Dick Dunlap

I've never considered myself a writer. A writer is a “word smith” who takes an idea and crafts words around it, paying attention to syntax and word usage to create a piece that when read a century later will be recognized as a work of art. I consider myself more of a scribbler who just wants to see in print the pictures in my mind. Preparation for my writing goes back to my school years. I was a shoe-in for a D in English. I escaped with E's because my penmanship and spelling were so illegible that I got the benefit of the doubt. Something might just be in there.

In my sophomore year I attained my first success. My English teacher suggested that I correct all her red marks on my theme, copy it over legibly, and she would enter it into a Women's Club writing contest. I corrected and my Mother did the copying, and 2nd place, if you please. I got to read the piece at a luncheon. All I can remember is, that was my first potatoes au gratin. Ugggg.

I then did the mundane things in life. Graduated. College. Military Service. Marriage. Children. But wait. When those two boys were tiny, I used to make up stories. Wild stuff like flying out to a field of bunnies to play with them, or picking out our ponies from a herd and riding together through the prairie with hair flying and maybe falling off into the soft grass. Today those same boys bring me great ideas. Like “write about a muskie fisherman getting his finger bitten off.” My big break came with the invention of the word processor and the spell checker. Finally my writing could be read. I connected up with a writers critiquing group who tolerated and guided me, and I started to turn it out.

I had a few stories published in a local writers guild publication. I entered an international short story contest. (Well, it was international. One entry came from Egypt.) That's where RESURRECTION won 2nd place and $50 prize money. Now I was a professional, paid for my work, but thank goodness I didn't quit my day job. A few years back while driving in northern Wisconsin with the wife, we were looking for the road turn off to our condo. Reading the passing road signs, I read, “Nevers Road.” Commenting on how a road could get that name, it hit me. The Nevers had a farm down there. About that time we whisked by an old, bewhiskered, shabbily dressed man trudging down the highway. “That's Amos Nevers” I exclaimed, and for the rest of our vacation we made up stories about Amos and his kin. Now, when I write a story about a really bazaar person, I usually assign a Nevers name to him.

Sometimes tears will come to my eyes while writing about those pitiful Nevers people trying unsuccessfully to cope with life. How fortunate we are and yet how understanding we must be. And so, now retired and with the ghosts of Nevers surrounding me, I spend my final days (weeks, months, years) writing in my small garret in rural Roscoe, Illinois. (Where the hell is that?)

Story ID:	546
Written by:	OurEcho Admin (bio, link, contact, other stories)
Story type:	In The Spotlight
Location:	Roscoe IL USA
Year:	2006
Person:	Dick Dunlap