Do Dreams Come True

I want to write a book. I used to hate reading or writing. That is until Beverly Cleary wrote, “Dear Mr. Henshaw.” This book catapulted me into a book-reading fool. After reading so much, I started to ask myself, “Self, why don’t you write one?” This is a question that I still ask my self. Am I a writer? Could I ever write something that someone besides my wife and closest relatives read? On purpose?

I had two teachers in the 7th and 8th grades that spurred me on with encouragement, support, and reassurance that there was an inner desire that was dying to explain life in printed word. I still remember sitting in that classroom crying that I couldn’t write a story if I wanted to. My teacher had us put together a folder of ten poems, a short story, and a book report.

This folder would represent 50% of our yearly grade. I wrote a poem about everyone in my family, and a story about time travel. I passed with very good grade, thank God!!!!

Later, I really started to get into writing as I moved into High School. I met a girl that loved poetry so she and I wrote alot of poetry together. Mind you thee were not love poems. I was a very disturbed kid and so alot of our poems had to do with killing people and cannibalism.

By the 11th grade rolled around, I had notebooks full of writings. I still didn’t think I was any good. I remember very distinctly sitting in Jr. English and my teacher asked us to respond to a poem Henry David Thoreau had written about a kid who asked his mom what death was like.

I don’t remember my answer, but I do remember her asking if anyone had a problem with her reading our poems out loud in front of class. She only read a few. Mine happened to be one of them. She came across it in the stack and said, “Kevin, may I read yours please?” I replied with a yes. She read mine aloud with amazement in her voice and when she had finished the whole class had turned to look at me in bewilderment. I thought it was good too!

The next year I had written so much “nice” poetry that I decided to take a whack at being poet laureate for our senior class. I admitted a few poems to later find out that I had placed second to Rob Dalton. No offense but a poem about some crappy eagle spreading his wings on class night did not in any way impress me.

So here I am 12 yrs after my graduation wondering if I’ll ever be that writer I want to be. Someday, maybe dreams will come true.