A Novel? Really?

Have you considered when using a pen or pencil you become a writer?

Since the dawn of time, humankind has recorded its stories. I imagine our first attempt of using our fingers to scribble in the dirt was not enough to satisfy us as the message was destroyed in the movement of sands. So we picked up sticks, dashed them into the black ashes of our fire, and recorded our stories on cave walls to communicate with one another. Maybe before we could form words, pictures came first. It was unfathomable to those early dwellers to imagine their picture stories surviving through the ages to be read today.

We marched forward in time and created other means to record our stories. We used mud and chisel, and then markings on vellum and papyrus. We can read the hieroglyphics of the pharaohs and kings of the Middle East and the Mediterranean of yesterday. Isn't it amazing?

Faith is to the soul what mother's milk is to an infant. The first book was supposedly created by a Buddhist priest preserving his teacher's words. For the Christian, Moses's ancient tablets were written by God's own hand, then later recorded on skins and scrolls, and we marched forward. Somewhere in time, silent priests inscribed beautiful scriptures onto fragile paper leaves. Yet, we were not satisfied. We wanted to expand readership so man's creativity came further into play. The Gutenberg Press was invented. Its first printing, the Bible, became available for all to read.

Books, newspapers, notes, and letters... the written word is power. Nations are destroyed and created. Our forefathers drafted our freedom with the words "WE THE PEOPLE" onto parchment in order to form a more perfect union, and we marched on.

From the ever deafening clicks of a typewriter to the more impressive progression of spilling words from the keyboards of our computers and cell phones, the creation of the written word whether scripted or printed is always marching, marching, marching.

Regardless of how far we have progressed in our creation of inventions to aid in our writing, there remains the human element required - the writer who places the letters to form words in any of the above formats for others to read. You could say putting pen to paper is a normal part of our daily lives, whether we are signing our name, posting a note, or writing a check. We write.

Learning the art of forming letters is the first step toward mastering the craft of storytelling in printed form. I know it may sound silly, but it’s true. We all started somewhere, didn’t we?

My first grade teacher, Mrs. Maurine, taught me how to form my letters. Using practice pages with special lines and dots to help me guide my pencil to the correct height of each letter, I learned to communicate through the written word. I loved my oversized, fat pencil sharpened by the crank of a pencil sharpener attached to the front of each school room’s door frame.

If you will, allow me to fall through a rabbit hole for a moment and tell you one of my stories from an early memory. One morning, Mrs. Maurine instructed us to remain in our seats and not utter a word while she ran an errand to the office. (Why she would leave twenty plus six-year-olds alone in a classroom remains a mystery even today.) After she departed, I continued practicing my letters when my pencil lead broke. Without a second thought, I rose from my desk and stood by the door to sharpen it. My best pals - my brother, Wyman, who sat at his desk behind me, as did my cousin, Tony, who sat behind him, along with my best friend, Gwen, whose desk sat last in the first row of kids, never said anything to me. Why they didn't stop me is still a question I cannot answer, except to say they were obeying their teacher.

Standing by the doorway and listening to the rough grinding of my broken pencil tip change into that recognizable smooth, silky sound with the turn of the crank, my pencil’s lead formed into a needle-sharp point. The sound had just reached the perfect pitch when Mrs. Maurine returned to the room. She yelled, "Sit down this minute!" Startled, I threw my arms behind me with pencil in hand when the needle point of lead pierced deep into the middle of my wrist, driving it between the tendons. Mrs. Maurine sternly announced to the class that I would not be permitted to play outside at recess. Returning to my desk embarrassed and with tears forming in my eyes, let alone with my pencil protruding from my arm unnoticed, blood dripped from my fingertips and stained my dress. At six years of age, the fear of facing Mrs. Maurine's wrath overrode the terrible pain radiating throughout my hand.

Moments later, she announced recess, and everyone poured from the classroom but not before my brother touched my shoulder as he passed... a much-needed gesture showing I was not alone in my punishment. A teacher’s assistant, Mrs. Wanda, stayed behind to watch over me. My wrist ached until I could stand the pain no longer. Drumming up the courage, I approached her with tears streaming down my face knowing I would face horrible consequences for leaving my desk. When showing her my pencil standing without aid, Mrs. Wanda turned pale and plopped backward into her chair. She gathered her senses, then took me to the school nurse. No stitches were required but the lead remains as a daily reminder. In my odd and twisted sense of humor, you could say writing has been in my blood for fifty plus years or I have carried a pencil with me wherever my feet have taken me. Regardless, lesson learned. I became a rule follower and never disobeyed another teacher throughout my school years. What further disasters awaited me if I had?

Shortly after mastering the skill of “printing” the alphabet, my classmates and I moved on to cursive writing taught by our second grade teacher, Mrs. Rogers, and third grade teacher, Mrs. Grayson. At the end of each summer of my youth, my mother would instruct my brothers and me to practice our handwriting prior to the new school year so to refresh our minds and our fingers of letters learned. I guess she thought with us running untamed for three months enjoying the experiences of summer’s freedom, we would soon forget. I do credit her with my handwriting skills.

In the midst of learning our lettering came the wonderful world of books. The first book I recall was a small baby's Bible gifted to my mother for a baby shower, and the other was The Poky Little Puppy published by Little Golden Books. Before we realized it, we soon progressed into the world of the Dick and Jane primer series, learning of their adventures along with their sister, Sally, and their puppy, Spot.

Learning to read opened our minds to the great world that lay ahead as we grew throughout our younger school years and on into high school with greats such as Shakespeare and Homer.

