A Ray of Encouragement

I felt my heartbeat quicken as I heard the ringback tone. One hand was absentmindedly playing with the curly cord, while the other was holding a piece of paper with a number on it. I regretfully stared at the ten digits as the ringing continued. Making phone calls already stressed me out, and the fact that I was about to interview a famous stranger added to my anxiety. “Why am I making this call?” I mentally lamented, even though I knew exactly who was at fault for my current panic attack. 

A couple of weeks before I picked up the phone to make that fateful call, Mrs. Susan Spica had assigned her 7th-grade English class an essay about what they would like to be when they grew up. The kicker was that the paper had to be based on an interview with someone of that profession. As she explained the project, I was thinking about my untapped future. I dreamed of being a teacher, a psychologist, or a mailman. “Anthony, ” Mrs. Spica said, interrupting my daydreams, ”see me after class.”

I was shell-shocked. A wave of dread washed over me as I thought I was in trouble because I wasn’t paying attention. Guilt was eating me up inside. The fact that I had disappointed my favorite teacher nauseated me. I silently sat in shame for the remainder of the period. 

When the bell mercifully rang, I trepidatiously walked over to Mrs. Spica’s desk. Even though she was petite, she was able to command a classroom. Copperish hair and a nose as sharp as her wit, she exuded maternal warmth. She could find the right mixture of challenge and encouragement. My fear as I got closer was that I was about to meet her wrath for the first time. I was a very neurotic teen.  

Even though Mrs. Spica had a smile on her face as I approached, I was still worried. “For the dream job homework,” she began in a gentle tone that eased my concerns, “I already got someone for you to interview.” She handed me the unfortunate piece of paper. “Call him at the appointed time, and he will give you insight on what it means to be a writer.” She beamed a huge smile as I walked to my next period, nonplussed by what had occurred. 

Writing was more of a hobby than a viable career path. I enjoyed anything that allowed me to explore the depths of my imagination. As a kid, I would shove my face in the corner of the sectional couch. In the complete darkness from the pillows, I would continue the stories of the Power Rangers’s fight against evil or ACME’s attempt to finally capture Carmen Sandiego. 

As I got older, I got hooked on phonics and began a lifelong love affair with books. Each week, I would come home with a book different from the one in the library. I was shy and introverted, so I did not have many friends. Instead, I would spend my summers hanging out with the Boxcar Children or Encyclopedia Brown. Inspired by these mysteries, I would soon begin to write my own. I even wrote a series that starred a dinosaur detective that solved Jurassic crimes. The pages for those stories were littered with some saur-isly terrible dino puns.

I never showed anyone my work, so I did not care if others liked them. I wrote as a form of therapy, a way to manage my stress, loneliness, and low self-esteem. I was a scrawny, nerdy middle schooler with big glasses, crooked teeth, and untamable hair resembling an afro. To complete the look, I used a rolling backpack and constantly carried around my inhaler. I was so nerdy that even the gym teacher bullied me. “The white zone is for loading and unloading of passengers only,” he would say as I walked into the gym. The real world was cruel and harsh, but my imaginary worlds were safe and empowering.

So, when Mrs. Spica asked us to write a short story based on a book that we recently read, I was nervous. My writings were personal. I didn’t trust anyone enough to invite them into the worlds I created. Now, I had to expose my works to others, and my creations would be judged and graded. I felt nauseous. 

However, since I was also the type of student who cried when he didn’t get an A, I pushed through my discomfort and wrote a story inspired by a John Grisham novel. It was a very twisted and dark tale told from the point of view of a narcissistic, misogynistic man who ended up a juror for a murder that he committed. As I wrote, my fears began to mount. What kind of messed up 13-year-old would come up with such a morbid tale? Would people reject me once they knew what I was capable of imagining? Then a new fear began to form: Was I even any good? 

I am still unsure if I was any good, but I got an A+ with a note saying I was to see the teacher after class. Despite the high grade, I felt that familiar pit in my stomach. I worried Mrs. Spica assumed I cheated or maybe she was referring me to a therapist because of the disturbing content. I trepidatiously walked over to her desk. 

“Anthony,” Mrs. Spica said with a grin, “I loved your story. Have you ever thought about being a writer?” I shook my head no as she continued, “You have so much potential. I hope you continue to write.”

In general, I am poor at receiving feedback. If it is negative, I end up feeling discouraged. If it is positive, I dismiss the comments as incorrect. So when Mrs. Spica told me all those encouraging words, I could not compute. Creativity was my sister’s gift, not mine. I couldn’t stay on the beat; I had the voice of a (fallen) angel, and my art skills remained at a Kindergarten level. The story must have been a fluke, and my writing career peaked at 7th grade. 

Mrs. Spica could sense my mistrust of my skills and sought to praise my writing publicly. Then, when the dream job assignment rolled around, she put action behind her encouraging words. Somehow, she found a way for me to connect with one of my favorite authors. All I had to do was call him at the appointed time. 

I realized I was holding my breath as the ringing stopped. “Hello?” came the elderly woman’s voice on the other line. I introduced myself and explained the purpose of the call, wondering if I dialed the wrong number. My fingers clenched the curly cord. “Oh yes! My husband is so excited to talk with you,” the woman said in a sweet but fragile voice. She seemed like a kind grandmother type who would give me a butterscotch candy and a dollar every time I saw her. “Let me get him.”

