There was a once upon a time, back in the foggy days of my early childhood when I eagerly wrote stories for myself and a small audience of my parents, friends and teachers.
Yet there were more than two decades bookending the last time I wrote anything for the gee whiz fun of it all and when I finally picked up the pen to compose whimsy once again.
Back when I was around five, and up until around the time I was eight, I wanted to be a writer. I’m not sure I wanted to be a writer as a profession. At least not exclusively. I just wanted it to be one of the many things I did, in between being a fireman, astronaut and super hero.
But even if I wasn’t willing to grant exclusivity, I understood the magic of writing at a primitive level; the ability to create something from nothing, like a magician, but with pages and ink instead of smoke and mirrors.
Before I was born, my mom worked as a secretary at TRW. In her previous life at the office, she could type about eighty words per minute on her IBM Selectric. Though there was rarely a need to use it, we had an electric typewriter from Sears which we kept in a high shelf in a rarely explored closet. The typewriter probably weighed about as much as I did, with a black snake coiling from the body of the behemoth and into the wall. When you flipped the switch, there was a powerful hum which vibrated at a volume which was only a whisper less than a generator.
I remember my mother feeding the beast with a sheet of pure white paper, then marring its innocence with ink at a speed that amazed me.
Clickity-clackity-clickity-clackity-clickity-clackity-clickity-clackity-clickity-clackity-clickity-clackity-DING!
She’d type for half a page or so, then rip the sheet from the mouth of the monster. A few times, stories were delivered at the other end of her display. These stories were simple, and though I remember none specifically, I’m sure they were parables about little boys who should have better manners at the dinner table, or perhaps show more kindness toward their younger sister.
One day, my father brought home a manual typewriter, also from Sears. It had the same beige, hard plastic cover. But under the hood there were more differences than just the dimensions. The manual had no cord and no current. The ribbon was dirty and got all over your fingers, smudging the white of the paper before you even fed it. There was no fancy backspace key which would allow you to erase your mistakes.
None of that mattered. The typewriter was mine, and my daddy said I could use it whenever I wanted.
Clackity…click-click…Clackity…click-click…Clackity…click-click…Clackity…click-click…Clackity…DING!
I started writing that day. Most of my early work was about robots, space, and probably He-Man, though I do remember one story featuring Spiderman in an epic battle with a monster snowman. Living in Southern California had lent snow a rather mystical quality to my eyes.
Though I’m sure each new story was every bit as horrible as the one which preceded it, I was five years old at the time and my parents seemed impressed. That was all that mattered to me. Same went for school. Though I always enjoyed writing amid the clickety clackety dings of the typewriter most, I often scribbled my stories at school as well. Whether they were humoring me or not I will never know, but the teachers seemed to enjoy them and regularly asked me to share.
Though I was kindergarten age, I was not in kindergarten. My parents had enrolled me in a school where they slipped books into my hands so early, I have no memory of ever learning to read them. The neighborhood school we were supposed to attend was an atrocity. My oldest sister went there, at least until the day one of the teachers told my father in a conference that “some kids are destined for mediocrity,” and “everyone would be a lot happier if they accepted this truth early on.”
The school was a mile and a half from our house. Still, had the rest of us been home, we would’ve probably been able to hear our father’s anger echoing across the campus hallways.
That was all my parents needed to pull my sister, now the senior nurse in her city’s largest hospital, from campus and enroll her in a private school just beyond our means. My other two sisters and I immediately followed. The school was small, owned by the same people who owned the preschool I’d been attending since I was two. The tuition was significantly less than a typical private school, but my family was by no means wealthy. The tuition eventually drifted from difficult to inconceivable, at which point my sister and I migrated to the best public school our parents could manage.
Even if the report cards said something different, the private school had no grades. Instead, students were encouraged to continually reach for the next rung of their ability. It was one of the biggest shocks of my life, moving from a school where my brain was given breath, to one where I was bored out of my skull, day upon day, in a never ending purgatory of doldrums and deja vu. Oz to Kansas it was.
In my old school, I would finish my work and then be offered a choice: I could either read, or write.
In my new school, I would finish my work and then be offered a choice: I could either sit and stare at the wall, or sit and lay with my head on the desk.
On the few occasions when I did manage to write a story, the teachers didn’t care. At least not like I remembered my old teachers caring. How could they, with thirty-five other students all clamoring for the same slice of validation?
I’m not exactly sure why I allowed the death of the writing spirit at school to follow me home, but like a wayward puppy it did. I was eight when I changed schools for the first time. Shortly after that, the manual typewriter was placed back on a high shelf and I never felt my fingers on the keys again.
It would be more than twenty years before I would write another story.
It is possible, my abandonment of the pen had nothing to do with my change in schools. It was also at that age when I discovered Stephen King and my world of words forever changed. Before I read The Talisman, stories seemed simple. I could mimic them in my own primitive way. After The Talisman I was content to go along for the ride as often as I could.
Exercise: Did you ever make up stories or draw pictures as a child? Were you encouraged or discouraged, and how did that attention make you feel? What sorts of things would you create? Don’t be embarrassed. Pretend you are that age right now, and write a story to impress your mom or dad.
Sean Platt is an author of books about life and professional ghostwriter.
About Sean Platt
What a fun, nostalgic read for me, Sean. Those days of TRW and all the “dinging” typewriters around me are so far on a dusty memory shelf. I remember the first time I saw a selectric typewriter when I first started that job. I was so fascinated at the little spinning ball that could be changed out for other little balls with different fonts. I had never seen such a thing and it was a brave new world. It somehow changed the drudgery of typing engineering reports. Those typewriters still hold a special place in my heart!
