(no subject)
I like to write. I have been putting stories onto paper since I was in 8th grade. An English teacher suggested it. Before that, I "told" stories in the custom of my people. It never occurred to me to put them to paper. That was a start. Crude . . . yes. I still have some examples of it . . . all had written in the worst cursive of any kid. I find it hard to read and I w rote it. My mother bought a 1933 Underwood Standard office typewriter for five bucks at a garage sale and gave it to me when I was a freshman in High school. Hunt and peck . . . that was me. Anything I wanted to write, hunt and peck. I actually got pretty good at it. When I became a sophomore I was able to take typing as a full year class. Wow! I learned to type and type fast. That old Underwood got a workout. Basically I wrote short stuff. Not much of it ever got more than 20 pages. It was too bad English classes had little to do with creative writing. Mostly grammar, sentence diagramming and spelling none of us really learned to write.
I could have used the help. My grammar and sentence construction was lousy. English for me was really difficult. The best grade I ever got from English in High School was a D. It never made any sense having to name word combinations as various sorts of phrases of fragments. I still do not know what a Gerund was and then I was supposed to know and pass tests about them. I learned more teaching English to 8th graders that I ever learned myself in school.
College was different. I had Dummy English there for my first year . . . not that it did a whole lot of good. Mostly I had lots of lit classes. I read a lot and enjoyed all of it. My grades were B's and better. Still . . . though I could whip up novel length tomes, I couldn't do it very well. I had never been taught. I'd come home from work around midnight then spend three or four hours clacking away on that old Underwood . . . driving my family nuts. My Dad said it sounded like an old threshing machine and was twice as loud.
Neither of my parents encouraged my writing even though I published articles and observations for a couple of professional journals. My mother went out of her way to tell me how bad I was. My Dad never did. If we had family get-togethers, my mother went out of her way to put me down about my writing. It got worse when I got a job. I remember to this day what she said to thirty or so relatives at a dinner my parents held. When I was asked what I did for a living, she blurted out, "He's nothing but a goddamned teacher!" and stormed out of the dining room. By the looks on my relative's faces, they were embarrassed and feeling bad for me. I shrugged it off like I did most of her insults and put downs. It hurt . . . yes. Her idea of a job for me was lawyer, doctor . . . anything that made loads of money . . . money she had ideas to get hold of for herself.
I continued to write during my teaching career. Some of my best stories came about at that time. I spent a lot of time being what I thought a writer should do. I edited and reedited the stories, changing, rewriting as I saw need. I managed to get into some writing seminars by famous authors. I learned a lot . . . more than I thought I could. I had lots of encouragement. I won an award for a story I did . . . no publications though.
I am told my current writings (which are all short) are good. No publications though. Why? Publishers want word count. Everyone wants novel length writing. 400K to 1000K words at best. One publisher said I should put all my short works together to make an anthology big enough to be published. I asked if they had bothered to read any of what I wrote. No . . . they had not. Anything under a certain word count they ignored and sent back.
I write for myself. I write what I like to see in print. I wait to find someone interested enough to read them.
My illustrators encourage me. For the most part, they let me know what they think of the stories. A professional illustrator in England, whom I hire now and then, liked a story of mine so much, she did all the illustrations in color and charged me the black and white price. She wanted to do a cover. One illustrator did a wraparound cover for a story he really liked. I pay for the illustrations . . . They are worth the time and money to me. I wish publishers would even take time to read something.
Right now I am writing a little comic piece about an incident that takes place in college. I will get illustrations for it . . . but I fear no one will ever read it other than me. It makes me sad and depressed. I wish it could be better.
If I could find another 1933 Underwood office machine, I would be happy. The amount of strength it takes to push the keys keeps me from making accidental typos. Computer keyboards are too sensitive and make for frustration and anger. This entry to my journal contained forty-four accidental typos before I read it back and edited them all out.
Maybe someone will read my stuff post mortem as they clear out my home for resale once I am gone or . . . they will all be thrown out without a glance as just more trash to be thrown out.
I could have used the help. My grammar and sentence construction was lousy. English for me was really difficult. The best grade I ever got from English in High School was a D. It never made any sense having to name word combinations as various sorts of phrases of fragments. I still do not know what a Gerund was and then I was supposed to know and pass tests about them. I learned more teaching English to 8th graders that I ever learned myself in school.
College was different. I had Dummy English there for my first year . . . not that it did a whole lot of good. Mostly I had lots of lit classes. I read a lot and enjoyed all of it. My grades were B's and better. Still . . . though I could whip up novel length tomes, I couldn't do it very well. I had never been taught. I'd come home from work around midnight then spend three or four hours clacking away on that old Underwood . . . driving my family nuts. My Dad said it sounded like an old threshing machine and was twice as loud.
Neither of my parents encouraged my writing even though I published articles and observations for a couple of professional journals. My mother went out of her way to tell me how bad I was. My Dad never did. If we had family get-togethers, my mother went out of her way to put me down about my writing. It got worse when I got a job. I remember to this day what she said to thirty or so relatives at a dinner my parents held. When I was asked what I did for a living, she blurted out, "He's nothing but a goddamned teacher!" and stormed out of the dining room. By the looks on my relative's faces, they were embarrassed and feeling bad for me. I shrugged it off like I did most of her insults and put downs. It hurt . . . yes. Her idea of a job for me was lawyer, doctor . . . anything that made loads of money . . . money she had ideas to get hold of for herself.
I continued to write during my teaching career. Some of my best stories came about at that time. I spent a lot of time being what I thought a writer should do. I edited and reedited the stories, changing, rewriting as I saw need. I managed to get into some writing seminars by famous authors. I learned a lot . . . more than I thought I could. I had lots of encouragement. I won an award for a story I did . . . no publications though.
I am told my current writings (which are all short) are good. No publications though. Why? Publishers want word count. Everyone wants novel length writing. 400K to 1000K words at best. One publisher said I should put all my short works together to make an anthology big enough to be published. I asked if they had bothered to read any of what I wrote. No . . . they had not. Anything under a certain word count they ignored and sent back.
I write for myself. I write what I like to see in print. I wait to find someone interested enough to read them.
My illustrators encourage me. For the most part, they let me know what they think of the stories. A professional illustrator in England, whom I hire now and then, liked a story of mine so much, she did all the illustrations in color and charged me the black and white price. She wanted to do a cover. One illustrator did a wraparound cover for a story he really liked. I pay for the illustrations . . . They are worth the time and money to me. I wish publishers would even take time to read something.
Right now I am writing a little comic piece about an incident that takes place in college. I will get illustrations for it . . . but I fear no one will ever read it other than me. It makes me sad and depressed. I wish it could be better.
If I could find another 1933 Underwood office machine, I would be happy. The amount of strength it takes to push the keys keeps me from making accidental typos. Computer keyboards are too sensitive and make for frustration and anger. This entry to my journal contained forty-four accidental typos before I read it back and edited them all out.
Maybe someone will read my stuff post mortem as they clear out my home for resale once I am gone or . . . they will all be thrown out without a glance as just more trash to be thrown out.