Chapter Eighteen: 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 7th 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 1,000 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 secondly, 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.
I shook my head and cringed as I examined the paper. I crumpled the page into a ball I 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 storyline 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 a 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 subjects spoke of frozen ground harder than reinforced concrete, icy roads, and froze 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.
The temperature gauge read 20° below zero. Dressed as we were for the Los Angeles heat, it didn't take long before our teeth were chattering as we shivered and danced in the cold.
"Can we g-g-go now?" I stammered.
"Nope. First, I want you to pick-up and stack these coins," my dad said as he tossed a handful of change onto the ice-cold floor.
"Dennis, you don't know what extreme cold is until you try to work in extreme weather. Now be quick before we freeze our asses off."
My fingers refused to cooperate as I fumbled with the coins. Every time I picked up two coins, it seemed like I would drop another. The simple task took just short of forever to finish.
While riding home in the blessed heat, my dad told me that it is now time to do "serious" writing.
Over the next several days, my writing sessions changed from drudgery to something almost resembling fun.
My dad insisted that I do a detailed outline of my story. "You've only got a thousand words to work with, and you'll find once you get started that you'll burn through your word budget rather quickly," Charles explained.
The outline, as it turned out, was critical to the success of my tale.
My first outline had nearly a dozen parts. I covered everything from the Chosin Reservoir Retreat, weather reports, chow lines, letters home and my guy's rearguard action in the mountains.
I was feeling pretty smart until Charles suggested I do the math. If all sections were of equal length, then no section could exceed 88 words in length.
I had more story than words allowed.
"The first mistake most writers make is too much detail. When we read we only need enough information to trick our imaginations into filling in the missing elements," dad explained.
"Your guy's mission is to delay the enemy advance for as long as possible. Instead of starting the story at the bottom of the mountain how about beginning your tale just before he gets to the top?" Charles suggested.
I confessed that I didn't even have a name for my hero. I was afraid that whatever name I made up would end up sounding like a name some kid made up.
Charles chuckled and told me to pick a number from one to a hundred. Then he instructed me to grab the phone book and open the white pages at random.
He then told me to count down the same number of lines as one of the numbers I had written picked and use whatever last name I found as my hero's last name.
I then did the same for the first name.
Thus, Everett Appleman was born. Just the luck of the draw.
Charles told me to let Everett tell the story. Don't tell me Everett was feeling cold. Show me," Charles said.
I crossed out the line, "Everett felt cold."
In its place I wrote, "Everett's gloves were cardboard stiff and did nothing to stop the warmth of his fingertips from draining away."
Most of the story took place near the top of Everett's mountain as he struggled to set up his gun position. I told of how Everett selected rocks to shield and shelter his position from enemy fire.
Everett's fingers were numb as he struggled to load and charge his weapon. Everett knew how this day would likely be his last in this world. I shared his frustration at his inability to light a final cigarette in the bitter wind.
The story closed as advance elements of the Red Army came into view, and Private Appleman opened fire.
Over the next weeks, I carefully wrote the story out in longhand. I agonized over the selection of words. I wrote and rewrote sentences and sections.
I polished paragraphs until they sparkled and then dumped them in the trash because they did not move the story forward. I invested my words like a miser with his gold. As the deadline approached my story was finally finished. Its length was exactly 1,000 words.
After watching me struggle to type my final draft, Charles offered to type the story for me.
Thank God! At the rate I was going, I would have finished about the same time my classmates started college.
Dad selected the finest onionskin typing paper available and typed the story using a brand new IBM Selectric typewriter borrowed from school.
The finished product was beautiful. The plastic ribbon utilized by the Selectric produced dark black letters that were crisp and sharp.
"Dennis, this is a damn good piece of writing, and I'm proud of you," my father said as he gave me a hug.
I turned my assignment into Ms. Maxwell, and a day later all hell broke loose.
"Dennis, I’ve read and re-read your story. The writing is excellent, and that's the problem. Your essay is written too well to be the work of a seventh grader. You and I both know that you copied this out of a book, and I will not tolerate plagiarism in my classroom. You've given me no choice but to give you a failing grade for the term," Ms. Maxwell said.
I returned home with the note from Ms. Maxwell and gave it to my father. The slip of paper asked for a parent-teacher conference to discuss my plagiarism and my failing grade.
My father's jaw clenched, and his face reddened as he read the words. "This is a bunch of bull, and we'll deal with it in the morning. Don't worry about it."
Fifteen minutes before the first school bell sounded Charles marched into Ms. Maxwell's office and dropped a thick manila folder on my teacher's desk. When Ms. Maxwell started to protest my dad told her to examine the contents of the folder before she said another word.
The bulging dog-eared folder bore the label "Notes & Drafts." Inside were scores of pages of my handwritten interview notes, dozens of drafts of my story outline and a dozen drafts of my final story.
"Does this look like he copied it from a book?" Charles asked.
Ms. Maxwell looked like she had just eaten a bad pickle.
I was standing behind my dad as she apologized. I said nothing as I glowered at her and fought down the urge to mutter a silent "Screw you."
My final grade was an A+
A few weeks later, my story was history. Seriously, it was totally history.
One day our cat Puffin found his litter box was full. I swear that the damn cat pissed on every page of my story out of sheer spite.
Apparently, cat urine and onionskin typing paper share a mutual animosity. Something in feline piss dissolves the bond holding plastic letters down.
The puddle of cat urine floated all the letters off the page and left them in a jumbled mess of alphabet soup at the high water mark.
The only copy of my story looked like a demented ransom note.
I hated that cat.
In the end, cat-Karma got the best of Puffin. He was flattened by a passing 18-wheeler on the road in front of our apartment.