Terry Marotta: Stories We Remember When All Else Is Forgotten

Terry Marotta: Stories We Remember When All Else Is Forgotten

A friend approached me in a social setting once, back when I'd just published "I Thought He Was a Speed Bump and Other Excuses from the Fast Lane."

She had evidently run into one of her neighbors in a book store, and suggested the woman pick up a copy, on account of how funny it was and all.

"But my neighbor had this strange reaction," she went on. "'Terry Marotta!' she yelled. 'I can't stand her writing! I feel like I'm her shrink or something, forced to sit and listen to her problems every time I pick up the paper. I'm not on earth to provide Terry Marotta with psychotherapy!'"

My friend trailed off about there, realizing a tad late how crushed I might feel, hearing this.

I didn't think I talk about my "problems" in my writing. So though I was taken aback by the lady's remark, and surprised by my friend's decision to pass it on, I mostly took it for a lesson.

As far as lessons go though, it was nowhere near as good as the one I got at the dawn of my career when I went into a sixth grade classroom to talk about writing.

When I got done speaking, the teacher called for questions, and one boy shot up his hand.

"What makes you think anyone would be interested in what you have to say?" he asked matter of factly.

"Andrew!" his teacher all but exploded. "What kind of a question is that?!"

In fact, it was a very good question. Because what's interesting to you as a writer may not be at all interesting to anyone else. And now I ask myself Andrew's question every time I pick up my pen.

It reminds me of a spoofy book I read once, whose first chapter was titled "I Attract an Autobiographer." It's hard to be so fascinating that you attract a biographer, of course, but we're all pretty attractive to autobiographers—meaning ourselves. And talking about ourselves is very seductive. Given the chance, most of us could probably talk about ourselves 'til everyone else in the room fell down dead.

Which is why restraint is called for—and by no one so much as writers, who command a more or less captive audience.

I like to think my book is about experiences common to us all. Some parts of it squeeze your heart—like the piece about the boy 17 who suffered cardiac arrest while boarding a bus to come home from church camp, and the words his friend said to him as he held him dying in his arms.

But most of its chapters are funny. Like the one giving the book its title, "I thought he was a speed bump!" being what the little boy next door said when he got caught twice running over a tiny pal with his trike. Or the one about kids' bloopers and what my then pre-schooler came up with when she tried reciting the Lord's Prayer. ("Our Father, a rotten Heaven, how will by my name?" she reverently began. "Thy Kingdom Come, I will be dumb…")

They're just stories that anyone could write. But aren't stories—our own and each other's—what we remember when so much else is forgotten?

Anyhow, if you'd like a copy of "Speed-Bump" for holiday gift-giving, say, you can get one for just $13, by sending a check made out to Ravenscroft Press (PO Box 270, Winchester, Mass. 01890). You'll have it in three or four days.

As I say, I sure hope what I write is about us all.

But just in case I'm wrong and that mean lady was right, well thanks, you guys, for all the psychotherapy!

Contact Terry any time at tmarotta@ mediaone.net