After two more (mostly trouble-free) years at Virginia Military Institute, sprinkled with compliments on my writing from English profs along the way, I earned my BA and took the traditional route of the English major: left college without a job. But with typical English-major practicality, I had a plan: Go to art school.
I had four years of higher-education abnormality to make up for. And what better way to do a 180 from VMI than to go to Virginia Commonwealth University and work towards an MFA? I say “work towards” for a reason: Due to VMI’s lack of an art curriculum (a void it and other military colleges ignore to this day), I would have to rack up a sufficient number of undergraduate hours to be eligible for a graduate program. But fun undergraduate hours, which was the point. I painted. I sculpted. I declared sculpture my major. Art school was indeed liberating. Baffling for someone fresh from six years of military school, but liberating.
My confusion didn’t last long. Mid-first semester, fate intervened in the form of an invitation from the United States Army to attend its upcoming three-month armor officer basic course at Ft. Knox, KY. The letter may have may begun with, “You are hereby ordered to attend …” It was a good while ago.
Near the end of those three months of playing in the winter mud of Kentucky and pulling the triggers on guns so large they were not then or now available for purchase at a Bass Pro Shop, I learned the army needed young, innocent lieutenants. In an impulsive act that makes me shake my head to this day, I chose to go on active duty. (Ever since, I have looked kindly on the temporary insanity defense). In less than 24 hours, I had orders for Tok Mok Nowhere, South Korea. Not once did Lillian admit her joy at the thought of me being stationed halfway around the world at a remote, hilltop missile battery, with little to do but play ping pong and write her letters. My mother never acted on the stage, but she had the talent, she really did.
Two years later, I left the army and came home for an extended period of relaxation. After a few (and possibly six) months of this, Lillian threw up her parent of a-mooching-adult-child hands and showed me the door. But I was ready to leave. The time had come to venture forth into the world and ask an important question: How long would my sister put up with me? Fairly long, it turned out, as my residence agreement included no-charge babysitting services. I did find time to poke around for a job. I found one in a small advertising agency and made a significant discovery: they paid writers to write advertising. I had written flowerly award citations in the army; I could do this. And so I have ever since, working in several ad agencies and, for a long time now, on my own. My clients not only pay me to write, they pay to edit my writing. It’s a pleasing arrangement.
Of course advertising writing is writing about subjects one would not choose to write about without pay. I couldn’t help but wonder what I might write on my own. A number of years ago, I started a novel. And in the best tradition of all budding fiction writers, I put it in a drawer and forgot about it. I was off to an auspicious start! Then I did National Novel Writing Month and in 28 days (I’ll have you know) wrote a 50,000-word novel. See “This is all about me” for what happened next. (I hate to repeat myself.) In a nutshell, that novel is the reason for this blog. What kind of nutshell? Pecan. I’m a Southerner.
When I finish the latest draft of my book tentatively titled Honestly, Scott, beta readers await. Then come the agent query letters.
Letters! I can hardly wait.