I’ve been a high school English teacher for 31 years. I’ve taught AP Lit, College Writing, Creative Writing, and ACT Prep. I enjoy writing poetry, memoirs, short fiction, and literary analysis. My beautiful wife of 26 years and I have 4 children ranging from 15-24.
I’ve been a high school English teacher for 31 years. I’ve also coached golf and basketball and taught Driver’s Ed. My beautiful wife of 26 years and I have 4 children, ages 24, 22, 19, and 15.
In the mid-1990’s, while I was still a college student, I had a brief burst of creative energy during which some of my work was published. My first success, publishing a short story, “Something to Show” (mentioned in my previous post), made me giddy to get my name in print again.
What to write about? Religion played such a central role in my life that I decided to give Mormon fiction another try. As a natural skeptic, I empathized with church members who broke the mold of traditional orthodoxy and found themselves on the outside looking in. I did once submit a short story to The New Era, the LDS Church’s official youth magazine, and was promptly rejected. As an official church publication, all stories had to be inspirational. I was not surprised by the rejection. While not opposed to inspirational writing, I’m more inclined to raise questions than provide answers, so Dialogue: A Journal of Mormon Thought was a more natural fit for me.
So I went to work on a new short story set in a Sunday School class, in which a class member challenges the instructor’s interpretation of scripture. That story got published as “A Sunday School Answer.” Then I ventured into uncharted territory with a poem about members of an LDS singles’ ward in which members in the foyer feel both literally and figuratively separated from the congregation in the chapel. I wrote the first draft of that poem during the meeting, in the foyer of a singles’ ward in Holliday, UT, while I was ward-hopping in search of love and friendship.
The last piece I am sharing here is a collection of 3 sonnets I wrote in Dr. Crowe’s creative writing class. I had also always been in awe of how much Shakespeare and others had been able to say, and to say so beautifully, in such a highly structured format. I normally prefer free verse poetry, but the effort taught me the importance of conciseness and that sometimes less is more. I found the sonnet form to be challenging but engaging. Once I got the iambic rhythm burned into my brain, it came pretty naturally. I like the “volta,” the turn in thought usually employed in sonnets. I also became especially conscious that each word choice matters. As Mark Twain said, “The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter– ’tis the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.”
You might notice a melancholy tone in the sonnets. They were written in the fall, just after a girl I cared for deeply ended the relationship. Luckily for me, a break-up proved a catalyst for the sonnets. I had a little more time on my hands for soul-searching. 🙂 The collection, “Utah Sings,” was published by the Utah State Poetry Society. I doubt that they turned away too many submissions, but I am still pleased with sonnets.
Every spring and summer, I help direct a creative writing workshop at BYU called Young Authors’ Academy. When I first heard the name of the workshop, I thought that BYU Conferences and Workshops were being a bit presumptuous in calling these 14-17-year-olds “authors.” I get a new t-shirt at every workshop, and one of them has the word AUTHOR boldly displayed in a large font right on the chest. Whenever I wear it, I consider myself a pretender of sorts. In my mind, authors are the people on the New York Times bestseller lists. They are an elite group whose books are on the shelves of my classroom, the school library, and in Barnes and Noble bookstore.
Of course, that is faulty thinking. There are all kinds of writers, and most of them make very little, if any, money from it. A 2022 survey of 5,699 published authors by The Author’s Guild found that the median gross pre-tax income from their book sales was $2,000. I believe being a writer is largely a state of mind. Anyone who consistently puts pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, is a writer. Of course, not all writers are equal. We are all in different stages of progression. However, most successful writers will admit to going through phases of very bad writing in creating something of value. Author Beth Revis sums up the process for many writers well: “I wrote a book. It sucked. I wrote nine more books. They sucked, too. Meanwhile, I read every single thing I could find on publishing and writing, went to conferences, joined professional organizations, hooked up with fellow writers in critique groups, and didn’t give up. Then I wrote one more book.” It’s the persistence that makes the writer.
