POP LEARNS TO WRITE

I sat at the roll-top desk, eyes closed, gathering my energies. I can do this. I've done it before. Start with a short story, get the feel, then expand it into a book.

The study was my workspace. It had the big desk with the typewriter and the wooden desk chair, a door to my right and window to my left and a settee behind me if I needed a break. I could spend all day here browsing the small bookshelf. Although I might need to bring in more books.

I glanced over at the closed door. I didn't want to wake Beth. Her first month in high school had been hard on her. Too many changes, too close together.

I rolled a sheet of paper into the old Corona typewriter. This last golden hour before I went to my own bed was for creating. For speaking to the children of the world.

My hands spread over the keys. I can do this. I wrote Crystal's Busy Day all those years ago. Kids loved it. Beth loved it. If I can make my daughter happy, I must not be a bad person, right?

Begin. Sharp snaps of the wrist, each letter popping onto the page. The story built, a child exploring new wonders, facing challenges. A little cliché ? Maybe. Keep going. I'll work it out later.

The story was going somewhere, but where? I felt lost. Keep going. Find a way through.

This didn't make any sense. What was I even writing? Why was I writing? I stopped, unable to move beyond the next obstruction. I pushed back.

With a sigh I pulled the paper out and slid a new sheet into the machine.

"What do you think, Shady?"

The typewriter was still for a moment, then keys begin tapping.

Well, I figure I ain't exactly an expert on these things. I guess it's, you know.

"It stinks."

Hey, ya done wrote another book before, right? It's in you. Ya just gotta find a way to let it out.

I crumpled the 'story' and tossed the page into the trash. "I'm supposed to be a children's author, and I can't even fumble my way through a short story. Maybe whatever I had is gone now."

So, the typewriter pushed on, you don't want to write, don't write.

"I want to write!" I pulled back, fists over clenched eyes. "I just can't."

If you want to write, keep writing until you break through. There ain't no other way.

I sagged in the chair. "It's not that easy."

It never is.

The silence drifted between us, then I shrugged.

"I guess not." I stood, heading for the door. "Good night, Shady. I'll see you tomorrow."

I'll be here.

I turned the light out and stepped into the living room. There was enough light to see my daughter's closed door. No sign that I had disturbed her. She needed her sleep.

I headed to my own bed. There's always tomorrow.

At least I had my day job.

Mornings make everything brighter. I was making scrambled eggs when Beth came in.

"Morning, Pop."

"Morning, Pet. How did you sleep?"

"Pretty good." She started making toast as I dropped sausage patties in the pan. "I woke up a bit and heard you typing. How did it go?"

"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't. Anyway, I thought it was nice." She dropped the toast on the plates, then poured us some milk.

A distaste for coffee was one of the charming qualities my daughter inherited from her old man.

"I notice you didn't answer my question."

Sweet kid, but sometimes she's way too sharp.

"Well, you know. A little progress, but it could use work."

"You know I can just ask Shady, right?"

"Okay, okay, it was a disaster." I put the plates on the table as she brought the glasses. "I just can't connect to it. I can't feel the way it should go."

"Maybe you're not connecting with your audience." She laid out the forks and we sat.

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know. I'll think about it."

We ate in peace, then I looked at my daughter.

"So how is your story coming along?"

She shrugged. "Not bad. I should be able to write the outline tonight."

"Gonna use Shady?"

"No!" She squirmed at the thought. "Shady is your typewriter. I have Velvet now. I can't steal your partner when I have one of my own."

I laughed. "He's not going to like that. He thinks he's being abandoned."

"Shady's a dear, but he's my friend, not my partner." She sighed. "I'll talk to him later and make sure he knows I still remember him."

Then we were off, Beth to school and I to the office. I did good work and got a lot done, but on my free time I chewed over Beth's words. What did it mean to connect with my readers? Who exactly was I connecting to?

Beth was in her room when I came home. The tapping was disjointed and hesitant, the sound of someone exploring ideas. Her door was open, so I knocked.

She turned from the L-shaped desk in the corner. "Oh. Hi, Pop."

"Doing your outline?"

"Yeah." She gripped the edge of her chair between her knees, rocking back. "It's going pretty well."

"Keep at it. I'll call you when it's time to make supper."

An outline. Is that what I need? I didn't need an outline the first time.

When I wrote Chrystal's Busy Day I just wrote it. I knew what Beth was doing, so I just drew on that. Writing about Beth just felt natural. Now that she was too old for my books, maybe I needed a new approach.

After supper I shut myself in the study.

"Hey, Shady. Any thoughts on outlining?"

You bet, Johnny-boy. My first writer always made a quick outline before she started a story. I always wondered why you hadn't tried it.

"Well, maybe it's time."

So I pulled the paper from Shady's platen roller and put a fresh sheet in. I know the basics of creating an outline. I taught Beth everything I could when she talked about writing her own stories. This will be easy.

First, where the characters started. What happens to them to start the story? What's their motivation?

