I've said I'll be writing about mistakes and missteps in this blog. All of them will be mine, most of them will have to to do with the written word. But this one is not about words; it's about attitude, and it happened four years ago this month. On April 16, 2007, a lethally confused and lonely gunman went on a rampage at Virginia Polytechnic Institute. Before he turned his gun on himself, he killed 32 students and injured 25 others. Just two days later, I was scheduled to speak to three hundred people about writing. I didn't want to go.
This appearance was a freebie, a favor to my local bookstore and to my community. I'd been looking forward to it earlier, but now I just couldn't face the prospect of pretending to be an "up" keynoter while the world felt like such a dangerous, cruel place. I couldn't muster any enthusiasm or performance verve when that senseless slaughter kept interposing itself between me and every mundane, waking moment.
That was my mistake. I underestimated how important words are, the difference they can make. To those who write and to those who read. I dragged myself, like the whining boy in the famous soliloquy from As You Like It, "unwillingly to school." As it turns out, I am deeply, astonishingly grateful to have spent that evening with forty-two young authors from kindergarten through 8th grade, and with their teachers, principles, librarians and families. It was the antidote all of us needed.
I hadn't heard, before that night, of the Young Authors Program, spear-headed by school media specialists across the NC county where I live. Thanks to local, state and national grants, student writers are awarded regional school prizes, then recognized with trophies, a county-wide reception, and a bound, hard-cover copy of their own book! The school district even bought each child (and all their school libraries) a copy of one of my books, and that's where I came in:
Going through the motions, with seasoned poise but little feeling, I talked to these kids about story telling, I did interactive exercises with them. But as we worked together, a gift happened: the whole room came alive and I forgot that there was anywhere else but this warm, busy place where we all believed in words. My audience were my teachers that night, each one responding with all the laughter, eagerness, and creativity I'd put on hold for the occasion. They literally brought me back to life.
Later, as I watched them collect and clutch trophies the size of small dogs, and as I sat afterwards, to sign their copies of my books, I was overwhelmed. If youngsters everywhere had HALF this much encouragement, a lot more hands would go up in classrooms when I ask who's interested in books! I guarantee you a least three of those Young Authors will grow up to be old ones. And every one of them will be a lifelong reader. They were of all colors, all abilities, and all economic backgrounds. The thing they had in common was that they cared about words and were proud of it. They made me proud, too.
And you know what? This one small event didn't take away the horror of what we humans are capable of doing to each other in paranoid, crazed frenzies. But it sure helped put that sick stuff in perspective. Because we're also capable of such caring, such generosity, and such faith in the future. I think another word for it is...love.