Kes: Why I Am Not A Writer

Mostly, it’s because you have to think too much. You have to focus and keep your mind on track. It sure helps if you are really smart. A little training in wordsmithing would be an asset. And a smidgen more than a working knowledge of your subject matter would seem to be a prerequisite.

Unfortunately, I am notoriously weak in all of those departments.

I learned most everything I know from Leon. Who, if you might remember, when Mother was getting all over him for failing English in high school, he famously answered, “Shoot, Mom, I already know more English now than I am ever going to use.”   

I don’t have the imagination of Edgar Allan Poe. Or the command of the English language like Samuel Johnson. James Fenimore Cooper could write a whole chapter describing a maple leaf turning from green to golden yellow. And Will Rogers could, and did, capture the heartbeat of America in most everything he ever penned.

I admire those kinds of guys. They make it look effortless. But I’d bet we would all be surprised at the work, worry, toil, and stress they put into the wonderful works they produced. We just see the end product. Not the crumpled-up pages thrown at the nearest waste basket. 

Gosh, we have folks at this newspaper that are just like them. They excel in the art of writing. They enlighten, teach, entertain, update, and “keep us in the loop” on a weekly basis.

Please don’t mistake me for one of them. I don’t have a plan. Or much of an idea as to what I am doing. When someone asks how I got into this business, the honest answer is “accidentally.” I certainly don’t have a writing style. I just think of something Leon, Hollis Mayo, or Beverly Sparks did back in 1961, and I scribble it down right quick before I forget it!

I have spent years churning out a “weakly” story that I hoped would be more like me “telling it to you face to face” than something that was written down. If I have a goal, it is simply to brighten someone’s day. I have no political axe to grind. I’m not mad at anybody. I am not trying to suggest how you live. I don’t give advice. And I work hard at trying to make my “stuff” upbeat and happy.

I don’t necessarily try to be funny. I am not a comedian. I don’t try to pull at your heartstrings. You can watch the Hallmark Channel for that. And goodness gracious alive, I never wax eloquently. I am not smart enough to do that.

I try with all my heart to do my very best each week to get some kind of coherent article turned in before another looming deadline. It is not as easy as you might think. And it does not get easier with time. I’ve already told you most of the good stories. If it would have helped had Leon left a diary. But that might have exposed several guilty parties….

I have retired twice from this job. And yet, I am still here. Mostly because of the people.

I casually mention Bobby Brewer teaching me how to catch those goldfish out of the concrete “pond” in the town square. That’s all you get. But I remember Bobby in a hundred other ways: the sideways smirk on his face when he came up with a good idea, the pillow fights in our back bedroom, the rides through town on his Cushman Eagle, blowing those green army men off the porch with homemade gunpowder, the Cherry Bombs in mailboxes….

Every article comes alive for me.

Because I don’t make anything up. I do embellish a bit from time to time, as any story teller is allowed to do. Gus Radford and Paul Newmon taught me how to do that years ago by spinning a few “wild ones” at the service station across from the courthouse in Huntingdon, Tennessee.

Come to think of it, you would be much better off if Gus, Paul, and Leon had been telling you their stories all these years. Now, those guys could entertain the socks right off your feet!

I do appreciate you putting up with me. It means more to me than you realize. You get a story. I get a walk down memory lane. A do over if you will.

You get a tale from 1958. I smell the smoke. I feel the wind in my face. I hear the laughter. My knee hurts all over again when the bike doesn’t quite clear the far side of the big ditch. My ears ring when I talk about Eddie Carden slapping my football helmet. Anytime I mention being a high school freshman, my anxiety level goes up two notches.

ALL of you have afforded me the opportunity to renew old acquaintances and make so many new friends. I am blessed at both ends of my life. I fear I won’t live long enough to pay you all back….

Respectfully,
Kes
kesley45@aol.com