By Rick Fowler
As young man, I never considered myself a writer, a wordsmith, or a word worker. In fact, I felt more comfortable in the woods or on the water, in a gym or on a football field then I did putting a pen to paper. Indeed, allow me to chase partridge in the morning, take some notes and answer a few questions in the afternoon, and that same night score 14 points and grab 7 rebounds seemed to be a recipe for a perfect high school day in 1970.
Nevertheless, the seeds were cast to my entrance into authorship (or is it simply story telling) that year when Sister Joan assigned an outdoor article to me one day in Journalism Class. The assignment was to investigate why kids went deer hunting, which had been successful, and then paraphrase their stories of hunting into an interesting article.
It really wasn’t much of an article, maybe 550 words in length, with a couple of B&W photos of students sans deer. Sister Joan, who was also my English teacher, wrote on my finished piece, “This was one of the best pieces you have submitted thus far. You must enjoy the outdoors!” Now, getting a positive comment from Sister J was tantamount to having an audience with the Pope-NOT TOO DARN LIKELY! So, with this compliment etched like Hester Pyrnnes scarlet “A” to my ego, I ventured forth into my life cycle as a purveyor of words.
As I entered college I knew my major could not be declared as an Outdoor Writer. I also knew I could not major in coaching and minor in hunting, at least from the college I attended. Thus began the second cycle: a degree in secondary education with an English major and a Physical Education minor. Though it wasn’t my idea of a perfectly meshed system, for now it gave me a job.
This teaching realm soon overtook many of my passions for the outdoors. In fact, I was extremely happy in what I had called, “just a job for a while.” Yet coaching and endless papers would leave me exhausted by the weekend and my source of outdoor-recreation was watching the “Jerry Chippeta Fishing” show on TV. As the years drew into decades so did my responsibilities. By now I had a beautiful bride and thereafter two children. BUT, we also invested in a log cabin that nestled on 100’ of lakefront in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. With the solitude that this setting gave me, especially in the summer, and with my wife’s encouragement, article ideas began to take root and I found myself relaxed and ready to spew forth a mountain of tales about How, Why, and Where in my rusty journalistic flair.
Luckily, the first article I wrote about the wonders of fishing for bass from a dock, sold. I was ecstatic, proud, and set my sights on vanquishing the spirit that often affects dormant writers. I was now a published author and felt unstoppable as I ventured more and more into the outdoor world that had so influenced me. However, while I continued to send in articles and essays to a variety of publications the first rejection note arrived by post. This was followed by six more “no thank you’ messages. I was devastated. How could anyone not enjoy my article on landing a Master Angler bluegill and then returning it to the water? Why would any editor reject an essay on hiking with your dog to stay in shape? From this experience came the realization that maybe I wasn’t as good as I thought. Maybe this is why so many famed author’s go, “off the deep end” if you will. They probably received rejection notices too and were so put off by the negativity; they ended their careers by ending their lives. Too drastic for me!
Then a new thought took wing. After many, many years of teaching sophomores how to get their thoughts and reasoning displayed on paper, I was becoming more and more aware of their writing prowess and weaknesses. Some, through no fault of their own might only be able to write for survival. This realization brought forth new emotions: Why was I whining? Is the name in print so important that without it one can’t be important? Robert Browning once wrote, “A moment’s success pays for the failure of the years.” Maybe Sister Joan had this adage in mind when she wrote kindly of the work I authored in her class that day over thirty-five years ago. Perhaps that is why in my teaching tenure I have made it a point to offer positive comments in addition to the errors I find on my student’s papers.
There are many ways to approach prose and authorship. Though I had looked forward to expressing my feelings of the outdoors and all it entails, though I held dear the articles I had written explaining to others how they too might enjoy this recreation-I realized that the quips to the charges in my classroom were a brand of story that might have an effect for a lifetime not just a monthly issue.
I still write a multitude of articles for various magazines, which are themed to the outdoors. I still am proud of those that do make it to print. However, I do not wait anxiously for the postman to arrive or an email from the editor. Sometimes priorities need to have a swift kick in their pants to become obvious. As Toni Morrison once said, “There’s a difference between writing for a living and writing for life. If you write for a living, you make enormous compromises, and you might not even be able to uncompromise yourself. If you write for life, you’ll work hard; you’ll do what’s honest, not what pays.” My life as a teacher has been fulfilling, my life as a husband and a father has been an abundance of joy, pride, love, and satisfaction. My life as an author has been rewarded by my experiences in the woods, on the water and in my classroom, thus payment for being a storyteller (or is it author?) have been paid bountifully.
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