For decades, I have been a writer in hibernation. The first line of the Writer’s Manifesto, pictured above, says, “Writing is a calling, a beckon of the voice within to be written.” Even during dry spells, I have always had that voice. I have always believed that I had something inside me worth writing, but I have just lacked the confidence and discipline to write consistently. The only consistent writing I have been doing over the past decade has been on social media. Yes, I am one of those annoying people on social media who feels compelled to write about the injustices in the world and makes the occasional post celebrating the joy brought to me by the meaningful people in my life on birthdays, performances, and anniversaries. Social media writing is not satisfying. That is why this blog brings me so much joy. It allows me the opportunity to take a deep dive into topics that really matter to me. I’m hoping this will lead me to, once again, start submitting work for publication.
The first glimpse I had of my potential as a writer came in high school. Kay Woodward, my 10th-grade English teacher, was single, in her 30’s, and the cheer advisor. She was short, sturdy, with a head full of curly red hair. She had a boisterous personality and a contagious enthusiasm. Nothing was half-hearted with her. She taught sentence diagramming, literature, and Latin and Greek roots with passion, and she used that same passion responding to student writing with her red pencil. Every assignment I turned in was so full of red marks that I could hardly decipher the original text. I clearly didn’t have a mastery of the English language at the time, but I took no offense at her over-editing my work. She couldn’t help herself. However, those red marks were a sign to me that I was no writer.
My one glimpse of potential in that class came with an assignment to write a poem. It was my first attempt at writing poetry, and after multiple revisions, I ended up writing something playful to get the attention of the girls in the class. I remember saying something about any guy who found the right girl was someone who found a four-leaf clover and was as lucky as can be. The poem delighted Miss Woodward, and she read it aloud to the whole class. This was the first time in my life that someone recognized my writing. I really liked hearing my words out loud. And if the truth be told, I liked the attention. I was an introvert, and while a good student, I never felt that I was anything special in any academic sense. Yet, even the introverts like the spotlight on occasion.
The next year, my new teacher, Phyllis Bestor (the same Phyllis Bestor who inspired me to become a teacher and whose story I shared in an earlier post), called on us to write a memoir piece, a narrative about a significant life event. Because I could choose my own topic, my mind went to my recent experience at the state golf tournament. Golf was my passion as a teenager. I had vivid memories of being a freshman on the high school team and in competition with much older players. I remembered the butterflies of that day, the anticipation, the atmosphere, the accomplishments, and the disappointments. That morning, I walked up to the clubhouse at Bonneville Golf Course in Salt Lake and saw all of my competitors from high school teams throughout the state with their brightly colored bags and golf shirts. Boys were sinking putts on the practice green, and others were launching golf balls at the practice range. I felt so out of my league, but I also so badly wanted to make my high school and my family proud of me.
As I began drafting the text, I had a keen sense of my audience, and I wanted them to experience what I had experienced vicariously through my writing. For the first time in my life, I wrote multiple drafts of the same paper. I became familiar with the use of a thesaurus and discovered just how many synonyms were available to express myself. When I finished my final draft, I knew I had done my best work. It was a piece of writing a 16-year-old could be proud of. When Mrs. Bestor finished grading the papers, she passed them back to the class, but I did not get mine. The thought crossed my mind, with some dismay, that maybe she had lost it. Then, she said, “Class, I have a paper I want to share with you,” and she began reading my paper, my words, and I once again felt the thrill of hearing my words out loud and observing those words creating a connection with other people. I started to recognize that I had a gift, a way with words that others in my class did not. I wouldn’t have called myself a writer at that time, but I felt a new identity beginning to materialize.
Most of the writing that I did throughout the rest of my high school years was academic, and while I was good at it, it provided me little pleasure. After high school, I spent a year at BYU and found little opportunity to do the type of writing I wanted while I suffered through American Heritage, Biology, Physical Science, and the like. The summer after my freshman year, I left school to serve an LDS mission in Pennsylvania, and there I perfected my journal writing and letter writing skills. I thoroughly enjoyed my mission, particularly the opportunity to interact with so many people from different walks of life. When I returned from my mission and decided to be an English major, my writing focused on research and literary analysis, which I enjoyed to a certain degree.
