Writing and People and Memories

It was a 4th of July picnic. Even now I think it's funny that he was the one who cared. He was the one who asked questions and wondered what I spent endless hours doing. I was writing. He asked questions that were ones I wanted to answer but didn't expect to be asked, and now I wish I had been far enough along in my writing to actually show him the things I was writing because he would have read anything I wrote.

I remember burning with indignation when my burst of enthusiasm towards a book idea was met once with - "I'm so proud of you having waited all evening to talk about writing." I asked myself if I had really dominated the conversation with stories and writing. No, it was a joke that I took to heart. I hardly talked about writing to anyone but my mother who was left feeling overwhelmed with the sheer amount of information. About characters. About story arcs. About writing a synopsis. I knew they wouldn't understand. They wouldn't get it.

And he probably wouldn't have either, but he would have listened, and he would have asked questions.

He was my great-uncle who lived just two driveways down when I was growing up. Not many people get to know their great-aunts and uncles, but we even forewent the 'great' part and just called him 'uncle'. His wife was the one who took it upon herself to teach all of us five kids grammar. One by one, we'd get old enough to walk through the sagebrush and cheat to their house, but those hour and a half sessions every Thursday morning didn't really let us get to know my great-uncle. It wasn't until my great-aunt passed away that we truly got to know him.

He was one of those people who would encourage you in any of your pursuits. He gave me my first guitar, and I'm just sad that I didn't get the chance to show him some finished project. Some partial accomplishment of the whole. His imitation of Donald Duck and just general sense of humor was so fun. It's funny - his compliments are probably the ones I'll remember the most out of any I've ever received. After he passed away, my mom was going through some things, and she told me that she found what looked to be a story he was working on himself.


It's sure hard sometimes with this writing thing. It gets lonely, and if you don't know someone who is also a writer, then there is no one to understand the drive to write. People who don't write can be encouraging too, but they still don't really understand. They don't understand how to help you. They don't understand what on earth you're doing with your time, but when you find a patient, listening ear, it sure is something. And when you find an ear, you want so badly to show them that their patience and belief in you was not in vain. What if they aren't around when you finally 'get there'? That's a hard thought.