JUNE 6, 2019 – For eighth grade English I had Mr. Howe, the wrestling coach. Reliable sources reported that he was an excellent coach. I could attest that he was a superb teacher. When he included the lyrics to The Sounds of Silence in our poetry unit, he became everyone’s favorite teacher. He was soft-spoken, and his left eyebrow was always raised, suggesting accurately his intelligence and sincerity.
I enjoyed every unit of Mr. Howe’s class, but I couldn’t wait for “writing week.”
I’d started my writing career six years earlier. My first “work” was a thank-you letter to my maternal grandmother “back East.” She’d given me personalized stationery for Christmas, and the best way to thank her was on a sheet of the pale blue paper bearing my name—Eric B. Nilsson. I was in second grade and hadn’t yet learned cursive penmanship. My vocabulary was limited, as well, but I’d watched my elders—parents and sisters—write quite a lot, and it looked like fun, and so it was. That first “thank-you” note to my grandmother led to years of lively correspondence.
At the start of “writing week” Mr. Howe led us, notebooks in hand, to the school library down the hall. Once we were seated at the tables, Mr. Howe instructed us to write whatever we wished—a story, a diary entry, stream of consciousness. He also gave us the option of pulling any book off any shelf and copying the text into our notebooks.
I couldn’t wait to write extemporaneously. It was as if Mr. Howe had said, “Ski for the whole period!” I opened my notebook and started composing. My delight turned quickly to embarrassment: I was the only student who hadn’t grabbed a book to copy. Reluctantly, I followed suit. After copying the first sentence slavishly into my notebook, I recovered my senses. How stupid is this?! I said to myself, as my opinion of Mr. Howe slipped a notch. I resumed my “free range” writing.
Decades later I had a Somali client who was very smart and articulate. He’d mastered spoken English. Moreover, he was remarkably conversant in—and committed to—the principles of representative democracy. I told him he could become a Congressman one day if only . . . he could write. (His email correspondence was abysmal.) He readily acknowledged his deficiency. “How can I learn?” he asked.
Just then I thought of Mr. Howe’s option that first day of “writing week.”
“Well,” I said, “one thing you could try is take a good book and copy it—20, 30 minutes a day. After a time, you’ll start picking up proper spelling, punctuation, grammar, syntax, sentence structure.” It’s the easiest way to improve your writing.
“Ah! Wonderful!” said my client. “What book would you recommend?”
I surveyed the scores of books in my office bookcase. “Here,” I said, grabbing one and blowing the dust off the top. I handed him a lingering copy of my own novel, Severance Package. “It’s a start, anyway.”
© 2019 Eric Nilsson