However, what I really longed for was creative writing. In my junior year, I signed up for my first creative writing class. It was taught by a young professor named Chris Crowe. Dr. Crowe was charismatic, funny, and had the mischievous grin of an overgrown teenager. He also had a bizarre obsession with haiku, the Japanese poetic form. He later turned this obsession, I kid you not, into a novel about the Vietnam War written entirely in Haiku. It is a wonderful book titled Death Coming up the Hill, but that is another story. He first came to BYU on a football scholarship in the early days of the Lavell Edwards era, joined the church, did his graduate work at ASU, and had some short teaching stints in Japan and at BYU-Hawaii. His specialty was young adult literature.
Dr. Chris Crowe, my creative writing teacher and mentor.
Choosing Dr. Crowe as my creative writing instructor proved to be a fateful decision for me. One of the things I most appreciated about Dr. Crowe was his honest feedback. On Fridays, everyone in class would share something they were working on out loud, and he didn’t pull any punches with his feedback. I still remember him telling me that a poem I had written “needs to sound more like a poem” and a comedic scene I had written “simply wasn’t funny.” Yet he always balanced his criticism with encouragement. I learned that if I was going to be a writer, I needed to have thick skin. Constructive feedback wasn’t personal. It was the way to improve my craft. I would turn to Dr. Crowe often in future years for mentoring in both writing and teaching.
It was also cool being taught by a bona fide writer. Just before the beginning of our class, Dr. Crowe had written a young adult historical novel about a young African-American boy named Emmett Till, who was murdered and proved a major catalyst in the civil rights movement. It had been accepted by a major publisher. He even asked the class for title suggestions. The publisher decided on the title Mississippi Trial, 1955, and the book later received many awards.
The class syllabus required all of us to write something in each of the creative writing genres: fiction, drama, and poetry. I decided to start by writing a short story, but I was clueless about where to begin. My mind started playing inferiority tricks on me again, and I became discouraged as I compared myself to Joyce, Hemingway, Bradbury, O’Connor, and the like. It was the night before the deadline, and in an act of either inspiration or desperation, I decided to write about a young LDS missionary. I decided to take the advice of Ernest Hemingway and to “write what you know.” Having just served a mission in Pennsylvania, I knew all of the ins and outs of missionary work. I knew the joys, the sorrows, and the intense desire to be successful and bring converts into the church. I started by asking a “what if” question. This was the question: What if a missionary felt so much pressure to be successful that he started to tell lies to the people back home about his great “successes”? I set the story at the young Elder’s homecoming sacrament meeting. The dramatic question of the story was “would the young man face his demons, or let the charade continue?” Once I got started, the story really wrote itself.
My first draft with Dr. Crowe’s comments
Dr. Crowe liked the story but called me out on the ending: “Oh no, too easy. You’ve dug a very interesting pit for this guy, but you just launched him out too easily. If this epiphany could smack him now, why didn’t it earlier? What might really be more likely would be the loss of last chance to change. He could have the same mental debate, decide he needed to tell the truth, but when he faced the expectant audience, buckle again. I like the characters you’ve created. The language reads well and is creatively done. This story is worth keeping . Finish it up and send it off to Dialogue or to Wasatch Review.“
I knew he was right about the ending, but I was excited that he thought I had something publishable. I rewrote the ending and sent my story off, crossing my fingers that I could become a published writer for the first time. A few weeks later, I received a letter from the editor of Dialogue, saying he would like to publish my story. I felt like I was walking on air all day. I kept running the words through my mind, “Brad Fillmore, published writer.” Ideas for more stories started rolling through my brain. After a few months, the editor of Dialogue sent me several copies of the journal with MY STORY IN IT. I looked through the table of contents and found my story, “Something to Show,” by Bradford Fillmore. I decided to go with the longer version of my name. It sounded more authorial to me.
Though I was no James Joyce, I stood just a bit taller, raised my chin just a bit higher, and thrust my chest out just a bit further. I had proved to myself that, despite all of my doubts, I was indeed a writer.
P.S Dr. Crowe later told me that I had given him something in return. My getting published became one feather in his cap in his tenure application at BYU. After all he had done for me, I was very happy to hear that I could return the favor.
