{"id":2970,"date":"2015-02-27T11:28:54","date_gmt":"2015-02-27T18:28:54","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/?p=2970"},"modified":"2015-02-27T14:24:09","modified_gmt":"2015-02-27T21:24:09","slug":"breaching-bright-air","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/2015\/02\/breaching-bright-air\/","title":{"rendered":"Breaching Bright Air"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Photo by Davide Ragusa<\/p><\/div>\n

On Tuesday, April 22, 1975, my creative writing class of eleven students clambered into our teacher\u2019s van in front of New Smyrna Beach High School. Florida morning steamed sweat across our foreheads and the backs of our necks. Fish and salt and the herbal scent of someone\u2019s shampoo suspended in bright air.<\/p>\n

We headed inland to meet author Richard Bach whose Jonathan Livingston Seagull<\/em> had spent 38 weeks on The New York Times Best Seller List, appeared on Publisher\u2019s Weekly top US seller in \u201972 and \u201973 lists, and was made into a movie in \u201873.<\/p>\n

A couple months earlier Linda Reader, who had been tossed into teaching creative writing days before the semester began, had fired off a request for Bach to speak to our class.<\/p>\n

Bach scribbled a speaking fee of $2,000 in the margin and mailed back the letter.<\/p>\n

Irked, Linda scrawled that he had to be kidding, we were a small class in a public school with no money.<\/p>\n

As the piece of paper shuttled back and forth between Winter Haven and New Smyrna Beach, Bach eventually relinquished his phone number and an invitation to visit his apartment over an airplane hanger in exchange for lunch.<\/p>\n

\"Richard<\/a>

Richard Bach samples the frosting from our seagull cake. Desirei Richards, Kyle Avery, and Wendy Phillips observe.<\/p><\/div>\n

Two hours later we emptied onto the Gilbert Field tarmac, laden with submarine sandwiches, milk, and a seagull cake.<\/p>\n

Bach met us in front of the hanger that housed his two biplanes and warned us not to show his vicious pets any fear.<\/p>\n

Dinah Martin\u2019s eyes rounded to lollipops and she stepped behind David Jones. Dinah was a senior, the girl I\u2019d dubbed most likely to become a real writer.<\/p>\n

I shrugged. If nothing, I was queen of obnoxious pets, though vicious gave me pause.<\/p>\n

We marched up a flight of stairs to Bach\u2019s living quarters to our fate\u2026 a couple of Siamese kittens.<\/p>\n

We lunched around the circular copper fireplace in the center of the room, played Ping-Pong, and lined up for Bach to autograph our books.<\/p>\n

\"Richard<\/a>

Richard Bach’s autograph and art in my copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull<\/p><\/div>\n

I stared at the sunshine, sailboat, sea, and soaring gulls the writer drew in my edition and the largeness of his kindness settled on me.<\/p>\n

Janie Payne pointed to a painting of a medieval man on the wall, her curiosity beating out her normal quiet. \u201cWho is that man?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cEbb Demont.\u201d Bach said he\u2019d found the portrait while traveling Europe and believed he\u2019d discovered himself in a previous life.<\/p>\n

As his comment filtered through the Catholic catechism in my brain, Bach switched topics. \u201cThere are people out there who are like us. We need to find our family.\u201d<\/p>\n

James Knox\u2019s elbow jostled mine and my eyes shot to his, but he was intent on Mr. Bach. James, editor of the literary magazine Linda had dreamed up, dedicated the inaugural Kaleidoscope<\/em> to Ebb Demont. At the end of the year, James referenced Bach when he wrote in my yearbook that he counted me part of his family.<\/p>\n

Kyle Avery, likely goaded by best friend James, blurted, \u201cDid you ever get any rejection letters?\u201d His voice cracked at the end.<\/p>\n

Bach laughed. He\u2019d gotten so many rejections, he\u2019d papered his office with them.<\/p>\n

Wendy Phillips and I exchanged glances, neither brave enough to ask for a glimpse of his office. But we both remembered the comment. In fact, I\u2019ve collected a fat folder of my own fails. Like Bach, I wear them as a badge, not so different from getting flipped off by a freshman during my fling as substitute teacher.<\/p>\n

\"Photo<\/a>

Photo by Steven Lewis<\/p><\/div>\n

On the way back home, scrunched in the middle seat between Cheryl Hiers and Becky Blackwell, I breathed in the scent of orange blossoms that bloomed on either side of I-4\u2014sweet, like the day had been.<\/p>\n

I carried my navy blue dust-jacketed copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull<\/em> from New Smyrna Beach to Lakeland, Florida, while I studied journalism at Florida Southern College. The novel transferred to Ashland (Ohio) University where I completed a BA in creative writing. I packed the book into a family heirloom cedar chest with only my clothes and a Bible and carted it from basement apartment to<\/p>\n

marriage in half a house. Jonathan <\/em>followed me through raising four children, migrations to Indianapolis and Phoenix and ten changes of address.<\/p>\n

