Searchlights & Signal Flares 

Whose Encouragement Has Meant The Most To You?

April 2005 

Someone Whose Encouragement Meant A Lot to Me

     I can still see Mrs. Carmichael, both my third and eighth grade teacher, standing at the blackboard, tray full of dusty erasers and broken bits of chalk the color of bone.  I loved watching her write cursive—the big A and the little a; the Big B and the little b—loved the way her age-spotted right hand with the nicotine stain held the chalk, looped up and down, crossed and dotted, the way her gold charm bracelet jangled like a yoke of bells around a reindeer. 

     She taught us how to write, literally, but later as eighth graders, she taught us composition—the elements of a sentence, parts of grammar.  We learned about dangling participles, that we should avoid them at all costs, about pronouns and direct objects.  I waited all day until after lunch when our sweaty class returned to the room, slid into our desks and the clock ticked one.  It was time for English with Mrs. Carmichael.  How I enjoyed diagramming sentences!  It was almost like an art form for me.  (Of course, I kept this little secret to myself.)  But somehow, I think Mrs. Carmichael must've known how much words meant to me, how language thrilled my thirteen-year-old senses.  When she returned a paper of mine with a big gold star or a capital A with a plus, sometimes even a “++,” I don't think my feet even touched the pavement as I walked home. 

     I saw a very aged Mrs. Carmichael last year at the funeral of one of my classmates.  She asked about my writing, said, “I want to be one of the first to get a signed copy when your book is published.”  Had I told her I wanted to be a writer?  My mom must have; she often mentioned seeing her at church.  But when I promised her that she would be, hugged her and went off, I had a feeling that would be the last time I'd see Mrs. Carmichael.

 

Christine Falcone enjoys writing and avoids dangling participles in Novato, CA.

     Encouragement for me came after I wrote my first story. The initial readers of my first novella  were so touched by the heart of the story that they motivated me to create a website (http://www.mikoandtori.com) to allow more readers to access my story for free.  More readers came and more comments followed. I devoted a page on my site to  the many heartfelt comments that followed.  Whenever I need a lift I return to my Readers Page and read through them. They keep me going and hopeful that I can get published in the mainstream so that even more readers can enjoy the story.

D.D. Maloney, author of Miko and Tori.

 

Encouragement

     When I write about my husband, I don't always embarrass him, but I have done it often enough that when I finish a piece, he asks, with a bit of a sigh, “What did I do this time?” But he never asks me to change those parts.  That acceptance is encouraging.  When I get a story published, he's proud of me, but, when I am rejected, he isn't disappointed in me.  He has never questioned my expenditure of time or money on writing, nor does he complain or nag when I am not writing. He's okay to proof read…or not, to attend readings…or not.  Everything he does and doesn't do, in regard to my writing, is the encouragement that has meant the most to me.

     Next in line for invaluable encouragement are my writer friends. They have been so generous with their time in reading, making suggestions, and rereading, that my stories should really say, “By Mary Gaffney & friends.”

 

Mary Gaffney gets by with her friends in Occidental, CA. 

 

     I took it as a compliment when he said that I use my gifts in a strange way. I sat, beaming inwardly with all the pride saved from scraps of childhood memories and adult accomplishments.

     "Thank you", I said. "I consider that a compliment."

     "It's not a compliment," he said. "It's more of an acknowledgement."

     Yesterday I walked out of Berry's Market with my salami sandwich and my 32- ounce Diet Pepsi, no ice. I set the blue, red and white waxed cup on top of my car.  In that instant I became clear about what I want to be: I want to be someone who looks normal, with fun, suburban clothes and hair but with a raucous, bordering on strange, out-there personality.

     I've wondered what he experienced to consider my work strange. Fleeting moments of panic float through me... And then they leave.  I AM strange! That means that I have my own perception of the world and my place in it. I'm far more interested in my thoughts, my metaphysical explorations, than I am in anyone else's.

     That explains my three-year absence from his classes, my impatience with following recipes to the letter and my explosive gusts of laughter. I've gotta do it my way, dance to my own Latin band and pepper my work with earth boneness and black hole travel.

Claudia Larson laughs and dances in Cotati, CA.

     OK, I admit it. I'm an encouragement junkie. Just give me a pat on the head or a “You go, girl!” in my ear and I'm off and running and flying high. Your support fills me with hope and energy and verve. Your validation supplies the juice that keeps the lights on.

     Unfortunately, my need for reassurance gets me searching, not for my notebook, but for the next person who might deliver a dose of feel good. Since an encouragement addict can't count on the continual presence of cheerleaders and guides, there are stretches of time when I feel lost and empty.

     Even if I had the literary equivalent of fluff girls stroking my ego at every turn, I suspect that once I got to know them, their ministrations would cease to work the desired magic. My addiction is such that familiarity breeds a contempt of sorts.

     When my loyal and long-standing allies give me the thumbs-up I think, “You're just trying to make me feel better. What do you really know?”

     So until I break the habit of seeking approval from others, I will continue to burn through the perfectly wonderful supporters I already have. If I want to keep going as a writer, I have to learn to start looking closer to home and finding encouragement in the writing itself.

 

Susan Bono seeks the “courage” in “encouragement” from her desk in Petaluma, CA.

     Full Count, batter takes the stance, crouches, elbows out, ready for the pitch. Pitcher winds up, delivers.

      “Stee-rike, yer out,” the umpire's thumb jerks towards the dugout. The batter, a bit disheartened returns to his teammates. His coach high fives him and slaps him on the back. My son smiles, knowing he has another chance.

     My grandmother's ample bosomed, large lap has held all nine of her grandchildren equally with love and grace. No matter what we did wrong, we always had her lap to climb onto. Like an angel on my shoulder, always secure that she loved me no matter what.

     Second grade, a gold star for a 100% on the spelling test, mixed in with a few red and blue stars, but mostly gold. 

     A writing pal smiles as I read my work. Is she pleased with my writing, or is she recalling a sweet memory?  Her calm and accepting attitude is what matters. 

     Encouragers are my gold star friends who provide unconditional support. I climb upon their metaphorical laps, feel them on my shoulder and with high fives, they deliver tons of gold stars.

Marlene Cullen enjoys collecting high fives and gold stars in Petaluma, CA.