“The universe is made of stories, not atoms.” –Muriel Ruckeyser
“Words are our most inexhaustable source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury and remedying it.” –Albus Dumbledore
Words make my world go round. I interpret the universe through words and stories. As a kid, whenever I would listen to a song, it was the words that mattered most to me, not the music. I loved it when the vinyl albums my sisters brought home had the lyrics provided. I spent many a summer afternoon learning the lyrics to my favorite songs. And when lyrics were not provided, I would take to pencil and paper to painstakingly write down each lyric, going back to listen and relisten until I had the words right. In high school, trying to find meaning in alegebra or the periodic table seemed like a pointless exercise. To me, the only academic discipline worth studying was literature.
Ironically, neither of my parents were big readers, but I will forever be grateful that they made books available to us. We had many children’s books in my home, and I remember many trips to the Orem City Public Library. I can still remember how I looked forward to those trips and made a dash for the tall grey metallic bookshelves in the south wing of the library when we arrived. On the bottom right shelf, there was a thick volume of illustrated fairy tales that I would beg to check out every trip. My favorite story in the collection was “Jack and the Beanstalk.” I loved imagining climbing up into the clouds into a world with giants and golden harps and geese that laid golden eggs.
Bookstores and libraries have always been sacred spaces to me and were mental refuges throughout my childhood. I have a vivid memory of sitting in the library at Cascade Elementary on a cold winter day and watching the snow swirling softly in the triangular atrium adjacent to the library. It was a zenlike moment of complete contentment for me, not wanting to be anywhere else in the world. In my early teens, it was the fantasy worlds and characters from The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and The Chronicles of Narnia that helped me survive junior high, the betrayal of my best friend, and my parents’ divorce. As Paul Simon sings in his classic song, “I am a rock, I am an island / I have my books / And my poetry to protect me.” Through the turmoil of puberty and a dysfunctional family, fantasy was just the recipe needed to escape the harsh realities of my current situation. As I grew a bit older, my high school teachers introduced me to realistic fiction, and there I found characters who faced many of the same anxieties that I faced, and I also met other characters with an entirely different worldview. Walking in the shoes of others taught me to be more empathic to my fellow travelers on this earthly journey.
The theater also played a unique role in nurturing my imagination and my love for words. My oldest sister, Cathy, 14 years my senior, was a theater major at BYU. At 5 years old, I was cast (with a little help from my assistant director sister) as the unnamed Indian prince fought over by the king and queen of the fairies, Titania and Oberon, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Though I didn’t have any lines, I was repeatedly exposed to the soaring language of Shakespeare. In fact, my sister took it upon herself to make me memorize one of Puck’s speeches and to regularly perform it before my family. I still remember the lines.
And we fairies, that do run By the triple Hecate’s team, From the presence of the sun, Following darkness like a dream, Now are frolic: not a mouse Shall disturb this hallow’d house: I am sent with broom before, To sweep the dust behind the door. (V. i.)
I still have the book I memorized in 1975. You can see the lines above lightly highlighted in red by my sister. Cathy involved me in some additional productions as I grew older, including the musical Oliver and a short BYU film called “Where a Man Dwells” and a play adaptation of James Agee’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel A Death in the Family. Our family also attended numerous plays performed by Cathy’s acting troupe, The Lighthouse Repertory Theater. They brought to life dramatic works such as Agatha Christie’s Mousetrap, The Miracle Worker, The Glass Menagerie, Blithe Spirit, and The Imaginary Invalid. These plays widened my vocabulary and showed me the power literature has to connect with human experiences.
Books always made great companions for me during lonely days as well. In my dating years, you could often find me walking the Provo River Trail on sunny afternoons, reading aloud to the trees and the river. With my nose in a book, I had a few near misses with bikers, skateboarders, and joggers sharing the path with me. My penchant for reading aloud (hailing back to my theater days) drew some strange looks but would serve me well as an English teacher and also in church settings. Because of my fondness for words and language, speaking in church seemed to come naturally to me. Once I was called upon in an impromptu whim from a Sunday school teacher to recite Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken,” which fortunately I had memorized. Surprisingly, I wasn’t the least bit trepidatious, being right in my wheelhouse. Similarly, I have been called on to read a love poem at my sister’s wedding and shared a tribute to my father at his funeral (calling on the words of John Donne’s “Death Be Not Proud”). At both the funeral of my grandfather and my grandmother, I was asked to read a personal essay I penned on their behalf.
