Lines Unwritten

My senior year in high school presented a fork in the road. I was a smart kid, too smart perhaps, and as a result I had become a poor student. My SAT scores screamed RAW POTENTIAL, equally and generously distributed between math and verbal. My A's and B's came easily and 4 years of college prep catholic school did not come close to testing me. I breezed through math and science classes. History sometimes tripped me up (I was not much for blind memorization of names, dates, and places) but I could usually crank up a couple of good essay answers to get me through. But English/Literature class was where my spirit began to shine.

Gerard Herlihy was my English professor, junior and senior years. I just checked - he's still teaching at Marian High School, 25 years later. He was a bit of a nut - all of the English geeks had crushes on him of one sort or another. He would get so enthused about his lesson that he'd leap and pose, and back up against the blackboard sill so as to print a chalk line across the rump of his jacket - we'd watch for it and grin at each other when he earned his stripe for the day. His glasses would slide down his nose, and he'd wrap his arm over the top of his head and push them up from above. I met many loves in that classroom - a leer from Mr. Updike via the short story A&P began a lifelong affair that continues to this day. But Mr. Herlihy had one true passion - the bard. My buddy Jim and I, charged with writing a class prophesy for the yearbook, concocted a slanderous and innuendo-filled whodunit featuring Mr. Herlihy as the missing person, and the class of '79 the chief suspects. Wrapping up the case, we predicted that our teacher would end up having been transported (via time machine) to an acting gig at the Globe Theatre. And our collective and unacknowledged love of our teacher was such that the class chipped in to get him a Shakespeare print that an artist who sold prints in the mall created. You can still get the print to, 25 years later. Doesn't anything ever change?
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So I loved literature, and I loved writing. But I was undisciplined. I tapped out 20 page term papers, head to paper, on an old Underwood typewriter, using corrasable paper which permitted me to correct typos. I never learned how to properly research a paper - taking notes on index cards, developing a theme, collecting citations and footnotes. I got my topic, pulled the library books, read them voraciously, then let things simmer for a while. A day or two before the paper was due, I'd sit down to write. The source books piled around my on every flat surface, open to meaningful chapters and passages, I began to write. I'd pull out some footnotes and citations because I knew you'd need a certain number of each, but mostly I just wrote what came into my head. I'd get an A for content and a B+ for the inevitable misspellings and formatting problems that a head-to-paper approach generated.

As senior year wound down, Jim and I won the school essay contest, with a chance to submit an essay for national consideration, and a potential scholarship. He finished his on the way to the prom (we were told not to bother showing up unless our essays were done). I suspect I got mine in only a little bit earlier. Jim's still around too - living in NYC, married, two adorable kids. I just got a christmas card from him. Owe him a call or a note.

When it came time to pick a college and a career path, I faced a decision. Writing (my true love) or Engineering (my natural talent and proclivity towards math and science). I took the easy path, and headed off to Worcester Polytechnic Institute. But ever since, I've regretted that decision. It made sense at the time - with an ailing father who died the spring of my senior year, it was not a time for frivolity. Engineering promised a well paying and steady job. I could (and did) coast through much of my technical education. And I always figured - I could write on the side.

And I did, a bit. I took every Shakespeare course offered by my engineering school (despite minoring in music, not literature). I've taken creative writing classes at the community college level, where for the most part the instructor gushed over my first few submissions and then anointed me informal teaching assistant. I've messed around with poetry, and written some folk songs. I've journaled. I've edited monthly newsletters that involved essays, editorials, and filler each month. I've had a handful of book and movie reviews and news stories published in the local GLBT magazine. I've written long posts for message boards and blogs. Articles in technical magazines, conference papers, applications note, technical tidbits. For an engineer, one might say I write a lot.

But still, there is a voice inside me that remains unheard. There are words still churning, lines unwritten. One of these days, I might write something.