It went quickly. I could feel the story taking shape. I knew the roadmarks the characters had to follow on their path. In an hour I had a basic outline ready.

Beth tapped on the door, poking her head in. "Can I bother you?"

"Always." I slid a new sheet into Shady and turned to my daughter. "What do you need?"

She was in her pajamas, ready for bed. My kid was definitely the cutest.

"I was wondering how you were doing."

"I just finished. How about you?"

She held out a sheaf, the pages double spaced on one side. Seven sheets. I looked through them.

"Wow! You've really got something here!"

"You think so?"

I handed the pages back. "I think there's enough material here to write your first novel."

"Hmm." Beth looked at the paper in her hands. "Maybe I need to cut it down. I just need to write a short story for class."

"It's fine for now." I assembled my own pages. "Give that to the teacher and think about what the important points are for your story."

Beth took my own efforts and looked through them, her look of anticipation shifting as she went.

"It's really - something, Pop." She pushed the outline back as though she were returning garbage someone had handed her. Which wasn't too bad a description, to be honest.

"It's pretty terrible, isn't it?"

It stinks. You ain't got it yet.

"No, no." Beth tried her best. "I wouldn't say it stinks, so much. It's just that it's, you know."

"Dull and unimaginative?"

She looked at me, then nodded. "Sorry, Pop."

Well, Shady typed, that's why the boss is practicing. He's gonna get back what he had then, for sure.

Beth smiled. "He will. I'm sure of it."

And she looked sure. I almost felt it myself.

The next morning I got out of the shower and found Beth taking her turn scrambling eggs.

“Good morning, Pet. Mmm, it smells good in here.”

“Morning, Pop. Breakfast is almost ready.” She put the toast in. “Could you get the milk?”

I pulled two tumblers from the cupboards as Beth dished out the eggs and sausage. With toast and jam, we took our seats.

"Say, Pop. What I was saying yesterday?"

"Yes?"

She stared off somewhere. "I think the problem isn't that you can't come up with stories. I think you aren't connecting with the readers. Since you can't imagine what they need to read, the stories just come out wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"I think. . . " Her face twisted as she tried to bring something into focus. "I'm not sure. But that has to be the answer."

"Well, keep thinking."

"I will!"

I thought about it myself, during my free time. Connecting with my readers? That could be it.

Maybe I needed to have a direct connection to the reader. One I knew and understood. A thought glimmered somewhere in the back of my mind, refusing to take shape.

Beth was just finishing her homework as I entered the house that night.

"All done, Pet?"

"Yep. I just have to write my story for class. I can do that over the weekend at Mom's." She closed the last notebook and set it on the stack. Then she paused, looking up at me.

"Pop? I had a thought."

"What's that?" I pulled up a chair and sat beside her.

"Well, when you wrote your book, what were you thinking of?"

"I was thinking of you. I was looking forward to seeing your reaction when you read it for the first time."

Beth nodded. "Yeah, that's what I was thinking. You could write a book for me because you knew me. But you don't know the other kids out there. How can you make a real connection?"

"Well, I'd have to . . ." But she was right. "I guess I can't."

"So you can't really see the story because you can't see the reader."

She was absolutely right. I could tell a story for Beth, but not for a random stranger. But I was children's writer. Beth wouldn't be interested in what I wrote any more.

She leaned toward me. "Write me a story."

"You're a little old for the stories I write."

"Then write an older story. Write a story for the me I am now."

I thought a moment, then nodded. "Okay. I'll write a story for the strong, intelligent daughter who teaches me when I need it."

I stood, pulling my daughter into a tight hug.

“Okay, then.” I broke off, gripping her shoulders. “I’ll start tonight, right after supper.”

“Oh! Supper! We need to get started. Mom will be waiting for me.”

“I’ll start supper. You need to start your story so you’ll have time for your mother this weekend. There’s no point in going if you’re just going to be holed up in your room for two days.”

As she rushed off to start typing, I began cooking. My hands worked as my brain planned what kind of story I could write. I felt an excitement I hadn't felt since that first novel.

Young adult fiction. I should probably research the genre. There was so much to explore!

After supper, and seeing Beth off to her mother's house, I went to the study. "Hello again, Shady. Ready to get to work?"

You bet, Boss.

The best part of working with a living typewriter was that he had been used in the pulp trade for twenty years. He could give me an honest opinion on the story.

I started crafting an outline. What would Beth be doing? What kind of adventures would she be having now? Nothing like Chrystal's Busy Day, that's for sure.

The story took shape as the time flowed. And this time it was right. An adventure of a girl defending her friends. A young woman with a strong sense of justice and loyalty. The clock showed later and later times as I kept writing. I had the fever. Keep going! I could sleep late in the morning.

And finally, near midnight, I pushed back and dropped the last page on the stack, rolling a fresh sheet into Shady.

"What did you think?"

That's ace, Johnny-boy! You got it for sure, this time.

Sunday night Beth would be back. I'd read her story and tell her it was the greatest story ever written. And she would read my outline and declare me a genius.

And maybe we'd both be right.