Literature also had a big impact on my dating experiences. Every girl that I ever got serious with was a book lover, and as soon as I learned a girl wasn’t a reader, any hope of a relationship was forfeited. My idea of a perfect date always seemed to end up at a bookstore or in a discussion about books. My very first girlfriend was an avid reader. We could have talked about books endlessly. I remember her writing me letters when I served as an LDS missionary in Pennsylvania, and her sharing experience from her AP Lit class back home, or sharing famous literary quotes with me, that is, until she informed me that she was engaged to another man. My first girlfriend in college was a Biology major who also loved literature. We attended the Cedar City Shakespeare festival together, and how could I forget our last date at Nunn’s Park in Provo Canyon? We sat under the shade of a tree on a blanket. I read a short story to her from one of my anthologies (we enjoyed reading together), then she tearfully told me that things weren’t going to work out with us. She cried all the way home, naturally, knowing that I would no longer be reading her stories :). My next girlfriend was a fellow English major and a magazine editor for the LDS church’s teen magazine, The New Era. I once even asked out a librarian from the Orem City Public Library, the same library where my mother took me as a child. I guess I was always attracted to the bookish types. However, all of these previous experiences pale in comparison with my first date with my wife Melanie, 27 years ago. On that night, we discovered we had a common passion for Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine, and I think we both took that as a sign. The rest is history.
It seems that literature has nearly always been at the center of many of the seminal experiences of my life. As I mentioned in my previous post, I became an English teacher because of an inspiring English teacher at Orem High School who brought literature to life for me. Now, as an English teacher myself, I try to pass on that same legacy to my students. My everyday revolves around trying to help teenagers make sense of literature and to create literature of their own. There is rarely a day when I am not reading a poem, short story, play, or reading student writing. Then I go home, and books extend into every other aspect of my life.
My wife and I have passed on our love of reading to our children. Books on tape have helped many a road trip pass merrily along. Family dinners often turn to discussions of films and books. We talk about Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Katniss Everdeen as if they were members of the family. In today’s political climate, I couldn’t be more proud of my well-read children who have learned to think for themselves and regularly make stands for their convictions. And when the family discusses films, we quickly jump to a discussion of “the writing” (especially my daughter, an aspiring screenwriter). I have always believed in the philosophy of President LBJ that “a book is the most effective weapon against intolerance and ignorance.” My experience has been that people who read are simply more open-minded and much better conversationalists. I’m proud that my kids are such people.
As I grow older, my literary tastes have changed, but books are still at the heart of my existence. I read more nonfiction now. I am fascinated with history and theology. When I turn to fiction, it is realistic fiction or historical fiction. Fantasy doesn’t float my boat anymore. I want books that focus on and help me better understand the world in which we live. I’m very fond of poetry–such a small package with such a big impact. When I listen to music, I am drawn to the storytellers: James Taylor, Billy Joel, Paul Simon, Joni Mitchell, Emmylou Harris, Lyle Lovett, and the like. When I work out at the gym, I often listen to books on tape. At church, I read scriptures or sermons. Next to my bed, you will regularly find two or three books. And of course, my favorite place in the house is the living room with the built-in bookcase.
Phyllis Bestor at Orem High School. My teaching inspiration.
40 years ago, I was in an 11th-grade English class at Orem High. My teacher, Phyllis Bestor, was on her stool reading aloud the climactic scene from Chaim Potok’s The Chosen. (The following contains spoilers) The story follows the coming of age of Danny Saunders, a Hasidic Jew, who is in line to take the place of his father, Reb Isaac Saunders, as the tzadik, a prophet-like position for his congregation in Brooklyn. His father, concerned that his son’s brilliant mind lacked the necessary compassion to minister to his people, made the drastic decision, when Danny was 10 years old, to raise his son in silence in order for him to learn about suffering and compassion. Mrs. Bestor reached the scene where Danny’s father finally explained why he raised him in silence, and her voice faltered. She couldn’t continue reading. Soon she began silently sobbing. For what felt like an eternity, my concerned but confused 17-year-old classmates sat with our heads bowed until she regained her composure and continued with the book.
