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www.livingthelifeofholly.com
Living the Life of Holly
By Holly Winter
The Story in You, Pinetop Arizona
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The students affixed a very gracious ‘Thanks for the non-learning day.’ glean in their eyes and stared blankly towards the front of the classroom where I stood in their English teacher’s spot. They slumped down in their chairs and prepared to politely fall asleep with their eyes open.

I smiled with understanding. “Yeah.” I addressed them. “I know.” I walked across the front of the room, building tension. “You’re wondering how on earth I could sit around and write all day, aren’t you?”

A small, quick giggle burst across the room as the students contemplated a writer who could read minds.

I walked slowly across the classroom as if there were a destination to my writing. There wasn’t. “You’re not alone in wondering.” I said, with a laugh. “My friends want to know the very same thing. They say to me, ‘Hey. Holly. How on earth can you sit around and write all day?” I shrugged my shoulders. “Believe it or not I like to write.”

Over half the class wrinkled their faces, tensed their bodies and let small shutters warm their lips.

“Yeah.” I laughed. “I know. When I was your age if anyone had tried to tell me I would grow up to be a writer, I would have pointed my finger right in his face…” I pointed my finger in the face of a tall boy sitting in the front row. “and yelled, ‘LIAR, LIAR. PANTS ON FIRE.!”

An improved giggle ran across the room. They were listening.

I continued. “I HATED WRITING when I was your age.” I crossed the room quickly, then turned back. “I’m not kidding. I REALLY hated to write. I thought that I had NOTHING at all to write about.”

More nods. Good. Good. Good. I was getting to them. Closer. Closer.

“I mean. How could I LIKE to write if I had NOTHING to write about?” I asked.

They squinted their eyes, leaned back in their chairs and prepared to shut me out. I smiled to myself. I know. They didn’t feel like relating. They didn’t want to write. They had nothing to write about.

“My name is Holly Winter and I travel around the country speaking to students about my program, The Story in You. And I’m here to tell you, each of you has a story that nobody else could write.”

A chill crept into the room and I lost all eye contact. I know. I know. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m doing my program, The Story in You. So many of our youth think their ordinary lives aren’t worth mentioning. They don’t understand the sheer brilliance of the every day.

A blond boy in the back blurted out, “Hey, lady. We live in Pinetop, Arizona. There’s nothing to write about here. We can’t wait to leave.”

The class laughed in agreement.

I joined in their laughter. “Yeah? Really? How many of you can’t wait to leave?”

Most of the class raised a hand.

“You know. That would be a great thing to write about. You know. Write about how you’re in ninth grade and living in this little town and you can’t wait to leave. You could write about that. Where do you plan on going? You could write about your plan to get out of town.”

Nervous non-attention.

I smiled. “Truth is there are many things to write about in this small town. I should know. I lived here for two years when I taught kindergarten on the Apache Indian Reservation.”

Hard stares. One boy muttered. “You wanted to live here?”

I laughed. “How many of you have ever gone elk hunting?”

Half the class raised a hand.

I turned my hands towards the ceiling and laughed. “Hey. You know what? People come from all over the world to go elk hunting here. And you get to do it in your own back yard? That would make a great story.”

Surprised looks.

“How many of you have gotten your OWN elk, without help?”

Four hands went up.

I was surprised. “Hey. Four out of twenty? That’s a lot. Twenty percent of you have hunted your own elk? With no help? Now. I’d love to read that story. Because most of the people who fly in to the White Mountains and pay thousands of dollars to hire a hunting guide never even SEE an elk. Did you know that?”

Several kids were sitting up straighter in their seats while smiles exploded across their faces.

“See. When you live in a little town you get to write about the way things ARE in a little town, or the way you WISH they could be.”

“Hmmm.” I tilted my head to the side. “Have any of you gone to the grocery store in the last month and bumped into someone you knew?”

Every hand went up.

I started laughing. “See. I grew up in a little town. And when I was in the ninth grade I’d get all dressed up to go shopping with my parents, because maybe I’d see some boy there and I needed to look good, right?”

Gentle laugher.

“Well. I’ve lived in the big city of Denver for seven years. And in seven years of shopping I’ve only run into ONE person I knew in the grocery store. And it was the strangest thing. It was my friend Robert. I was buying tea, and Robert jumped right into the middle of a conversation. It was the strangest thing. He said, ‘and my daughter has been writing children’s books too and I wanted to ask you about publishers and things.’ And I wanted to say, ‘Wow. Robert. Fancy meeting you here!’ but he was already in the middle of a conversation so I had to keep up with what he was saying. We never even said hello.”

Hard stares. Open mouths.

“See. When you go shopping in a small town, you have to leave time for conversations, and you have to dress for the occasion, right?”

Nods of agreement.

“When I go shopping in the city, I could wear my baggiest sweatpants if I wanted to, and I wouldn’t even have to brush my teeth because there’s a good chance I wouldn’t have a conversation with anyone.”

I pointed to myself. “I can write about what it’s like to go shopping in a big city. And you?” I pointed to them. “You could write about what it is like to go shopping here.”

I got some nods. Several kids were starting to write stories in their heads. I know that look. I do it all the time. Ok. Ok. Ok.