My first short story was an assignment required by my high school English teacher. She asked us to inspire her with a two-page essay. I took on the task of writing a patriotic story. I remember having just watched the tv program, Gomer Pyle, when the comedic actor, Jim Nabors, attired in his dress Marine uniform, sang “Impossible Dream.” (You can listen by clicking on the following link.)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yJlgio-UOng

His rendition was awe-inspiring to me, so I wrote my story quoting his words throughout. Our country’s men and women had just returned from Vietnam, and watching the turmoil surrounding the conflict, I put my emotions to paper. I felt so passionate about the piece; however, I received a grade of a low B. Apparently my words had not inspired my teacher... another important lesson learned. Readers' emotions are recalled from personal experiences; however, to grab a reader’s attention through experiencing emotions never felt is a talent never fully developed. Critics critique works, destroying or confirming an author’s writings, but for the author who realizes any critique can never be truly unbiased is freeing too. Therefore, the question arises of how do I make my reader “feel” through my writing? I am constantly learning.

When seeing a beautiful script sketched across a lovely piece of stationery, my heart skips a beat. (I know... it's the little things.) Writing letters to others is a lost art form. My first pen pal was Dr. Zora Frances Greenway, a foreign missionary who served in Africa. (Her info is listed at the following link.)

https://www.baylor.edu/genderstudies/index.php?id=954317

She visited my church when I was in elementary school, and I found her life to be fascinating. She asked me to write and I did. Each time she mailed her newsletter of her travels and mission work of sharing the gospel of Christ with the world, I would respond. I dreamt of the places my written words traveled to find her... exciting adventures for this young girl from the mountains of Tennessee. Later, in high school, I wrote letters to friends I made through attending summer camps and our correspondence continued into college. Funny... we communicate through Facebook today.

I still possess notes handwritten by my husband professing his love when we were dating. We laugh now at the silliness, but as a sentimental fool, pieces of yellowed paper torn from a tiny memo pad will keep for the ages. You must remember the Internet did not exist. Telephone calls not local were considered long distance which came at a higher cost. No one called outside of their local area unless it was absolutely necessary. I still grow anxious with excitement walking to my mailbox to find what is waiting inside.

I love not only the skill of writing but its artform too. In my thirties, I took a class in calligraphy at a community college. I chuckled when realizing the teacher required the same lined paper with its dots used when I first learned as a child, again to guide my quill's nib and ink to the correct height and width.

Why a novel and why now? To quote one of my favorite sleuths, “It’s elementary, my dear Watson.” You must start somewhere or you will go nowhere, so why not?

This journey began when each of my children was experiencing difficulties as we all do moving into the world of adulthood. Oddly, within the same time period, all three were facing life decisions and overcoming obstacles, although each struggle was different. I wanted to inspire them... give them hope... to show no matter what you are facing at any time during your life, dreams should never die although they may need to be changed or altered. I wanted my children to never cease their march forward. Not only could they continue pursuing their goals, passions, and desires, whether new or old and at any age, but also their mother who was approaching her mid-fifties at the time. Most can agree that our most satisfying accomplishments come from hard work regardless of when. I asked myself what I could do to help, and knew there was no better teacher than through example.

Many of my family members and close friends had encouraged me to write a book because of short stories I had shared occasionally through social media. Nothing big.... truly short, short tales or thoughts. Their words allowed me to think that maybe I could write a book. My journey began in the fall of 2014, and although I maintained a full-time job and faced other obstacles and victories, I continued the daunting task of writing an hour or two here, and a paragraph and sentence there.

Fear can either be used to one's advantage or detriment. At first, I never shared my idea with my family. It was to be a surprise. However, when you are sitting at a computer when not at work, I had no choice but to share my goal with them. I continued to remain silent with anyone outside my circle of trust due to fear of failure and disappointing others. Truthfully, if I am being completely transparent, I guess I was afraid of disappointing myself. My book was to be for my husband's and children's eyes only. I wanted to show them that anything was possible if they wanted it bad enough; nothing more, or so I thought.

A couple of years into this task, my husband said I should share the book with the public. I know he could not understand what he was asking of me. Fear struck again. How could he expect me to muster the courage to throw myself into the writing arena? As a novice, why would I place myself into this unfamiliar world through typing words on a page and facing critics and non-critics alike? This was supposed to have been a private achievement, yet he continued to place the challenge before me. Finally, with the same emotions of that frightened six-year-old of long ago, I found the courage to march forward.

To exclude partiality from my well-meaning family, I requested support from two friends whose judgment and candor I grew to depend upon. Although the notion was new to them, they graciously agreed to become my proofreaders. They have been my constant source of feedback and reassurance. Each person’s reaction on this journey has proved invaluable to me... providing encouragement so as to continue my march to an end.

Today, seven years later, I hold my completed novel in hand. Finished. The best affirmation came from one who said, “Why does it matter if anyone likes it. You did it. You wrote a book. How many people can say that?"

Maybe you have a dream, but do not think it worthy of pursuit. Think again. Who knows? Maybe you will see your dream become a reality. It's never too late.

My hope is you enjoy reading Beneath the Kudzu. It is a work of fiction. For me, as difficult as it can be to read through certain passages, the story reveals true courage by moving beyond incredible pain in one's past to forgiving others when they do not ask or deserve our forgiveness.

My prayer for you is one of peace, love, and happiness. Please drop in again soon! I would love a chat. Remember... just keep marching.