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Gratuitous praise of well meaning relatives did little more than boost the ego of an adolescent child during the post Korean War years. I always thought of myself in third person, telling my own story through the eyes of characters. Oftentimes my story was of my wish, or my imagination, but always, the vicarious dreams dominated the page. Truthfully, my manuscripts were little more than a page of sixteen point printing on lined paper; that is until an alcoholic 8th grade teacher noticed my writing. Every time she leaned over my shoulder I recognized the smell of alcohol; it was the same smell on some of my father’s military friends. Why in her overly-perfumed stupors she chose to comment on my work is beyond me.
For years, I was, like every child of the era, pushed into banks of tests to determine my future in the business word. To this day I am convinced that the tests were skewed to push kids one way or another. My test results showed that I should be businessperson and run a retail store. Every young lady in my school was supposed to be a teacher or a nurse. The wealthy kids in class were all supposed to be doctors and lawyers. There wasn’t a lot of room on the test for creative people. I wrote my first angry play during this era. Later, regional theatres purchased two of my scripts. One historical play was buried in a time capsule; a hundred years from now some poor soul will read it.
I wrote constantly through college and military years. Old girlfriends have probably burned a million pages of hormone driven nonsense. And many a freshman research essay was completed and sold at my hand. But, nothing seemed to fit. Indeed, there was a calling in my life; I simply could not, not write. I had to write everything. Little did I understand this drive.
For nearly 30 years I wrote white papers, governmental documents, testimony, and all those things of the business life. I wrote for someone else’s profit. Documents I wrote changed lives, made some people happy, caused discord for others; indeed one man wanted to fight. In two instances, I as the writer of a document, sat before a panel ready to be jailed for the results of my script. But, that part of this story can go no further. The manuscript will be saved for a later time.
Sometime along life’s way I wrote a column that was picked up by regional newspapers. Soon, I experienced a bit of fame, at least amid a few folks. One day I went into a café and the waitress said, “…ain’t you the guy who writes that column?” The service was otherwise poor. She must not have liked what I wrote.
By the 1980-90 time period I started to realize that years were catching up with me. My children and friend’s children were graduating from schools, getting married, and having children of their own. Also, I had friends dying from the diseases of their parents. I began a letter-writing ministry, writing long letters of faith and encouragement.
Administrations changed, the world changed, and the place for a writer of my style was not needed in the governmental business world. I retired, sorta. I went through ministerial training and served as a relief pastor during a nearby minister’s illnesses. I also found myself teaching the art of writing to college students – a position I hold today. At the same time I have been writing a local column, working with volunteer organizations, and writing longer manuscripts as well as short essays for FaithWriters.
Spiritual gifts are ones that the Lord has given a person. I have no business being a Christian writer. I did not necessarily lead a Christian life; but, for some reason, the Lord Jesus Christ put a pen in my hand and said, “Write.”
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