THE CHEERING SECTION

by John M. Floyd

I was informed the other day that I’ll be attending a wedding in Atlanta next month. I don’t particularly enjoy weddings, but in the interests of my own marital harmony I suppose I’ll go along to this one and act as if I’m having a good time. More about that in a minute.

Years ago IBM sent me in the opposite direction. I was dispatched to Manila to teach a two-week class, and on the way back I detoured to Hong Kong for several days. One afternoon while sightseeing (or, as I prefer to think of it, “gathering facts for future stories”) I noticed that one of the passengers on my tour bus was taking photos right and left. Nothing unusual there — except that this man, who knew the driver and appeared to be local, was snapping pictures not of the scenery but of his fellow passengers. Later, when we stopped halfway up Victoria Peak for a view of the city and everyone had filed out of the bus, the photographer appeared in front of me and said, “This is you. Five dollar.”

In his hand was a plain white saucer about six inches across, with my photo glued into the middle. After looking around, I realized several other passengers were holding similar souvenirs, and were apparently delighted with the result of this guy’s little venture. I wasn’t. I was impressed by his ambition (not to mention his speed) but I was unimpressed by his product. “Sorry,” I told him, “but I don’t want a saucer with a picture of me on it. Who would?”

He gave me a thousand-watt grin and said, “Yo mama.”

I realized he was right. I paid up, and to this day that saucer is sitting on my mother’s coffee table in her living room.

Most of us have at least one person who loves us no matter what, and will always (to use a terrible cliché) “be there for us.” I’m fortunate enough to have several folks like that: my wife, our children, a few close friends — and my mother. She’s 82 now and still lives in the house where I grew up, and is probably the only person in the world, including my wife and kids, who seems genuinely proud of everything I do. (Well, almost everything. She’s not thrilled about my tendency to doze off during her detailed descriptions of her neighbors’ minor ailments.)

She certainly approves of my writing, and while I’m happy that she does, it’s not as if I can depend on her for constructive criticism. The reason is simple: she finds nothing to criticize. I’m convinced that my mom would like what I write even if it caused folks to barf in their hats and/or run screaming into the street. The others in my little support structure are more realistic — my wife, in particular, usually likes my writing but can also be trusted to correct me when I veer too far off into the weeds. She’s also truly happy for me when things go well, and that’s a great feeling. (It’s one of the many things that make the small irritations — like having to tag along to weddings — seem small indeed.)

I can only imagine how hard it must be for writers whose spouses and relatives and friends are not supportive of their endeavors. Writing is hard enough by itself, without outside problems and pressures. Sure, I joke about the fact that my mother never finds any fault with my creations, but that’s a lot better than being advised to turn in your pad and pen (or your computer) and go do something productive for a change.

My point is, if you’re a writer and you have a loved one who really cares about your passion for stories and storytelling, you’d better — as my great-aunt Sicily would have said — thank your lucky stars. And remember to thank the individuals themselves, now and then. They’re probably more valuable to your career and your mental state than you can possibly know.

But you might want to draw the line at giving them souvenirs bearing your own likeness.

That’s for extreme cases only.