The desire was there long before the years of hard work ever paid off. Even now, it is not the momentary reward that expresses what I mean by "paid off." It is the fulfillment of my desire to write that began the day my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Hamilton, read aloud the autobiographies he had assigned as a class project. He chose what he considered the best ones to share. Quite simply, I wanted to hear what I had poured my young heart (and guts) into read aloud. Alas, the sixth grade passed without ever hearing one of my stories rehearsed from the lips of Mr. Hamilton. The desire continued to grow.

Next, there was Mrs. Lovett's English class assignment my sophomore year in high school. We were given a choice of topics to write about. I don't know what it was about Beowulf that inspired my efforts to write a funeral dirge. Perhaps it was because so few others opted to write on that particular choice. Maybe I thought I had a ghost of a chance! Nevertheless, I tackled the assignment with everything about couplet rhyme I had learned from dear old Chaucer. When it was finished, I anxiously awaited the day when Mrs. Lovett would pick the pieces she liked the best and read them aloud.

I enjoyed the first few she read. They were really good. Then, she said she would read one more. Since she obviously hadn't as yet included mine, I sat on the edge of the seat of my desk with a four year's growth of desire burning in my heart. I had worked so hard on my paper and I knew it was good. Unfortunately, it wasn't as good as Butch Redmon's first person account of the Ides of March death of Julius Caesar in which he was present as a curious low diving bee. He captured not only our attention but bellows of laughter as well. After all, what tenth grader could possibly resist the gory glory of Caesar's blood splattering a poor innocent bee bystander? We were still laughing when Mrs. Lovett passed out the remaining papers she had not read. Mine was good enough to get and "A" but not worthy of being read aloud.

To make a long story short, there were many other attempts at writing for many years. They, too, never made the worthy list except when I read them aloud to my own friends after dinner and children before bedtime. They thought they were good. Come to think of it ... that's the best audience in the world to be worthy of, isn't it?

Copyright © by Sharon L. Patterson Share