Junie B. Writer

A little over a year ago, Vi and I took a trip to Albany. It was part personal, part professional. I had some conference-y things to do, but Vi was able to tag along, and we had plenty of time to enjoy the state capitol between meetings. We rode the train there (fun), took a taxi into the city (also fun—although Vi was disappointed it wasn’t yellow), and went to a Children’s Expo that happened to be going on the weekend we were there. One of the programs at the Expo was a free presentation of Junie B. Jones, the musical. Attending the show reminded me of two things: 1) how much I enjoy live theater, 2) how much I want to write.

There’s something almost magical about musical stage productions that makes me feel more fully alive. The cast of about 6 performers charmed the audience of parents and kids with their portrayal of a first-grade classroom, starring Junie B. Jones. For those of you who don’t know Junie B., she’s a spunky, no-holds-barred kind of kid—a character (and I do mean a character) created by author Barbara Park. I credit Junie B. for turning my kid from non-reader to bookworm, laughing all the way (ha-ha-ha). I’m also grateful to Junie B. for inspiring me to get off my creative duff!

I’ve always enjoyed writing. Well, almost always. And maybe “enjoyed” isn’t quite the right word. Let me rephrase: Ever since I can remember, I have felt compelled to write. Like I was meant to write, made to write—designed for it. I think of British Olympian Eric Liddell’s famous line in “Chariots of Fire”: “I believe God made me for a purpose, but He also made me fast. And when I run I feel His pleasure.” I may not be an Olympic-caliber writer, but ‘when I write I feel God’s pleasure.’

It’s not always a pleasant process, mind you. Sometimes it’s hard—very hard. I nearly sweat. I occasionally cry. I often have to get up, walk away, do something else for awhile, and come back to the writing. When I was in seventh grade, I remember relating to a poster hung by my English teacher, Mr. H: “A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.” (Thomas Mann) I tried to discuss the insight of this quotation with my pubescent friends. They either didn’t care or they disagreed. One of them told me it was ridiculous: Writing seemed to come easily for me, she said, while her assignments, while torturous to fulfill, yielded decidedly mediocre marks.

The difference, I tried to tell her, was that I cared. I cared how the words sounded strung together on the page. It mattered to me whether I inserted a semi-colon or separated my thoughts into sentences. I fretted over word choice. I wrestled with my characters’ development. I tossed and turned about my stories’ settings. A few times, I failed to turn in my homework because it simply didn’t satisfy my standards. For a goody-two-shoes-teacher-pleaser like me, foregoing a full grade-book on principle epitomized the junior high English concept of oxymoron.

When middle school gave way to A-Town High, my passion for words took a supporting paragraph’s role to the main subject of my adolescence: Boys. I used and abused my writing ability. It saw me through school; I took it for granted. The careful crafting of love letters were the only times I recall paying attention enough to actually improve my composition aptitude. I guess it wasn’t until college that I remembered Madame Muse. The agony of a particularly painful break-up prompted me to seek the solace writing proffered, a long-forgotten friend extending her arms to me in earnest welcome. My journal became a place of prayer, a source of strength, a haven of healing for my battered, bewildered soul.

I consider it no accident that I ended up taking my basic composition course in the second half of my junior year. It’s a long, boring story why, wrapped up in a couple rolls of red tape, but I ended up having to the fulfill the 3 credits that spring—precisely the season I found myself ready to re-enter the realm of reality and wholeness.

I don’t think that mere coincidence led me to the Albany Egg last March, either—where I sat next to my fidgety daughter, surrounded by dozens of similarly squirmy strangers, while a talented young woman conjured a spirited 7-year-old and moved me to tears—moved me to write—with her final song: “Writing Down the Story of My Life.”

I am writing down the story of my life:
what makes me scared or nervous,
what makes me sad or blue.

If I want to draw a weiner sausage
Or a picture of a beautiful day,
Or list my favorite colors and foods,
Everything I want is A-OK.

Your favorite kind of popsicle, your allergy to glue,
How much you love your family, or what friendship means to you,
A picture of spaghetti or a lovely mountain view,
No matter what you think or dream or feel or say or do!

Keep on writing down the stories of your life…..

I am, Junie B., I am!