When you write from the heart, you not only light the dark path of your readers, you light your own way as well.
Marjorie Holmes
I was pulling together materials for the first night of my Advanced Writing for Publication class when I was interrupted by a confident, demanding voice.
“Are you Bud Gardner?”
The man standing in the doorway to my office stood about 5 feet 8, weighed about 125 pounds, and was all business.
“Yes, I’m Bud. Have a seat. How may I help you?”
“I’m Joe Howard. I came by to meet you, to decide if I want to take your class beginning tonight. You see, I’m over sixty, and I don’t have enough time left to waste even a minute of it.”
Joe Howard, I learned, was a retired, veteran reporter for the Los Angeles Times, now living in my home town.
“I still do a little stringing for the Times now and then. I covered Ross Perot when he came to town a while back.”
“With your background as a seasoned journalist, why on earth would you want to take this class?” I asked.
“Because I’m looking for a change. I’ve spent most of my life writing hard news stuff. I want to look at other types of writing. I know I have a couple of books in me. Maybe some fiction, too.” His eyes narrowed. “The question is, what have you got to offer me?”
“In this advanced class, we begin by reviewing how to sell articles to magazines.”
“Been there, done that,” he snapped. “What else?”
“We’ll study how to get a nonfiction book published— either by sending out a book proposal to a trade publication or by self-publishing.”
“What?” he scolded. “Self-publishing? Isn’t that for amateurs who can’t interest major publishers?”
“Not really. Self-publishing allows a writer to get a great idea to the marketplace first, to control the book project from start to finish, to become a publisher. Three of my former students have become millionaires because they chose to self-publish. One author, Jane Nelsen, has self-published fourteen books, which nets her one million dollars a year from her writing and speaking engagements.”
“Phfffftt! Not for me,” he said, irritated. “What else?”
“We’ll take a look at the short story structure, and many students will want to begin working on a novel.”
“Oh really,” he said cynically. “Just how many novels have your students turned out anyway?”
“I’m not sure. Nancy Elliott, Bettina Flores, Naida West, Jim Dearing, Ethel Bangert, and many other fine authors have turned out novels since taking classes in our writing program.”
“Anything else?” he said, unimpressed.
“The whole purpose of this advanced class is to step up production, to turn out more articles, make multiple sales from one idea, to sell to the global market, and to get books published.”
“You can do all of that in one semester?” he growled.
“Oh yes, we’ll get some articles in print this semester, but the class will be long over before any books appear. That’s okay. Knowing how the publishing industry works and having step-by-step processes to follow—that’s what this class is all about.”
“Is that it?” he said, beginning to tune out.
“We’ll also talk about how to run an efficient home office, how to use the five energy levels we experience each day to turn out our best writing, and how to handle rejection, procrastination and writer’s block.”
“Writer’s block? Give me a break. No serious writer ever gets blocked.”
Wow! What an irascible, old curmudgeon, I thought. If he took the class, I knew I was in for it. He’d constantly challenge me on every concept I presented and would make life miserable for me. I’d had enough and decided to get rid of him.
“Then I guess the class isn’t for you,” I said firmly.
“I’ll decide that,” he snapped. “What kind of writing do you see me doing?”
As I looked deep into his eyes, for the first time I saw the pain he was feeling. I had nothing to lose.
“Why don’t you try your hand at poetry?” I said softly.
“What? Poetry? Me? For God’s sake, why?” his voice rising.
“It just might help you get in touch with your true feelings.”
That stopped him cold. He sat there staring at me. It was a long time before he spoke.
“I’ve never thought about writing poetry. I’m not sure I want to reveal my feelings in print,” he said, no longer fighting.
“I understand.” It was time to bring this to an end. “Look, why don’t you come to the first session tonight, then make up your mind about taking the class. Okay?”
As he walked down the hall, he stopped and stared back at me for a full minute. Then he was gone. I thought I’d seen the last of him. Good riddance, I thought. But I was wrong. He not only showed up but sat through the full three-hour class, then asked to see me after class.
“Okay, you’re on. I’ll write you three poems a week. Deal?”
“Deal,” I said, trying to act confident, my stomach churning.
Joe Howard was true to his word. The next week, the week following, and every week after that he turned in three poems for me to critique. At first they were rather stiff and formal but carried great energy and power. Then as the weeks wore on, I began to see a softness appear in his poems.
