A Writer Writes!

I’ve been writing my whole life. What I didn’t realize when I was much younger is that writing would become not a punishment or obligation but actually a fun avocation. Who woulda thunk it? A brief history.

In third grade, Sister Diana read us The Tale of Peter Rabbit. A group of us so loved the story that we decided to skip recess and turn the story into a play. We collaborated for two days before we decided that playing kickball was far more entertaining.

In fifth grade, I “wrote” a report on the Philippines. Largely lifted from Encyclopedia Brittanica and a few books I found in the library, I even added a hand-drawn map. What I most recall was the bargain I struck with my mom. I agreed to peel her potatoes (a chore she loathed), and she would pound out my report on the manual typewriter. Bingo! I turned it in with immense pride. Sister Elizabeth was duly impressed, I received an A, and I peeled a bunch of spuds which turned into mashed potatoes. Triple win.

Sixth grade featured a career report. Oh sure, I knew exactly what I wanted to spend my life doing when I was twelve years old. What I really wanted was to catch the eye of Ginny Gannon and eat a Ding-Dong when I got home from school.

For the first time (and certainly not the last), I took the easy road on the essay. Or maybe I should say the “I don’t care” road.I looked at Sister Patricia’s list and chose the first two occupations. Architect and archeologist. Yes, that’s exactly how I want invest my years. Digging up bones and drawing blueprints. Indiana Jones or Frank Lloyd Wright. Nope and nope.

I did some cursory research, bluffed my passions, and turned in the report. Pure filler, soft and sweet like a long john packed with custard. The topic meant so very little to me that I can’t recall a single detail on either career. I also don’t recall the grade, but I passed sixth grade so I guess it worked out.

In tenth grade we were introduced to THE research paper. This was the big kahuna. No more minor leagues, we had to use micorfiche readers AND the card catalog. Multiple sources, mandatory typing, bibliography. We actually spoke to librarians since it was pre-internet and Chat GPT. We had to read and take notes on 3×5 cards. The horror!

Any topic, anything under the sun. Such pressure! For reasons I don’t recall, I chose the Attica Prison riots. Maybe I was influenced by Dog Day Afternoon. What I learned about Attica, I can’t recall, but I loved going to the library every day. It felt like a grown-up thing to do. Plus, the chairs were comfy, and we got to goof off when the teach wasn’t looking.

As a teacher, I know now that the research paper is a double-edged sword. You get two weeks off from prepping and presenting any content, a glorious break. But then you’re buried under stacks of papers. If you ever see a teacher shuffling along, leaning hard to one side with a hump in his back like Quasimodo, that guy is probably grading research papers.

Twelfth grade brought my greatest hurdle. Remember that bunny play I didn’t write, so I could play kickball in third grade? This time, I came through. We read several plays in English, and Mr. Stimac made us write one of our own.

Channeling my inner Oscar Wilde, I created A Conspiracy to Commit Marriage. C’mon, isn’t that a great title? The main source of comedy (and I use that term loosely) was an elderly woman named Mrs. Malaprop. She dropped all sorts of ironic puns and spouted nonsense only a teenager would find amusing. Mr. Stimac was a tough grader, but I scored 27/30. Sadly, the play never reached Broadway.

Fall of ’78, first year of college, I’m assigned to write an essay on drug legalization. The prof was a young buck, longish hair, seemingly hip, and I’m pretty sure he was hitting the bong pretty hard pretty regularly. Really, Bob, you’re a college professor and legalizing drugs is the best topic you can create?

Feeling both bored and risky, I chose a perspective dripping with satire and sarcasm. Entitled, Improving High School Test Scores, the essay proposed mandatory heroin use among teens. Drug use shouldn’t just be legal, I argued, it should be required in high school curriculum, just like PE and Algebra. I made up ridiculous studies about how the high would improve SAT scores. I even advocated admins sell the drug in vending machines and create a shoot-up section (Packs and Smacks) next to the smoker’s section on campus.

Ever have that moment after you do something and you wonder, “What in the world have I done? What was I thinking?” For the next week, that was me. But there was no way to unring that bell. I waited in dread.

On the day he returned the essays, Prof. Bob began class by saying, “These essays weren’t good at all. We have a LOT of work to do.” I cringed and sank even lower in my chair. “In fact,” he continued holding up the stack of papers, “I gave out only one A.” Then he looked at me and asked, “Mr. Hurley, can I read your essay aloud?”

My mouth opened, but no words came out. I nodded my head, and he began to read. When he finished, students hoisted me on their shoulders and carried me to the Canteen for a celebration. (Total lie. Nobody, outside Prof. Bob, seemed to care. Some missed the satire completely and thought I was just another doper.)

More than any other moment, that singular event convinced me that I could write. I actually began to like writing, even school writing. Writing became a challenge, more than a chore. All those thoughts rumbling around my brain, maybe I had a voice and something to say.

I won’t recount my breakdown of Tybalt in Romeo and Juliet, my fifteen page dive into peer pressure among adolescents, or my rhetorical analysis of the 1981 World Series. Sometimes the ideas in my head don’t convert to the words on the page. Such is writing.

There’s a great scene in Throw Momma from the Train. Billy Crystal plays a creative writing teacher trying to write the great American novel. He is constantly reminding his students of his own mantra, three words to encourage them when they struggle: “A writer writes!”

But this night, he can’t. Searching in vain for the right word, the perfect word to finish his sentence, he’s stuck, hamstrung, paralyzed. He needs one word, a single, elusive word. The perfect word. Over and over, he repeats, “The night was…”

Watch his frustration HERE.

Good or bad, high or low, frustrating times when a story just doesn’t work or the words flow easy-peasy. I didn’t know it for a long time, but I’ve been training for this my whole life.

I’m a writer.

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Coming soon! Tales from the Deli, a collection of short stories.

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