I continued. “Or. Maybe you don’t want to write about town life. Great. No problem. There are so many other things to write about. Anyone here ever have a crush on someone?”

Lots of smiles.

“Oh. You know that feeling. You like someone SO MUCH you can’t wait to see him or her, and you plan your whole day around seeing him or her and then when you do, you’re so nervous you can’t speak and you can hardly breathe. And you stand there blabbering on and you’re sure you’re going to throw up all over him or her. So you run into the bathroom to hide while you stare in the mirror wondering if they’re going to think you have, you know, bathroom problems.”

Gentle laughter. Nods of agreement.

“You could write about that crush. Cause lots of us have had that feeling. So when you write about it, we start feeling our own stuff and ZOOM it makes YOUR writing even more powerful. See. That’s how it works. If you can make us FEEL with your little combination of words… well… then… your writing has come alive.”

More nods.

“See. That’s one of the secrets of writing. Write about things that make YOU feel. Happy. Sad. Mad. Glad. Love. Hate. It doesn’t matter. If you write about what makes you feel, it will also make the reader feel. BINGO. You’ve just connected to your readers.”

I smiled. “Do you think you could write down a conversation you’ve had with your English teacher and REALLY make your selection of words sound like her?”

Most of the class whispered, “Yes.”

“Of course you could. Now. Writing about the stuff in your every day is a great place to start. Why not? It’ll take work to make it just right. Don’t think you can write it down one time and have it come out perfectly. Even Stephen King does at least four or five drafts for his books. You have to write and rewrite your work if you want it to be really good.”

Kids were leaning forward, listening.

I had them. I had them. I had them. “How many of you have a little brother or sister under the age of five who likes to get into your stuff?”

Half the class.

“You could write about that. Or your older brother who you caught playing with dolls, or your sister who burned the chicken she was cooking, or your mother who keeps yelling at you to clean your room. And. Keep in mind that you could always make up stories too. It’s a good way to deal with a brother or a sister who’s driving you crazy: Have aliens abduct them, dye their hair and dress them in ugly clothes. I promise. It’ll make you feel much better.”

Loud laughter.

A freckled boy in the front raised his hand.

I nodded.

“What are we supposed to do with all this stuff after we write it?”

“Good question. Very good question. There are lots of options. Completely fill a single subject spiral notebook with stories. Then when the notebook is filled, pick out your number one best story and work on perfecting it. I mean really perfecting it. You can ask your friends to make suggestions. Maybe your teacher has an idea of how to make it even better. And then when you have made it as good as it can get, you can try to get it published. Your English teacher can help you with that.”

The class turned to their teacher who was sitting behind her desk. She smiled and nodded. “I can edit your papers differently if I know you’re trying to get published. Let me help you.”

Freckles raised his hand again. “Yeah. But. Then what happens?”

I nodded my head. “For my first children’s book, I was paid for my story.”

I waited.

A girl with a high ponytail raised her hand. “How much did they pay you? Can I ask that?”

“You sure can, but thanks for not insisting on the answer. I was paid two thousand five hundred dollars for that story.”

The class let out one collective gasp.

“Guys. People write for a number of reasons. It’s a great creative outlet, like painting a picture or building a sculpture. And it also has career possibilities. Writers do make money but you have to be REALLY good at what you do to make a career. There are reporters in newspapers. There are editors. There are journalists. There are a lot of writing jobs for you to consider.”

Freckles’s hand shot up. “What’s the fastest way to become a good writer?”

I answered his intensity with intensity. “You have to write. Everyday. About whatever interests you. Experiment with writing. Try everything. Try anything. Only by writing do you become a better writer. And you have to read and read and read, so you can see what other writing looks like. And. You have to get out there and live a little, so you have something to write about.”

About three quarters of the class was nodding in agreement. “I can do that.” They murmured.

“I know you can do all of that. Remember? That’s why I’m here. To tell you that you CAN be a writer. That you can write about the Stories in You. That each of you has your own story, and nobody can tell it but YOU.”

A boy in the middle of the class raised his hand. “I don’t get it. Why are you talking us into writing? Won’t we be your competition?”

I didn’t laugh. I took a deep breath. “It’s not like that. It’s not about competition. It’s about you guys understanding that you can do something important. I’m tired of going into the bookstore and seeing all those books on the problems with teens…. Blah, blah, blah.”

The class let out one, big communal groan.

“I know. What I want to see is a teen who writes a book called, Solving the Parent Problem.”

Collective laughter.

“Or how about a book called, Surviving High School: Teen Suggestions.”

Intense quiet filled the classroom. Nobody was tapping a pencil. Nobody was asking to use the bathroom. Nobody was fiddling in a backpack.

“Look. I don’t care what you write. But. I want you to write. I want to know TEENS IDEAS COUNT IN THIS WORLD. How will we know what’s on your mind if you don’t tell us?” I slowly walked across the room. “I want to see how you view the world. I want to know YOUR story, in YOUR words.”

Students were nodding in agreement.

“Besides.” I shrugged my shoulders. “If you don’t tell your story, The Story in You, who’s going to?”

(The Story in You program is subsidized through fan donations. If you would care to donate, please click HERE for more information. Schools interested in having Holly come to speak my e-mail her for more information.)

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