I wish I hadn’t agreed so quickly to Joe’s deal of turning in three poems each week. Why? Because he turned in three poems to me each week—for five years. I couldn’t get rid of the guy. He joined a poetry group in town and read his poems in public readings. He even read some of them on radio. Eventually, he produced a play of his best poems that was presented one weekend in our campus theater, featuring some professional actors and readers.
As students read their work aloud during the class, Joe pulled no punches in critiquing them. He always gave good, solid advice—even if it was harsh at times. Students respected and admired him, but didn’t dare challenge his authority.
Then one night during the second year, he asked to read a poem to the class. I was taken aback. He’d never asked to read aloud before. The poem he read was about a conflict he’d had with his daughter. As he began reading it, he was confident, self-assured. About a third of the way into the poem, he burst into tears. The students and I were shocked. This old curmudgeon was actually crying.
I didn’t know what to say. In thirty years of teaching, I’d never faced a situation like this. I decided to wait.
Joe got under control and began to read again. He broke into tears a second time. Again I waited, not knowing what to do.
Embarrassed, fighting for control, he read again . . . cried . . . stopped . . . read again . . . then finished the poem, weeping.
The room was deadly quiet. I waited what seemed like an eternity. Then I finally spoke.
“Thanks for sharing, Joe,” I said quietly.
Emotionally moved, the class exploded into applause. Everyone was cheering, smiling, and wiping tears away.
“Hold it!” shouted Joe, now back in control. “I’ve got something to say.” Then he told how he had interviewed me before the first class a year and a half ago and how much he had enjoyed the class and writing poetry.
“When Bud first asked me to write poetry, I couldn’t believe it. It was difficult at first because I couldn’t get in touch with myself. Then as the months passed by, I began to go below the layers of the crusty reporter I’d been to the core me. What you heard and saw tonight with this poem came from the real Joe Howard. I finally got in touch with my true feelings.” His eyes filled with tears again. “Thank you for sharing this moment with me.”
Triggered by this experience with Joe, I created and have delivered a speech all over the western United States and Alaska titled “Writing from the Heart,” which opens with Joe’s story. And to show the brilliance of his great talent, during that speech I read the following poem:
“The Black Stallion”
by Joe Howard
He was wild and free.
Small, muscular, hoofed.
Ranged far and wide.
Knew no boundaries.
Except those of hunger,
fatigue, disease.
Wild he was.
Strong he was.
Free he was.
Fearless he was.
Till they trapped him.
Threw him off his feet.
Tied his legs.
Dropped a tarp over him.
Beat the fight out of him.
Then they pulled the tarp off.
Burned him with their brand.
Took the bindings from his legs.
Jerked him back upright.
Saddled him, rode him,
fed him, drove him.
Until the memory
of what he’d been
was lost in the pain.
Time passed.
And he grew old.
Grey. Spindly.
No longer usable.
Worthless to them.
Feed cost.
So they took him back.
To where they’d found him.
Cast him out.
On old ground.
To face what was now strange.
Alone, he stood . . . For a while.
Alone, he did not move . . . For a while.
Then, deep within, memory stirred.
And his head lifted.
His eye caught sight of sky.
Of peak. Of wild others.
And he bent to feed,
not yet dead.
Rose to see, not yet down.
Moved to explore, not yet lame.
Life returned . . . Slowly . . . Slowly.
Healing began . . . Gently . . . Gently.
And the old black stallion
heard his heart beat . . . once more.
The old black stallion found his
soul . . . once more.
Knew he was alive . . . once more.
Knew he was free . . . once more.
Knew he was home . . . once more.
Like the black stallion, all writers at times despair, but if they will dig deeper within themselves, they, too, will find the resilience to push on, to reach their goals.
I learned from Joe Howard, my dear friend and seasoned writer, that we must always write from the heart, and not just from the head. When we write stories from the heart, we connect with readers on a deeper level as we guide them to new levels of thinking, feeling, seeing, perceiving, and being. In short, we allow them to change. As writers we must see ourselves as change agents, but not manipulators, who—through heartfelt stories—offer readers changes of thought patterns that can inform, entertain, or persuade them with new ideas.
Thank you Joe Howard, my good friend. I’m a better person, writer, teacher and speaker because you passed my way.
Bud Gardner