2nd PLACE - 10th ANNUAL FUNDSFORWRITERS ESSAY CONTEST - ENTRY FEE CATEGORY

Writing Beyond Reason

by Vanessa Herron

As a child discovering her love of the written word, I learned to write whenever creativity struck me, but it would be decades before I learned to write even when it didn’t.  I would go months without so much as a poem or a riddle, then binge on short stories and prose for days on end.  When the ink in my pen was fully spent or yet another notebook was bursting at the seams, I would take a break that lasted anywhere from a few weeks to several months.  When I did write, most of my story plots revolved around a mean older sister who would suddenly have a change of heart and become my best friend, or an introverted, buck-toothed girl who would morph into a popular cool girl.  The plot I favored most was the one where my severely autistic brother would miraculously be able to speak to me.   I dreamed of the funny anecdotes he’d tell, the secrets we’d share, even the songs we’d sing together.  (My sister refused to sing with me, and I was a duet kind of girl.)  As a young woman, I was blessed to see most of my “stories” end happily.  My evil big sister morphed into my close friend, my oversized teeth finally caught up with my head, and I learned that loving who I was made me just as cool as anyone else.  Still… my brother never talked. 

In an era where the “Fresh Prince of Bel Air” went from being a rapper to a movie star and the Dallas Cowboys sent 11 players to the Pro Bowl, anything seemed possible.   I wrote a treatment for a screenplay based on the true story of my brother breaking his autistic silence over breakfast.  In the movie, my character would be played by Halle Berry and I’d talk to my brother about his hopes and dreams, and yes, we’d sing duets during karaoke nights at the local BBQ joint. I simply had to wait for a miracle to guarantee his happy ending.  Years came and left, each one full of disappointing diagnoses and ever-fluctuating doses of medication.  As the time passed, I went from being hopeful of his recovery to feeling defeated by his continued silence.   Suddenly drowning in depression-fueled complacency, my writing schedule fell from sporadic spurts to dry, crusted memories on faded notebook pages.

One day I was feeling especially sorry for myself and decided to visit my parents and invite them to my pity party.  My mom listened quietly as I complained about how unfair my life seemed.  As I was getting to the part where God should have made me three inches taller, my brother burst into the room and started to pace the floor.  My mother immediately turned to him with a barrage of questions. “What is it? Are you hungry? Sleepy?  Is your bladder full?”  As she asked him one question after another, he paused and stared at her with his big, beautiful brown eyes.  

I suddenly recalled that she and my father had always asked him questions like these, all of my brother’s life.  “How was your day?” “Did you make friends at school?” “Which shirt do you like?” Thousands of questions that he never answered-not once in twenty years.  “Why?” I asked her. “Why, what?” my mom asked. “Why do you try to teach him the same sign language that he never remembers?  Why do you talk about possible jobs he might hold one day?  And why do you always ask him questions?  He never answers you!” They were words that I wished I could take back the moment I said them.  A flash of hurt crossed her face, but instead of an angry rebuttal or a trickle of tears, she simply smiled and replied, “Because one day, he might, and even if he doesn’t…he’s still my son.” 

In that moment, I understood her tireless devotion to his needs as well as the value of my long and winding journey as a writer.  I felt foolish for my self-centered behavior, ashamed of my lack of discipline, and humbled by her lesson of faith and diligence.  That very day, I began to write again, and I’ve written every day since.  Not because the world acknowledges me as a gifted scribe and my mantle creaks under the burden of all of my accolades.   I write because one day, it might, and because I’m still a writer if it doesn’t.

BIO: Vanessa Herron is an optioned/ produced screenwriter and journalist with over a decade of experience.  She also works as a radio and film producer, a copywriter, and a lyricist.   She currently resides in Southern California with her husband, four kids, and a puppy named Penny.  Email:  vanessaherron@gmail.com - Website: www.herroncreativeservices.com