Personal Writing History
I suppose I was lucky. Books occupied every nook and cranny of our little beach bungalow. Mom and Dad introduced me to reading and writing as a hobby. Reading wasn’t work; reading was fun. As I grew, writing began to play the same role in my world. Ages three through five consisted of me tagging along with my marine-biologist mom as she inventoried the inhabitants of tidepools up and down the Southern California coastline. During the many hours spent on the beach waiting for the tide to drop, she gently nurtured my interest in words with fun exercises. Watch the seagulls, then write what they look like. Describe how it feels when you’re underwater. Why are corndogs better than hot dogs? I loved it! Furthering the fun, writing took to me as much as I took to writing. By the time I nervously walked into Mrs. Spellman’s first grade classroom, I felt fairly confident about at least one thing: I had a head start in writing, even in cursive.
The following summer, Mom was assigned a position to study orcas in captivity, and I was able to spend the month of June with her behind the scenes at Palos Verde’s version of Sea World. During July, she guided me through the research process as I wrote my first book, Peter Meets a Killer Whale, based on my gargantuan new friends, Orky and Corky. I vividly remember long days at Marineland of the Pacific and late nights in the UC Irvine library. In retrospect, I realize how much she taught me those weeks, about writing, yes, but also the research process, document citation, library etiquette and the correlation between patience and success. She even gave a basic introduction to Algebra by having me calculate each whale’s weight in pennies. I think it took about two weeks to assemble a book that featured more prose than pictures.
I’d won swimming races and accepted dares to jump off the many small bridges connecting the islands of Newport Harbor, but finishing that book was the first time I felt truly proud. Mom knew a great illustrator; Dad knew a local publisher who agreed to print 500 copies, as long as my dad paid for materials and labor. When the books were finished, we picked them up and headed out to drop them off at a few local bookstores. I have no idea how many sold, but a few weeks later, my dad helped me pick out a new bike and a used surfboard as rewards for my summer’s efforts. This writing gig was turning out to be pretty cool.
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Book reports became my favorite part of grade school. Middle school enamored me with essays. In high school, journalism ruled my academic world. When I initially entered college, my sights were set on a double-major in business and computer science. After two years of trying to convince myself that I could someday find fulfillment in a Boeing cubicle, I started fresh as an English major. Writing was back in my life, but mostly only academically. I did publish a short story in 1992, “My Neighborhood Lagoon,” that served as both a school assignment and a personal outlet, but that was it for quite a while. Between school, bartending, marriage, grad school, kids and a career doing what I truly loved, teaching English, I barely had any time to write for fun.
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This past decade, however, I’ve enjoyed plenty of fun-writing time, and, believe it or not, most of that fun has been writing obituaries. Helping families put together caring summations of departed loved ones inspires me with a sense of purpose and reminds me how beautiful life can be, even in its physical end.
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My current personal writing projects include a collection of tributes to some amazing women in my life, called The Gregorian Twelve, and a memoir of my years teaching at Boulder High, Forgetting Neverland.