ON SHEEP AND NOT GIVING UP WRITING

by Melodie Johnson Howe

My father’s favorite phrase was “give the sons of bitches hell, Mel.” Growing up I was never quite sure who the sons of bitches were, or why I should give them hell. When I became a model, then an actress, and finally a writer, I began to understand my father’s attitude. He meant don’t let them grind you down. Rejection can kick the breath out of you, and worse, it can keep you from moving ahead.

In the modeling and acting field rejections can be as personal as: “Melodie, your nose casts a shadow on your face. Get it straightened and then we’ll talk.” I didn’t and we never talked. Or a producer taking a phone call while I’m in the middle of a reading. I didn’t get the role. I walked out of those offices empty handed and empty hearted. I had nothing to show for the attempt.

The writers, published or unpublished, who follow this blog know there is more rejection than acceptance in our field. An agent once told me that a career does not have to be a battlefield. That is true. But it does help if you’re wearing a helmet.

I’m one of those writers who would write if I never got published again. Yet I have to admit there are times when I think maybe I should hang it up. For a brief moment I feel peaceful. I imagine myself in tweeds (don’t ask) puttering in the garden. Content. No deadlines. No rejections. My only concern would be the evil Hummer lady. (See previous blogs.) I would never have to turn what I see, what I feel into solid hard words. I would never have to solve a mystery. Better yet, I wouldn’t have to create one. What bliss!

Then I remember my father. I am very young. We are in his big silver-finned Cadillac careening down a country road. He points with his finger and booms “Sheep!” My brother and I are in the big back seat holding on for dear life. My brother is gnawing his thumb and doesn’t bother to look. But I do. And sure enough there are sheep. For a little girl raised in Los Angeles this is exciting. Sheep!

Then my father commands, “ Look at the color of that meadow. Have you ever seen such a green?”

No, I haven’t.

“And look at the sky. Have you ever seen such a blue sky before?”

Well, maybe. But maybe not.

Continuing, my father would weave the moment of the sheep into the greatest day, then the greatest week, and then the greatest year. Soon we were in the greatest country that ever existed. And had there been room in the car he would have had us standing and singing God Bless America. (Even though the country was filled with sons of bitches.)

My father was a born salesman who had the gift for gab, the love of words and the sound of his own voice.

He needed to describe the beauty of everydayness to us. So when the lure of quitting envelops me I remember him bellowing out the word, “sheep.” What could be sillier than a sheep? But what could be more powerful than that one word, and the creative need to give it meaning. Listening to him in the backseat of that speeding Cadillac, I began to develop my passion to write.

Writing is a glorious disease. I know there is no cure for it. So I’ve stopped toying with the idea of giving it up. I’ve put away my metaphorical tweeds. But I’m not going to give up my metaphorical helmet. I may even add night vision. I still have to give the sons of bitches hell.