Literature was never the same for me after that experience. Up until that moment, it never completely dawned on me that fiction, although made up, was real. It explored the truths of the human condition, sometimes more deeply than nonfiction. Never had fiction felt more authentic. What does this moment have to do with a conversation about me becoming a teacher? Mrs. Bestor didn’t know it, but she had become a catalyst that led me to an entirely different future.
Like many children, my career dreams hinged on the latest book of interest in the library, the latest dynamic speaker at school assemblies, or the latest sports success on the playground. At various times, I wanted to be a geologist, paleontologist, fireman, police detective, forest ranger, trapeze artist, actor, professional singer, and professional athlete.
As the son of a collegiate golfer, I was pushed to be the next sensation on the PGA golf tour. My father was certain I had what it took to make a successful living on the golf links. I enjoyed playing junior golf, and I garnered a few trophies at local tournaments, which showed I had some talent. To further support my dad’s argument, my high school team won the state golf tournament my sophomore year. When school counselors would speak with me about a future career, they scoffed at the idea of me becoming a professional athlete. Deep inside, I knew this wasn’t a reality for me, but their quick dismissal of my dream (or my dad’s dream) felt inconsiderate. Because so much of my life until that point had revolved around golf, I couldn’t see myself as anything else but a golf professional.
However, by the time I was a junior, the golf competition became stiffer and stiffer, and I had become less and less enamored of the golf scene. Many of the kids I interacted with belonged to country clubs, had private golf instructors, and behaved like spoiled brats. Competing and practicing started to lose some of their fun and felt like more of a chore. I was just going through the motions. Enter Mrs. Bestor. Little did I know that when I signed up for English in my junior year with Phyllis Bestor, my career dreams would change forever.
I had always liked my English classes, mainly because I was a reader and enjoyed discussing books. I was a good English student, but nowhere near the top of the class. However, of all my high school classes, I felt most at home in Mrs. Bestor’s classroom. She treated every kid with dignity and respect, and we had marvelous conversations in her room and were introduced to the best books. I had never had a teacher treat me like I was an adult or a near-adult. She was very well-spoken, good-humored, and seemed to love her job. It was no surprise that she was a beloved teacher at the high school.
Then everything changed. It was at that moment, while listening to The Chosen, when fiction became oh so real to me, that I started to dream of being an English teacher. I thought, “Books can really change people’s lives. Mrs. Bestor changed mine. I love books. Why couldn’t I do the same thing?” I remember sitting in the back of her classroom at that moment, gazing out the window at the courtyard adjacent to the room, and daydreaming about being Mr. Fillmore, English teacher. 31 years later, here I am reading books aloud to my students, trying to teach my kids about the human condition. And I wouldn’t change a thing.
Thank you, Mrs. Bestor.
P.S. In that class, I was introduced to what would later become one of my all-time favorite novels, Dandelion Wine by Ray Bradbury. On the first date with my future wife, Melanie, we talked about books and discovered that we had the same favorite book, Dandelion Wine. I think we both took it as a sign, and six months later, we were married.
P.P.S Phyllis Bestor’s response (with her permission): “It is wonderful to make this connection. As a former teacher, one never forgets those moments; I remember that moment precisely. Not only were you a wonderful student, but now you have chosen the most important career, in my opinion, that will leave a mark forever in the minds of those who come to know and share ideas with you. I do remember that I always respected the minds of my high school students and felt a strong connection regardless of our age difference. By the way, I am now 94 years old, in amazing mental and physical condition. I still read voraciously and am doing a lot of writing. I particularly love to write essays. By the way, I have always loved this quote: ‘Through the lives of fictional characters, I have come to see the world more clearly!’ ‘Phyllisophical Notions about Life’ Hey, my name works perfectly. Thanks, Brad. You made my day! Let’s stay in touch. Love you, Phyllis.”
like a clump of irises, which will cease to flower
unless you distribute
the clustered roots, unlikely source—
clumsy and earth-covered—
of grace.
