When I was in middle school I used to take part in a writing exercise every year. Kids all over the school would submit stories, poems, and art to be bound into a publication that was titled “Read My Mind”. It was a great way to peak interest in the arts while also being a decent money-maker for the school.
What parent wasn’t going to buy a publication with their kid’s work in it?
Ms. Morris was the school guidance counselor. But since we were a small school the guidance counselor didn’t have enough to do so she was also required to teach a couple of classes. She taught 6th grade literature. She was also in charge of collecting all of this work and compiling it. This is not a job that I envy at all. I have read a fair amount of stories and poetry written by 11 and 12 -year-olds in my day. I can tell you that the phenoms are few and far between. But Ms. Morris had a way of making every kid feel like Hemmingway.
When I look back at the things that happened in my life that made me want to write, there are a few teachers that come to mind. Obviously, it isn’t something that has earned me a lot of money, but there were some seeds planted along the way. Seeds that grew enough to make me still want to do it during my fifth decade on this rock.
Ms. Morris was one of the planters of those seeds.
She had a rule when it came to the “Read My Mind” book. To call it a rule is pretty loose since she published just about anything that a kid gave her. She wanted to cultivate creativity and telling some middle-schooler that their drawing sucked wasn’t going to do it...no matter how much southern sweet tea you poured over it. That’s not the kind of thing that makes a person write a blog about you thirty years later.
The only rule was that if you wanted to go to the Young Author’s Conference then you had to have at least 5 submissions in the book.
The Young Author’s Conference was an elite event that was held every year at the University of Montevallo. Only the cream of the crop received the highly sought after invitations and I got one every year.
I found out several years later that it wasn’t as exclusive as I thought. Anybody with $15 and a few hours on a Saturday morning could go. But don’t tell that to 12-year-old me. To me, the YAC was a tour of the chocolate factory and I had the golden ticket.
One spring afternoon as I was shoving things into my locker and getting ready to head to bus I spied Ms. Morris hurrying down the hallway toward me.
“I’m sending the book to the printer tomorrow morning,” she said with an urgency in her voice. I thought that urgency was a little out of place for the news that she was giving me. The next sentence let me know why it was there. “You’ve only submitted 4 stories.”
My heart dropped. The Young Author’s Conference was the highlight of my year. It was the one day out of the year that I didn’t feel out of place. I could go and be around a bunch of other kids that liked writing as much as I did. I got to meet authors and artists that had actually published their work and gotten paid for it. I could buy books and have the person that wrote it sign it for me. It was MY day and I had just found out that I wasn’t going.
Again, Ms. Morris had no intention of not taking me. I don’t mean to brag but I was kind of her favorite.
There are several dozen people in their forties that just read that last sentence that until now were under the distinct impression that they were Ms. Morris’s favorite. I don’t mean to ruin your life...but you weren’t. I was.
“Can I write another story?” I asked.
“You can but I have to have it in my hand by 7:30 in the morning so I can type it,” she replied.
I ran to the bus and headed home. I immediately discarded any notion that I was going to be doing homework and got my binder out. I sat at the dining room table in my family’s double-wide mobile home. It would be another two hours before my mom got home from work. My brother was exploring the woods behind our home as he normally did until dark. I was alone.
Alone with my thoughts.
And I have no idea what I wrote.
I’d like to tell you that I wrote some expertly crafted story and that Ms. Morris was blown away. But that’s not what happened. I churned out some middle school level crap and earned a spot on the bus to the conference. All of my copies of the “Read My Mind” books were lost in a fire a few years ago. I think the public library in my home town has some but it’s been decades since I looked at them.
The point of this story is not WHAT I wrote. The point is THAT I wrote.
Am I a writer? I don’t really consider myself to be. I’ve been told that I am because it's something that I like to do. I’ve been published a couple of times and actually been paid to do it once or twice. I guess you can say that I am, but I still say that it is something that I want to be.
I’m thankful for people that I’ve met along the way that have encouraged it. Ms. Morris, Mr. Latham, and others that I’ll introduce you to over time.
Because now that I’ve reached 43 I’ve decided that I want to take my writing a little more seriously. I want to do more of it. I may never write a great American novel. That screenplay that I’ve dreamed about for 25 years may never make its way out of my brain. But I think that I have some stories to tell. I have some essays that I think I can write. I may even have a poem or two bouncing around in this brain that I’ve marinated in saturated fat for a lifetime.
I’m starting a new blog. It isn’t my first one. I’ve done a few over the years on various subjects. I haven’t stuck to them in the long run. I’ve written movie reviews. I’ve tried to talk about weight loss and health. But none of them were interesting enough to make me want to keep doing them. And if I didn’t find them interesting then I know you wouldn’t either.
This time it’s going to be a much broader range of material. I’m going to tell you stories about growing up in the rural south. I’m going to tell you stories about being a husband and father. I’m going to talk about bullying and make commentaries on the events of the day.
Mostly I’m just going to write. I’m going to keep it as simple as I can. Try to get better at it. And see what happens.
I’d love to hear your thoughts.
Welcome to “Bonafide and Southern Fried”.
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