Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Writers

By Michael M. Alvarez

MAMAS, DON'T LET YOUR BABIES GROW UP TO BE WRITERS is a book by a published writer who shares experiences and events that have shaped him into a writer. By reflecting back to childhood, where the creative writer in all of us lives, and interweaving events from adulthood, the reader can clearly see how nothing is wasted on a writer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Alvarez
• Release date: Feb 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386458579

Michael M. Alvarez

Michael M. Alvarez wrote and published several fiction books for the Tucson Adult Literacy Volunteers, an organization created for the education of illiterate adults. The books are still in use by TALV students across the United States and Canada. He is also the author of SCENE OF THE CRIME: A HANDBOOK FOR MYSTERY WRITERS. His short story, "THE HUMAN ELEMENT," was included in the 1994 anthology, COMPUTER LEGENDS, LIES AND LORE. His medical-thriller, mystery DELIVER US FROM EVIL has been adapted by the FictionWorks into an Audio book and is scheduled for release sometime in 2001. He has served on the writing faculty of Pima Community College and has written and published numerous short stories and articles on writing. He is a member of The Society of Southwestern Authors and lives in Tucson, Arizona, with his wife and two daughters.

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Dedicated to my family

INTRODUCTION

If you're looking for a book to teach you how to write a complete sentence, or to figure out where to put the commas, then this book is not for you.

On the other hand, if you want to read some insightful, humorous anecdotes about being a writer and the writing life, then this book is perfect for you. I wrote this book because I wanted to share my experiences and what I've learned with others who have an interest in becoming writers.

Some novice writers are not really interested in becoming working writers, but instead they are in love with the image of being a writer, which really is not a good thing to aspire to.  Especially, since it doesn't exist.  Making millions of dollars and riding around in limos just isn't the way most working writers live. I don't want to discourage anyone from being a writer, but if I can prevent someone from wasting his or her life on unrealistic expectations, then writing this book was worth it.

If you are a writer, or are interested in becoming one, or wonder how one becomes a writer, then keep reading.

***

THE MAKING OF A WRITER

Tell me a story. 

It was more of a command than a request.

His name was Tony. He was two years older than I was, and he was built like a life-size Tonka truck. He was staring down at me.

I had no place to hide. To save myself from getting hammered into a bloody pulp, I told Tony the most interesting story I knew, making it up as I went along...and so began my career as a writer.

I grew up in a small mining community, which was attached to a slightly larger mining town, in southern Arizona. My father worked in the copper mines and made a good salary.

Growing up in the country, or as close as you can get to the country, in the middle of the Sonoran Desert, was great. Looking back, I would not have traded a second of it, to live anywhere else.

Due to some political mishap regarding the way county boundaries had been drawn up, all the kids who lived in Pinal county were forced to travel by bus almost twenty miles—skipping past a perfectly good school district in Gila county—to the schools in Kearny, Arizona.

It was probably right around this time that I decided against a career in politics and learned to loathe anyone who waved a petition in my face, regardless of how noble his or her cause was.

The long bus rides to and from school would have been completely unbearable were it not for my newfound talent as a storyteller. I quickly figured out, much to the delight of our beleaguered bus driver, that I could entertain a majority of the students on the school bus, by telling them stories.

They weren't just any stories. They were stories with characters who had the same names as those of my listeners.  They seemed to perk up and pay more attention when the hero was named Hector or the hero's girlfriend was named Helen.

Dozens of stories and a few years later, I discovered that I could save myself a lot of wear and tear by writing down my stories and passing out hardcopies instead of delivering them orally.

My dear mother gave me one of the most invaluable gifts anyone can receive.  She forced me to learn how to touch type the summer before I entered high school. When I was growing up in the 60s, anybody who typed was usually a female and was destined for a secretarial job somewhere in the nearby city, right after graduating from high school.

So learning how to type was both a traumatic and liberating experience for me: Traumatic because I wasn't a female and liberating because my handwriting had been described as hieroglyphics by several of my teachers.

I had a life and death struggle with my mother's black Royal typewriter during that endless summer. Hitting the right keys in the correct order seemed to be an extremely cumbersome process. It was a manual typewriter, of course. We couldn't afford a fancy, electric one.

By the end of the summer, I had mastered the Home Keys and was merrily hammering out stories as fast as my thirteen-year-old imagination could churn out.

While other neighborhood kids played basketball and ran along the slippery banks of the San Pedro River, I sat ramrod-straight in front of that typewriter and attempted to make my stories come to life. Discipline was the first thing I learned about becoming a writer.

I figured my verbal storytelling days on the bus were over. But there was just one hitch.  My large friend Tony didn't like to read.

Tell me a story, demanded Tony.

Towering a good two inches above me, Tony gave me his best I'll-pulverize-you-if-you-don't look. Deep down I knew Tony would never really hurt me. But I also knew Tony liked using his powerful presence to pretend to make people do what he wanted.  I liked Tony. He was one of the good guys, so I continued to give my muscle-bound friend his daily dose of fiction—verbally.

I negotiated a compromise with Tony. I agreed to tell him a story once a week, if he'd let me read him the story that I had typed the night before, instead of just spewing it out off the top of my head.

After doing this for a couple of weeks, Tony decided he liked my typewritten stories better. He said they flowed more smoothly.  Bless his heart, aside from being my greatest fan; Tony was also my first critic.

Back then, in my naive youth, I never analyzed why I wrote fiction. I just wrote it because it made me feel good while I composed it, and it seemed to make other people happy when they read it. That was it. Simple, huh?

I never dreamed of being a famous writer, or of getting paid millions of dollars for doing something that I was more than willing to do for free. I just enjoyed writing.

Some things are so simple when you're young.

As we grow older, reasons for our actions