Writing is a journey that is both sweet and tortuous. If you have this gene, you know what I mean. Sweet in that it fills your head with visions of grand and gentle scenes but always intriguing and rich because it comes from what you find enticing. It’s built around you. Torturous because those visions won’t let go until you flesh them out on paper.
My writing journey started with my education, the usual route that evolved into an unusual course. Coming into 2nd grade was a jolt. Unfortunately, my teacher had a startling reaction to reading my name. This teacher had taught my elder sister before I came on the scene and decided it was good to say, “I wonder if you can do as well as her.” I remember feeling outraged and chagrinned. Shortly after that, this man ended up chasing a male student around the room, a desk falling over in that chase after that kid mouthed off to him. Those two events drove me to participate only infinitesimally in this classroom or with this teacher.
My mother told me I held my breath and turned red to react to my first weighing. The doctor identified it as stubborn and slapped my bottom, making that air come out. Throughout my life, I knew I should follow the correct route, but that route had to be my choice. I wasn’t about to tolerate that 2nd grade teacher or his ideas. Not surprisingly, my grades were low. That summer, my father sent me to a summer school with a private teacher, and from there, I straightened out. After all, the chaos was gone, and I found joy in learning. It was fun.
Many years later, I was coming home from the airport. The sister mentioned before was getting married, and my parents and I had picked up the groom’s sister. She and I sat in the back seat, discussing growing up with genius siblings. I don’t know if my sister was indeed a genius. There were three of us, and the eldest sister seemed to be the one that shined. She once told me she mostly sat behind her desk in her bedroom, gazing out the window, daydreaming. Judging by how my parents reacted to her and ensured she had what she needed to do well in school, I would say that my elder sister probably had the highest IQ between the three of us, and I was glad I didn’t get that kind of attention.
As I shared my 2nd grade story, my father was visibly affected. He said he had never known about it. I could see the guilt in his eyes. He hadn’t realized it was an emotional reaction, not a sign of intellectual inadequacy. This realization might be the reason why my father took over my education from that point on.
Dad’s education was in electrical engineering, but he was employed in water development for the State of California. He understood higher math and writing because that is what his education gave him and what his job required. It is a rare combination—engineering and writing—but he enjoyed all of it, and his unique blend of skills heavily influenced what I did in school.
My focus became what he thought and said. His job was to check my homework and get involved in my assignments. Don’t think that he gave me answers. On the contrary, he made me go the extra mile. He often challenged me to think critically and express my thoughts clearly. His influence improved my academic performance and shaped my critical thinking skills and love for writing.
I fondly remember going with my father to various used bookstores (his haunt) to gather project materials. I had to write reports with a table of contents, illustrations, a bibliography, and once an opening poem. No one else went that far. It was not standard practice. Despite being somewhat isolated, it gave me a love of exploration and learning, which was also uncommon.
My father’s love for science fiction was often underappreciated, a fact that still resonates with me. As a grown man and an engineer, others felt his interest in scifi meant pulp novels, which were thought to be primarily for teenage boys. These pulps were the genre’s birthplace, with their monster-stealing pretty girls-type illustrations on the front, even though a few precursors like Jules Verne and Mary Shelley or even as far back as The Epic of Gilgamesh have claimed at least part of the credit. The pulp’s golden age was from 1896 to 1955, and even then, hidden among these sensational stories were a few gems written by authors who would go on to pen great novels. These novels and the ones that came later are what Dad had in his garage library.
Once I got interested, I was no stranger standing around the stacks in used bookstores surrounded by adolescent boys. It was awkward, especially for them. I didn’t care, though. When I came into the genre, if anyone I met liked science fiction, that person was my friend. My father never suggested reading this stuff, but I tried one of his books from the garage. I’m sure he felt it was his interest and wouldn’t want me to be pressured into something meant for “adolescent males.” Dad also didn’t invite me into his interest in model railroading. Little did he know I was fascinated by the miniature railroads, and that I would learn to love the genre of scifi.
I’ll never forget the plastic curtains he taped on his metal bookshelves. They were his way of creating a private space in our garage, a sanctuary where he could collect and read as much scifi as he wanted without interruptions. His unwavering determination to mold the world to fit what he needed with whatever he had on hand was a true inspiration.
I found scifi on a rainy day. I had just finished reading Treasure Island in 6th grade. I thought it would be fun. Boy, that story dragged; it moved so slowly. I finally finished it and wrote a book report, but I felt like I had barely come out from underneath a rock. I went out into the garage to get a change of scene. I needed a refresher. I stood there and stared at the bookshelves and started to wonder. As I perused my father’s collection, I reached for Slan. It was an old book from the 1940s and a parable about race relations. Of course, though, it was about aliens living among humans. The story was captivating, moving briskly, and a joy to read. It was a discovery that opened up a whole new world for me.
After that, I asked my father to find more books tailored for me. He became my steward, finding stories with female leads and enjoying the fact that I had an interest in this genre. I realized some books were exciting and fun to read. His support and encouragement fueled my passion for this newly discovered genre.
The first group of books contained noteworthy novels. Dad brought me Anne McCaffrey in her Dragonsong (Harper Hall of Pern Book 1), a story about a young girl’s journey to becoming a dragon rider, and Robert Heinlein’s Door Into Summer, a time-travel adventure with a young girl who could pet a cat properly. He also brought me The Witches of Karres by James H. Schmitz, a thrilling space opera involving a young man who finds three young girls out in space who are witches. These books broadened my understanding of the genre and allowed my imagination to soar. I discovered that I could find stories that fit into my zeitgeist. I had found my joy.
When it came time, I chose to study Biology in college and earned a BS in the subject. My father only asked that I go and that I finish. He never finished his degree. Guilt led him to stop in his junior year and move to Sacramento for a job. He felt obligated to take the financial burden off of his parents. That’s OK; Sacramento is where he met my mother.
I will never forget my surprise when I learned that students coming into college with me were required to take a test for their English level. Evidently, too many students were showing up to college unprepared. I felt lucky that my grades were good and I didn’t have to add a semester to my classes. It reminded me how different my education was with the guidance of my father.
The End of Part A
©JM Strasser December 2024 All Rights Reserved
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