There was a time when I thought I could write.

In the fourth grade, I wrote a story about a dog, a cat and a mouse that journeyed to Mars in a homemade spacecraft. I had no understanding of the laws of physics or interspecies animal relationships.

When I was 15, I became heavily influenced by Hemingway, Ferlinghetti and Ginsburg. I thought success in writing hinged on one’s ability to expose the angst of the human condition, reveal the innermost secrets of the darkened soul and lay bare the negativity that is man’s inhumanity to man — all of this from the viewpoint of a snot-nosed, suburbanite preacher’s kid.

During this time, I thought I had a girlfriend that understood my literary passion. Daring to share my most treasured secrets, I gave her the three-ring binder that housed my poetry and short stories, and asked for her honest critique — a rookie mistake.

She read four or five pieces, closed the notebook, and said, “What a load of…” The rest of her comment is not printable in this space.

My immediate thought was, “What am I doing with this plebeian?”

I was learning bigger words.

I think her immediate thought must have been, “What am I doing with this idiot?”

Bigger isn’t always better.

Later, I worked up the courage to share the pages of my notebook with a trusted neighbor and family friend — a quiet, strong, classy lady from the world of academia.

I sat reverently in her living room as she read every page of my opus, intently watching her face for any sign of approval or appreciation. Upon completion, she closed the notebook, looked across the room into my anticipating eyes, and quietly said, “My, my, my.” There was no hint in her tone as to whether this was a good thing or a bad thing.

“I’m having a dinner party on Friday night. A friend in the publishing business will be there. Why don’t you join us?”

“A FRIEND IN THE PUBLISHING BUSINESS?!?”

I was delirious with anticipation. I showed up for dinner wearing my Sunday suit (remember the part about being a preacher’s kid?) and clip on tie — mastery of the intricacies of the Windsor knot was still several years into my future.

The seating arrangements placed me directly to the right of the friend in the publishing business. His first words to me were, “I understand you would like to be a writer.”

My only response was, “Uh huh.” Hopefully, the words that I had placed on paper were more meaningful than the words that fell from my mouth. After that, I remember nothing of the meal, dinner conversation, or who else was at the table.

After dinner, the men retired to the patio to smoke cigars and discuss the deteriorating world condition. It was 1968 and there was a lot of “deteriorating condition” to discuss. The women sat in the living room sharing much more enlightened thoughts. The friend in the publishing business and I went to the front porch, sat on wicker chairs, and began a discussion that changed my life, forever.

“Have you ever heard of P.M.A.?”

I had not. For all I knew, it was either a psychedelic drug or a federal agency. “Positive Mental Attitude. There is enough bad in this world, anybody can write about that. If you really want to have an impact, dig deep and find the good. Find the things that make people smile. Find a way to make them laugh when they just can’t find it in themselves.” He picked up my notebook and continued, “Throw away all this negativity and fill this book with positivity.”

Looking back, I have to thank the young lady who cared enough to not care if she hurt my feelings, the neighbor that cared enough to not let me know what she was really thinking, and the complete stranger (in the publishing business) who took the time to share just a few valuable thoughts with a kid he never met before, or after.

By the way, many years later, I learned that the “friend in the publishing business” worked for Rand-McNally. He published maps.

 

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.