There was another pause. The entire moment seemed surreal. I was about to talk with the author of some of my favorite works of fiction. I heard movement on the other line as the husband grabbed the phone, “Hello, this is Ray.”

I was talking to the man who shaped my love of time travel stories and science fiction. Somehow, this nerdy nobody was learning from the master himself, Ray Bradbury. 

I spent the next hour talking about his inspirations for his books, my deep appreciation for “A Sound of Thunder,” and tips to improve my craft. At least, I believe that is what we talked about because I remember NOTHING from the conversation. 

What I do remember is walking away from the interview empowered to continue writing. Unfortunately, life got in the way. I was struggling in school, my self-esteem got worse, and my mom got very sick. My life was turned upside down. I wrote occasionally for class: a short story here, a play there. Sadly, I stopped visiting my imaginary worlds as I focused on surviving the storm of life. 

Yet, I treasured the notes I took from Ray Bradbury, knowing I would once again write one day. It was not until I was a sophomore in college that I felt like I was ready to write and share my stories, my babies. My college had a short story competition, and I wrote about an encounter with someone new that changed her perspective on love forever. I titled it “A Sound of Rolling Thunder” in honor of Ray. 

Before I submitted the story, I had this worry that the story was not any good and that I would reveal to the world that I was a fraud. I shared my concerns with a good friend, who volunteered to edit and give me feedback on my story. I was hesitant, but I trusted him and emailed him a draft. 

An hour later, he came to my dorm wearing a frown. The all-familiar sense of dread once again begins to creep in. In a somber but empathetic tone, he sat down and informed me my story was not good. “There is no plot,” he declared. “I am unsure what you are trying to convey in this story.”

He was right, of course. The piece was more of a character study about the power of moments. Instead of celebrating that he understood (albeit disagreed) with my controversial approach to storytelling, I felt deflated. I thanked him for his notes and proceeded to delete the draft. 

After that day, I stopped writing. When I did have to write for work or school, I would have a panic attack. My safe refuge became a source of tension. So I ran away to other hobbies like magic, in feeble attempts to flex my creative muscles. No matter how hard I tried, story ideas would still come to me. I would bottle those thoughts up. Pressure began to build inside of me, and I learned how to live with it. 

I stopped writing in 2007. I would slowly forget my conversation with Ray Bradbury during the ensuing years. Eventually, my meeting with him became a footnote that I ignored. 

Since you, my dear reader, are reading this, I obviously got back to writing. This year I experienced the worst bout of depression since high school. The world seemed dark. To help me process my stress, loneliness, and low self-esteem, my therapist recommended I write. 

For weeks, my insecurities won, and the digital paper remained blank. Then, one day in therapy, we began talking about regret. I do not have many in my life, but one of the biggest ones I wrestle with is that I cannot recall my conversation with Ray Bradbury. I had let my fears choke out the memory of a life-changing moment. That realization helped me write a stanza for an undetermined poem. Soon, my Notes app was filled with random stanzas. The more I wrote, the better I felt. The pressure of rejecting my imaginary worlds dissipated, and I started to feel whole for the first time in years. 

While it was true I started to write, my fears were still as strong. Even though I have come to tentative terms that I am a decent writer, I don’t believe my words matter. It boggles my mind that anyone would care about what I have to say and the stories I tell. I am worried about how my literary babies are going to be received. So, I enter writing competitions hoping to get feedback on whether or not I belong in the world of prose. The internet does not help. I press the submit button, and my babies enter an abyss, the default of which is apathy. I can now handle negative feedback. I still struggle with positive feedback. I have heart palpitations when it is just silence. 

It is in the silence where our inner voice speaks loudest. For me, my inner voice is a cruel critic. It is in the silence in which the monster of comparison creeps in and tells me that I am not good enough. It is in the silence that I try to remember the interview with Ray Bradbury. What gives me the strength to continue writing in the face of my fears is not the tips I cannot remember. It had nothing to do with the conversation itself. Instead, the reason why I had an encounter with him is what gives me the courage to move forward. I can once again enter my imaginary worlds because my 7th-grade English believed in me enough to schedule a time for me to meet Ray Bradbury. 

Dear reader, it is so easy to be discouraged. Fear is the norm in our society. We must focus on the likes and remember to pay attention to our hearts. Writing can bring beauty to the world. Stories can help put into words our concerns and our feelings. Prose and poems can inspire others and bring change. Writing can heal. 

I forgot that. I let my neuroticism prevent me from bringing a little bit more beauty into this world. However, even after 17 years, it was not too late to pick up my metaphorical pen and write again. With each keyboard clack, Ray’s words begin to come back. With each submission, Mrs. Spica’s belief in me empowers me to believe in myself. 

Dear reader, I hope that whenever you feel down and your words don’t matter, you have someone in your corner like I had—someone with the right mixture of encouragement and challenge. If you have already let fear win, it is not too late to share the world your beautiful, imaginary worlds. We are better for it. 

And if anyone you know Susan Spica, please tell her thanks for me. My world is brighter because of her.