I also remember the day that we were told Katie was just “stupid”. (she was six and a bit behind due to an accident that had left her in a body cast for a year). I am amazed your dad did not reach across the desk and send that principal to his maker. After that there was no issue as to the price of a private school and how hard we would have to work to afford it. The only reason we eventually pulled you guys out was not financial, rather the “enough is enough” of putting up with the unfortunate crazy indoctrination that a couple of religious fanatic teachers were inflicting upon the students with no administrative control.
I am very happy that you recaptured your passion and made it your career. Few are so fortunate. Our family has somehow managed to capture that dream. If you want it bad enough you can make it your own, no matter what bad advice people who have no vision will give you. It is just sad that so many children will believe the negatives without having the tenacity to want better for themselves. your children will never have to worry. You and Cindy encourage them to reach for the stars every day and they are very lucky to be in a school that embraces that philosophy.
Maybe through opportunities such as magnate programs and writing workshops many children who would otherwise be doomed to mediocrity will reach for their stars.
love ya, mom
Hi Sean,
I always seemed wired to words. Poems were my first big attention getter. Unfortunately a formal education got in the way. It took awhile to shake off the “thou shalt writeth this way” mentality and take a different path.
Sure glad you found your writing heart after all those years!
Ahh that noise: Clackity…click-click…Clackity…DING! – takes me right back to my early days as a cub reporter when we had to use carbon paper to make a copy of everything!
Still have my manual typewritter in a cupboard somewhere. Probably never ever use it again but I just don't have the heart to throw it out!
Yeah, it sure seemed to take a while, but I'm thrilled it's finally here!
After a couple of years, I've no idea how I lived so long without it.
Tara!!!
It's been so long, wonderful to see you.
Yeah, if I had a typewriter I don't think there's any way I could get rid of it. I'm sure that's how I'll feel about my laptop, even when they make paper thin screens.
OK I am trying not to be embarassed but it is hard but I will try my best to complete this exercise of yours.
1. Yes
2. I learn 2 new words from you that I type into babelfish with this question. Thank you because learning English is such a goal of mine. I will say I am discouraged and it made me feel very confused because why did everyone like all the other childrens stories and pictures and not me?
3. I loved so much and still love so much to create things will so many sweet guns and so many sweet rides and Milla Jovovich and a bad English word I will not say here EXPLOSIONS!!!
I write a story and I put it here for you because it is to long http://tinyurl.com/ybafval
I went to a huge comprehensive school in a region rife with unemployment and social challenges, but I was lucky. Every teacher I ever had told my parents not to worry if I seemed to spend my whole life reading, painting, writing and playing my guitar. They saw the seeds back then. I've been writing since I could hold a pencil; it's the what that's evolved and formed the embroideries on my life's canvas.
Over the years I've written plays, screenplays, short stories, poems, songs in two languages, required essays and dissertations, conference presentations, translations from Greek, articles, coaching books, taglines and domain names, blogposts and comments. I've often kept a journal and I wrote a daily diary during all of my teenage years. (Now that made excruciating reading. What I wrote most, between 5 yrs old and 14yrs old were screenplays for TV shows. I used to write myself into the shows as an additional character as a way of escaping the hardships of my real life.
Like you and Cindy, we've raised our kids to think reading and self expression are as natural as breathing, loving and being loved.
That. Was. Awesome.
That. Was. Awesome.
Sorry, Janice. The last comment was for the one up above, which was a friend of mine playing a joke.
I wasn't so lucky. My team of teachers were mostly bored and boring. I never wrote too much, just a few words here and there until, as you know, I fully got the bug a couple of years back.
I'm glad I did, though, not just for me but because I love to see the way our children mimic our behavior. I love how much they value the written word already and I can't wait to see where that affection takes them.
Hi Mom,
You'd go nuts with the word processors of today. They allow you to do SO much. There's no way I could go through the amount of copy I do with an old fashioned typewriter, even if it was a state of the art Selectric.
Being able to drag and drop paragraphs, delete, rearrange, copy and paste, etc. It makes a LOAD of difference in both speed of the original draft and how much love I can give to the edit.
I feel most fortunate that I've been able to blend passion with sound business principles so that I won't have to spend my life as a “starving artist,” and I'm also glad that the kids see me working not only on my craft, but on the business part as well.
Love ya too, see you tomorrow.
H Sean .. no I don't – in fact I was useless .. so I was told at a paid for school (public) here in England .. it wasn't til I travelled and wanted to write home, that my writing developed .. and I still have no clue about grammar – something must have gone in .. & I can spell .. so it's a start – better late than never! Please see my stories on my blog – not real real stories .. but the sorts of information that amuses my very stroked mother even now … so I'm building my asset base.
My love of writing started in the 2nd grade, and I recently discovered my mom saved every one of my stories–even the ones that didn't paint her or my dad in the best light. :) I'm very lucky that my creative spirit was encouraged from family and teachers from the beginning, even if I abandoned it for a while myself. Great post!
THAT'S AWESOME!!!
I'd kill to have any of my stories from when I was younger, but especially those that didn't paint my parents in the best light, LOL.
Only 1 resulted in a call home…about my dad taking us sailing in near-hurricane conditions. Entitled “Windy Ocean” (or “I Totally Thought We Were Gonna Die”). :)
Hahahahah…
Too awesome.
Thanks!
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