\"My<\/a>

My copy<\/p><\/div>\n

I read the book once. Maybe twice. Jonathan was a bird who loved flight more than food. This passion led to excommunication from his flock, visiting nirvana, and a return to earth to evangelize the like-minded. Richard Bach\u2019s prose soared and dipped with acrobatic beauty. But the man\u2014specifically, the three and a half hours he carved from his life for me and my classmates\u2014caused me to crate Jonathan<\/em> at every juncture of my life.<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t consciously file April 22 in forever, but a few things lodged there anyway.<\/p>\n

Not reincarnation\u2014what I wouldn\u2019t believe from Dad, I wasn\u2019t buying from Bach.<\/p>\n

But I agreed with the author\u2019s concept of family. Not only James, but Linda became \u201cmy people,\u201d along with a gnarled rope of damaged souls who wound down the decades.<\/p>\n

I met Bach in the heart of his fame, but it was the flair with which he failed that filtered into my forever. He could have papered his office in canceled checks, but he chose to immortalize \u201cSorry, your work sucks.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dad\u2019s disappointment papered the walls of who I was. I got Richard Bach.<\/p>\n

Starting, like Bach, from a baseline of failure, I refuse to fear the familiar. I aim high.<\/p>\n

This week I queried The<\/em> New York Times<\/em>, Harper\u2019s<\/em>, and Atlantic Monthly<\/em>. Who knows, maybe one of them will buy an article. So what if they shoot me the bird? I\u2019ve been rejected by publishers, newspapers, public libraries, literary organizations, and my alma mater. Small change compared to my father.<\/p>\n

\"Photo<\/a>

Photo by Ryan Jacques<\/p><\/div>\n

After ten years of rejection slips, I published four novels, dozens of newspaper, magazine, and blog articles. Two books wait in the wings. I discovered I love public speaking and sometimes folks show up to listen. Fan mail overflows its folder on my desk, baptizing the file of rejections.<\/p>\n

Bach taught me to climb on the backs of my failures into bright air and battered dreams.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Linda taught for almost twenty years, then advanced into principal positions in Volusia County. In 1975 she raced one day ahead of us all year, she later told me, inventing wacky writing prompts and preparing an environment where we could create our best work.<\/em><\/p>\n

James wrote over twenty nonfiction books. Jane kept company with Jonathan Livingston Seagull and countless books as a Volusia County children\u2019s librarian. Wendy became a high school math teacher. And I hope that wherever Dinah and the rest of our class are, they\u2019re creating.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n\t\t\t\t\t
If you’d like to leave a comment below, share<\/em> a snippet of memory or wisdom that’s stuck with you through life.<\/div><\/div><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Subscribe to my blog and get a<\/p>\n

\"Photo<\/a><\/p>\n

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 FREE GIFT!\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Skating Into <\/em>My First Kiss<\/em><\/h2>\n

In the right-hand column, type your e-mail address in the box above\u00a0 subscribe<\/em>, then click on subscribe<\/em>.<\/strong> Whether swoon-worthy or Ben Stiller-awkward, we all remember our first kiss. Subscribe to my blog and chuckle over mine.<\/p>\n

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Related Posts from New Smyrna Beach<\/h3>\n
\"Photo<\/a>

Photo by Thong Vo<\/p><\/div>\n

Friendless on the First Day of School<\/a><\/p>\n

Beached, Brokendown, and Blessed in New Smyrna<\/a><\/p>\n

Spoons, Nudes, and Tuna Casserole<\/a><\/p>\n

Too Much and Not Enough Testosterone for the Christmas Parade<\/a><\/p>\n

\u00a0A Couple of Kids Cobble Together Christmas<\/a><\/p>\n

Dodging the Day After Christmas Blues<\/a><\/p>\n

Swimming Into Forever<\/a><\/p>\n

Song For an Innocent Time<\/a><\/p>\n

Hippie In the Headlights<\/a><\/p>\n

Car Crash and Other Wrecks<\/a><\/p>\n

Five Minutes of Fame<\/a><\/p>\n

Nailing Normal<\/a><\/p>\n

Waiting for the Real Deal<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

Check out my New Smyrna Beach novels by clicking on the covers.<\/p>\n

\"Avra's<\/a>\"Tattered<\/a><\/p>\n

\"Kicking<\/a>\"The<\/a><\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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We headed inland […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":2976,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_exactmetrics_skip_tracking":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_active":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_note":"","_exactmetrics_sitenote_category":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","enabled":false}}},"categories":[2,66],"tags":[251,250,245,241,180,211,247,243,244,249,242,246,172,186,240,252,248],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\nBreaching Bright Air - Ann Lee Miller<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/2015\/02\/breaching-bright-air\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Breaching Bright Air - Ann Lee Miller\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"On Tuesday, April 22, 1975, my creative writing class of eleven students clambered into our teacher\u2019s van in front of New Smyrna Beach High School. 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