Why I Write
When I was in elementary school, I had a teacher who I'll never forget. She was sweet, kind, encouraging, and smelled vaguely of cinnamon. She never yelled, preferring to win us over with a smile and a joke. Also, she was the cause of one of the most important, unforgettable moments of my life. Her name was Mrs .... Mrs ... uh-- well, her name isn't important.
But what I do remember, was on a sunny spring day back in nineteen ninety-*cough**cough*, our class was tasked to do a little "creative writing". I remember the groan that came in unison from the other twenty or so kids in the room. I beamed. I loved writing stories. During recess, I would make believe all kinds of things- adventures on spaceships in far-off galaxies, daring rescues on the high seas, and valiant battles in ancient forests. Write a story like that, and get a grade for it? Sign me up! But it wasn't going to be that easy. Our story had to fit a topic.
“Grr! I hate restrictions!” cursed 9 year-old Shane. “If I could just write whatever I wanted, everything I'd write would be awesome!” (Years later I would learn how much harder it is to write without restrictions. I now believe restrictions to be the very heart of creativity.)
Alas for poor nine year-old me, we needed to write about a hot town, a summer in the city. Thankfully, the back of our necks did not need to be dirty and gritty. We certainly had plenty of inspiration in Southern California. Even the mildest spring days would make people from anywhere else in the country dive for the thermostat to crank up the exquisite sin that was central air.
Worse than adultery.
So, I set out to come up with a story. After many, many minutes of agonizing, I felt like each story I thought of was missing something. Sure, the story about the little girl who has to learn that her ice cream falling of the cone isn't the end of the world is a timeless tale, and the family starting their road trip in a crowded station wagon had a universal theme, but I didn't feel like I was adding much to the concepts. I may have been a tween, but I still aimed high! Finally, I settled on the idea that the best story to have would be no story at all.
Taking elements from the stories I had thought about doing, I set out to create a snapshot, a moment in time on the street in that city. Like a fly buzzing around the scene, I took the reader from freeze frame to freeze frame- The girl’s ice cream half way from sugar cone to sizzling pavement, and the look of shock forming on her sticky face. The smell of worn leather boots as a the iron worker walked by, wiping his brow clean of dirt and sweat. The kids excitedly cracking eggs onto the asphalt, watching them crackle and pop as they cooked in the sun.
In the end, I was satisfied with my creation, and happily scrawled my name on the top right corner of the page as I handed it in. Recess had already begun, so I bounded out of the room to head for the tall tree in the corner of the playground, because there was a damsel that needed my particular brand of rescuing.
I'm gonna rescue the SHIT out of you.
I promptly forgot about the whole assignment, as scatter-brained a kid as I was (this was before the days of ADD, we called it simply “being a kid” back then), until we had them returned to us. Mine had a glowing ‘A’ emblazoned on it, and I was predictably elated, until I saw those four words every school kid dreads: “See me after class.”
I was confused, sick, and terrified. I had gotten an A! What could I have done wrong? Was she mad that I hadn’t followed the plot diagram she had made for us the day of the assignment, explaining rising action, climax --Thankfully, I was too young to find that word funny -- and falling action? What should I do? I sat, hands clenched tightly to my paper, waiting for the school bell to ring for lunch, so I could get whatever horrors awaited me over with.
“You wanted to see me?” I held up the assignment like a shield, terrified of whatever onslaught was about to befall me.
I could see a smile grew over my teacher’s face, which settled my nerves a little. “Yes, Shane. I wanted to talk about your story.”
“I’m sorry if I didn’t use the plot… I remember all the parts of what you showed us … I just wanted too-” I stammered as my carefully thought-out explanations fell apart in the face of her authorituh. Thankfully, her smile turned into a laugh to prevent my stammering from becoming a full on blubber-fest.
“Shane, Shane. It’s all right. I just wanted to tell you what a wonderful job you did.” I felt myself start to finally relax. “You wrote something very special, very real. And I think that if you want to, you can be a very successful writer.” I thanked her for the compliment, and she let me head out of the classroom. Despite her kind words, what kid wants to be in class at lunch?
While I played out near the fence that faced the residential street by the school, I thought about what she had told me. A writer? Imagining is fun and all, but that’s a game, not a job. Besides I already knew what I was going to do with my life. I was going to be a scientist! Of course, at my tender young age, my idea of what a scientist was consisted of equal parts cool hats, cool lab coats, and whatever it was Doc Brown did with all of his time. Years later, when I got to Junior High School, I found out science required large amounts of math. So much for my idea of making a time machine out of a Toyota Sprinter Trueno.
Science is ALL about cool hats.
So what was I to do? My lifelong ambition of 4 years was crushed, and I didn't have any idea what I wanted to be when I grew up. Changing careers, this late in my life? That's unpossible! How would I go on? Would I be good enough? What if people didn’t like what I wrote? What if it was terrible? What if the only job I could get writing, was for Spanish Soap Operas?
In the end, I found out it didn’t matter. What I wrote wasn’t half as important as that I wrote. And thus began my foray in to this rabbit hole. I hope you'll stick with me to see just how far I go down.
Wait .... that didn't come out right.