–DENISE LEVERTOV
Every year, I revisit this lovely poem by Denise Levertov and discuss it with my students. The poem, written in 1981, seems particularly needed in 2026. Not that we humans couldn’t always benefit from a little hope, but the world, politics, and the economy over this last year have brought me to disbelief and discouragement on many occasions. As I doomscroll my social media, I have often felt like either lashing out in anger or throwing up my arms in despair.
I was also reminded of the fragility of life 2 days ago when, on a trip to the gym, the sight of an ambulance heading in the opposite direction caused me to pull off to the side of the road. I soon learned where that ambulance was going. After arriving at the gym, my wife called in tears to inform me that she was at the home of one of our neighbors, trying to provide comfort to the wife as EMT technicians tried to resuscitate her husband. My wife said it didn’t look like he was going to make it–tragically, he didn’t.
Like the speaker in Levertov’s poem, I have “a small grain of hope” or the even smaller “grain of a grain” for 2026. On a personal level, I am richly blessed with family, friends, and work that I love. Sure, our family has its struggles, but I have many reasons for hope. It is the hope for peace in our nation and in our world that gets me down.
Levertov’s poem is a reminder that there is strength in collective hope, collective goodness. I will try to do my part. I plan to share my fragment of hope with all those within my circle of influence. At times, I feel the need to decry the injustices in the world, and there is a time and place for that. However, the world doesn’t need any more doomsayers. I hope to spend a bit more time looking for beauty and goodness in the world. “Only so, by division, / will hope increase…”
What a lovely metaphor at the end of her poem. Irises do not survive unless their roots are broken up and distributed. Those “clumsy, and earth-covered” roots prove, in the end, to be the source of “grace,” the beauty of a flowering iris. The people around us need our hope, our faith, and our encouragement this upcoming year. Together, let’s make it a great one.
A few weeks ago, I introduced my 11th-grade English students to Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself,” one of my favorite poems. In the first line of his poem, Whitman declares, “I celebrate myself, and sing myself…” When I first read that, it sounded a bit self-centered, a bit arrogant. Once I read further, I realized that Whitman was an individualist, but he was not a narcissist. In the poem, he invites all of his readers to celebrate their identities. Later in that same section, he adds, “I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,/ Hoping to cease not till death.”
Because this is a new beginning for me, these lines especially resonate with me. I, too, am beginning a quest, and I, too, want this to be a lifelong mission. This is a reason for me to celebrate. My writer’s voice has been silent for too long: “I, now at fifty-six years old in relatively good health, begin, / Hoping to cease not till death.”
Towards the end of the poem, Whitman proclaims, “I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.” This blog is “my barbaric yawp.” I admit my original purpose in creating a blog was purely selfish–I wanted motivation to write. However, if any of you readers out there come across my words, I invite you to join my quest for meaning and happiness in this crazy world. To quote Whitman, “There is that in me—I do not know what it is—but I know it is in me…/Do you see O my brothers and sisters? / It is not chaos or death—it is form, union, plan—it is eternal life—it is Happiness.”
I’m long overdue to start writing again. As a 31 year veteran high school English teacher I’m surrounded by great writing everyday. My classroom shelves are filled with powerful and gorgeous writers. I love books. That’s why I became an English teacher. I also love to read and interact with developing writers. Yes, I do read a lot of terrible writing, but when the light bulb turns on for those few writers who start to get it, it makes all the rubbish I read worthwhile.
When I teach my creative writing classes or run my summer creative writing workshops, I always get the itch to write more. I sometimes share my work with students, but much of what I share is decades old. Now that most of my kids are raised and retirement is visible on the horizon, I am left without excuse.
30 years ago, my college creative writing teacher invited me to submit a short story to a publication and I got my first story published. It was a joyful revelation that there was a writer buried inside of me. This blog is an attempt to come out of my cave into the light again. Like Whitman, “I celebrate myself and sing myself.”
My Song of Myself 