PLANTED SEEDS
“What did your parents do?” questioned an
English professor, standing in admiration of the fact I’d been published in a
major magazine and had just returned from New York after guest-appearing on a
TV talk show. Yet, her pointed inquiry stumped me.
Usually I’d smile with pendulum-moving eyes, while I
ran through a litany of events and writers I’d met along the way. (The late
Dwayne McDuffie had been the first.) Never had I considered planted seeds as a
contributing factor in my literary endeavors.
As a child, my dad and I fell into a rhythm: He told me made-up stories and songs about furry
critters and I’d listen with anticipation. My youthful mind would delight in
the happy endings of each character and I’d feel sad when misfortune hit them.
Not only did the stories stick with me well into
adulthood, but they framed my relationship with my father. After all, isn’t that what writing is
about? Relationships?
My dad’s easy-going spirit oftentimes pressed me to
say to him, “I wish I could be more like you!” He usually laughed, but I knew I
had a wavering disposition whenever life’s challenges slapped me in the face.
I’d question everything, even my love for writing.
“Tssst, tsst, you’re using too many passive
sentences,” or “your main character lacks depth.” I’d hear the words and roll
them over and over in my head, measuring them against my writing capabilities
and shaking my fists to the walls. “Why does this have to be so darn
hard?”
I’ve since nestled comfortably in my love for
writing. I no longer question that fact.
My declaration to devote a lifetime to perfecting it is what I focus on.
It’s just “life” really, when I have to regroup and
adjust through the difficulties of this crazy writing business. However, I’m steady in my quest because long
ago, planted seeds became deep-rooted in my life and a big harvest is coming . . . I can feel it.
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