Chapter 19: Learning to Write

My father was an English teacher at Henry Clay Junior High while I was also a student at the same school. He taught me how to write. I hated seventh grade English. I wouldn’t have been able to diagram a sentence if my life depended on upon it.

Ms. Rebecca Maxwell was our teacher and to get a passing grade in her class, each student was required to produce a thousand word, neatly typed short story. It was our final exam. As far as I was concerned, the concept of a “thousand words” and “short story” did not belong in the same sentence.

Back in the days before spell check and computers, writing was harder than it is today. As a young writer, I had two problems: first, I didn’t know how to write, and second, I had the spelling proficiency of a failing first grader.

My father insisted that I start writing my short story on the first day.

Seriously? What junior high student begins a paper three or four months before the due date?

My dad set the rules. I was required to sit at his desk and write something, anything, for at least one hour each day, weekends included. He provided pencils, a yellow legal pad, an Oxford English Dictionary which weighed as much as a small Volkswagen. For good measure, he included a thesaurus of biblical proportions.

It was like going to Hell on the installment plan.

Nothing is more intimidating to a young writer than a blank sheet of paper and a deadline.

At the end of the first work session, my dad edited my efforts. Circled in red were misspelled words. Highlighted with red underlines were sentence fragments. Margin notes flourished. When he finished, the corrected copy looked like the aftermath of the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre. Al Capone would have been proud.

I shook my head and cringed as I examined the paper. I crumpled the page into a ball and tossed it into the wastebasket.

Charles raised an eyebrow as he gave me “that look” and said, “Dennis, you can’t throw it away until you’ve fixed it.”

Fixing it required looking up every misspelled word and repairing every broken sentence.

When he was finally satisfied with my efforts, I again crumpled the sheet into a ball and tossed it into the trash.

“Well, that’s one way to deal with it,” my dad said with a smile. “But another way would be keeping your corrected pages in a folder, just on the off chance you might misspell the same words again. It would save you a heap of time on the next go around. It’s your choice,” he said nodding at the wastebasket.

As I retrieved the crumpled paper, my dad handed me a folder already marked with the inscription, “Notes & Drafts.”

The first week of writing was an exercise in frustration. Aside from a legion of spelling errors, my stories were totally uninspired and boring. I had an underlying problem; I had nothing I wanted to write about that would be worth reading.

My efforts as an author had reached a dead end.

My dad told me that he had once encountered a man pounding his head against a brick wall. When he asked the man why, the man replied, “Because it feels so good when I stop.”

My dad said, “Forget about the assignment for a moment and tell me what you would like to write about.”

Having no idea what to say I gave him my best deer-in-the-headlights look.

We played catch with story ideas for a while. Each, for one reason or another, was a “No Go.”

“Last night I watched a documentary on the Korean War. That might make a good story,” I suggested with more hope than conviction.

“That’s an awfully big war to squeeze into a thousand words. Why don’t you take a piece of it and tell that story?” Charles suggested.

The next night as my writing session was about to get underway my father handed me a sheet of paper. On it were four names and telephone numbers. I recognized the names as belonging to teachers at Henry Clay Junior High.

“Before you start writing about the Korean War, you’ll need to do some basic research. These are the names of men fought or served in Korea. Tonight your assignment is to call each of them and make an appointment to interview them. Ask questions and listen to what they have to say. Take plenty of notes,” Charles advised.

I worked the phone and set up interviews for the next four days.

My first interview was with Mr. Korbuszewski, the math teacher. It was awful. Our talk was awkward and slow going. I didn’t know what to ask, and he didn’t know what to say.

That evening I shared my frustrations with my father.

“I’m not surprised. Most combat veterans don’t like to talk about the war. Particularly with a kid they don’t know,” Charles said. “Try asking smaller questions and maybe you’ll get bigger answers. Get them to share impressions rather than memories. If all else fails to get them to talk, ask about the food and the weather,” he suggested.

The next three interviews were fun and I found a treasure trove of free-floating impressions, minor details, and slivers of memories about the war. I filled dozens of pages with notes. Gradually a story line emerged based upon bits and pieces of each man’s memories.

Mr. Cooper, the gym teacher, recalled hearing a rumor about a man who volunteered to buy time for his retreating buddies and fellow Marines by delaying the Chinese Red Army’s advance for as long as possible. The Marine would be trading his life for time.

Mr. Cooper didn’t know for sure if the rumor was true, but he did know of men who gave their lives on similar operations. A fighting withdrawal involved holding the enemy at bay long enough for your main force to get out of harm’s way. Often many of those who stayed behind to fight a delaying action died in the process. Escape under heavy enemy fire was nearly impossible. Usually, it was only a matter of time before enemy forces outflanked and overwhelmed friendly positions.

My interview subject spoke of frozen ground harder than reinforced concrete, icy roads, and frozen fingers and toes from the endless cold. The Korean winter rendered weapons useless as gun oil and lubrication for weapons gelled into a thick black goo.

I decided to base my story on Mr. Cooper’s hero. My next few drafts were better than previous efforts, but they remained unconvincing, choppy, and flat. My dad showed me how to edit my work.

“Think of a sentence like it is a bus for ideas. Beginner writers want to cram as many words as they can onto the bus and in doing so the idea often gets smothered,” he told me. “An editor’s job is to throw words off the bus; any word not helping the idea get across town should get tossed overboard. If a word is just along for a free ride, get rid of it. Make every word of every sentence work for a seat on the bus,” Charles explained.

Charles corrected my copy and announced that it was time for some field research. “You can’t write about something you’ve never experienced,” he told me.

A few moments later, we were driving across town in the family car. After about ten minutes, we pulled into the parking lot of an enormous warehouse. Dad exchanged a few words with an old friend at the front gate. Shortly later, we were standing in the arctic cold of a walk in freezer.