I think our teacher got it all started when she said, “I want you to learn about North Carolina history.” I use “think,” because six decades separate me from the most remote events in this story.
“The best way to learn history is to write about it,” our teacher continued.
She looked around the class. “Who would like to write history?” No takers.
“You can work in the library, where the high school students have study hall.”
“Does that mean we get out of class?”
“Yes, for an hour three days a week, for two weeks.”
I’m in,” I said to myself and raised my hand. Two or three more volunteered.
“You can use the Encyclopedia Brittanica as your source,” she told her essayists. “Pick a topic that you like, find out about it, write it up in 100 to 200 words.”
So we scavenged through the Brittanica’s. I do not remember the topic I chose, neither do I remember my method of organizing my thoughts.
But I am sure I did not use an outline, for I have never used an outline in my life. I suspect I used the same approach I refined a decade later with a master’s thesis — to cut the document into strips, then to lay the strips out like bacon on a table, then to move the paragraphs around until they made some sense. With the thesis I stitched my typing paper together with straight pins; with the history paper, I attached pieces of notebook paper with scotch tape. Once my “cut”’ was in place, I recopied it onto clean notebook paper.
“What are you doing, you Philistine?” asked Gracie, the most efficient person in our class, probably observing “Your paper looks like bacon strips on a kitchen table.” Then she breezed off to turn her final copy in.
I kept working until I had two or three composite pages of paper and cellophane tape, then I copied the words onto fresh notebook paper, made sure my name was on every page, then handed the two pages to my teacher.
“She’ll probably win” I said. “But that’s OK. I don’t care; my paper’s not that hot.”
Perhaps a month passed before the teacher said, “One of our members wrote the winning essay in North Carolina History, and has won a free trip to Raleigh.”
Gracie may have stood up in anticipation of receiving the honor.
“No, Gracie,” she said. “Take your seat. It’s someone else. “
The teacher asked me to stand.
Sometime later in the day Gracie came over to talk writing theory.
“My paper was 200 words long,” she said.
“I know it was long,” I said, “I saw it.”
“I copied every word, exactly as it appeared in the book.” She paused. “So, what did you do that was so good?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “I really don’t.”
“Well there must have been something,” she said, with hands on hips, and perhaps tapping a penny loafer. “Think harder.”
I tried for a minute or two, then said, “I put the stuff down in my own words?”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all.”
“You just changed the words?”
“Yep. That’s all.”
Gracie folded her arms across her chest. “It’s not fair,” she said out loud. “I could have done that.”
Since that time, I have studied with more than twenty teachers of writing but none surpassed that of my eight- grade teacher except one single college prof.
The first day of class Mr. Baird said, “In Feature Writing I want you to tell the truth about a person you admire, capture your reader’s heart with beautiful English, learn something worthy of showing someone else, as you write it up.”
“But”, he smiled. “You can violate all of these principles and still earn an “A” in this course… if an article which you write for me is published.”
“That’s not fair,” someone said.
“Oh, but it is,” Mr. Baird replied. “Write an article for me. If your writing is good enough to convince an editor to publish it, you will earn an ‘A’ in this course.”
“But this is a summer class, Prof,” someone said. “We don’t have enough time.”
“Agreed,” he smiled. “If your article is accepted for publication before this course is over, you will earn an “A” in this course.”
I knew right off what I wanted to write. I had had my banjo repaired by a man who was starting a company to build his own banjos in this small Appalachian town. I wanted to know how he learned his craft, and how he funded his company. In our interview, he told me he graduated from college with a degree in art, dreamed of building his own banjos, hiked to Colorado to work in a banjo plant, returned to town, opened a music store with a wealthy classmate from college, then the two opened their banjo plant.
I recopied my notes, then organized my paper with scissors and straight pins, then typed a final copy.
By this time I had told the truth about a subject I loved, had interested myself in what I was doing, had used the best language I could muster, and had gathered some information worth sharing. Even if no one read my story but me and the banjo makers, that would be enough.
I may have made a security copy of the paper on thermofax, a heat-based process, easier to use than mimeo or ditto. Then I placed “A Banjo-makers Dream” into a manila envelope, addressed it to “Grit” Newspaper in Williamsport, PA. Before I sealed the envelope, I put in the requisite SASE, a Stamped Self-Addressed Envelope for the manuscript’s return, in case “Grit” rejected the article, then drove the envelope to the post office. Then I waited.
A few days before the term ended, I got a letter from “Grit” saying they would publish “A Banjo-Makers Dream.” Although I was happy to receive a few dollars, and several copies of the paper, I was simply overjoyed that someone liked my article enough to publish it.
Delighted to earn an “A” in feature writing, I showed Mr. Baird the thermofax, and the letter from “Grit.”
“Congratulations,” he smiled broadly as he shook my hand. “You have earned your ‘A.’”
I wish I had told him, “Thank you for letting me write what I wanted to write. My other good writing teacher had us write about NC History.”
I left his office with a smile, not hooked on writing yet, for that road lay far ahead, long and torturous. But crafting that story made me supremely happy.
The road to being hooked on writing…that’s another story.
Leon Smith is a storyteller and regular contributor to The Anson Record.
