telling.

Almost always before I finished I had a gathering of nearly a dozen fellow students standing around my desk hanging on my every word and detail. I must have done a good job conveying the story, because I was soon being requested to recount other shows I’d seen the night before. More than once I had friends tell me they didn’t need to watch a show they just needed to make sure I did. That way, I could recount everything to them the next day. That was okay by me.

When next we meet part 3. Until then happy reading. : )

The making of a storyteller ( Part 1 )

The biggest influence on my love of reading and stories was my mother. Some of my fondest memories from childhood were on the nights she would read or tell me and my brother a story. My mom grew up the oldest of eight children in a coal mining community. Being the oldest child put her in the unique position of helping to raise her siblings. I’m sure many of the stories she told them at night were also the stories she told us at night.

Of course there were the standards. Goldilocks and the Three Bears, Little Red Riding Hood, Jack and the Beanstalk, and my favorite, and I think her’s as well, Epaminondas and his Auntie. Most stories she told us were recited and not read, but later on we did get a great number of stories read to us from one of my older brother’s school books. As desperately as I’ve tried, I cannot recall the name of the book or any of the names of the stories in the book. One thing I do remember is that when she opened this book to read, I opened my ears to listen.

It is from that book that I developed a love of stories put down on paper. It was almost like some magical spell fell upon me when she read the words from the page that transported me from the comfy covers of our bed to the grassy plains of the Midwest. In that land of buffalo and Indian braves I got to experience an excitement far beyond the reaches of our valley. So it was that I longed for that red book to be opened so I could be once again the hero of the story.

From this love of words it would be reasonable to conclude that I had no problem learning to read. Far be it from the truth. Learning the mechanics of reading somehow eluded me. Not until the fourth and fifth grade did I become comfortable holding a book in my hands and reading the words on the page. That is when I bloomed as a reader and began to use our grade school library to its full advantage.

The first book I can recall reading on my own was Robinson Crusoe. I proudly sat down every evening after dinner and turned the pages eager to see what was to happen to Robinson. Not many days after I started this Everest of words my mother asked if she could read it too. I was happy to allow her to read this book. It would only add to her vast collection of stories. The next day the book remained home as I went to school. That evening after dinner I asked her if she wanted to read the book that night. To my horror she told me she had already finished it. She read in a day what it took me two weeks to accomplish. At first, I felt dejected because it was taking me days to read the book she’d managed to finish in hours. I put down the book determined to let it go unfinished.

When my mother realized I’d stopped reading the book, she questioned me as to what had caused me to abandon the story. I explained to her that it must be too challenging of a book for me since she had read it in a few hours and after days I’d only managed to scratch the surface. She told me that everyone reads at different paces based on their reading expertise and the personal desire to finish the story. This made sense to me, and I rejoined Robinson on the island now content to stroll along the words rather than rush through them making sure to take my time and savor all their meanings.

When next we meet part two. Happy reading.