{"id":4901,"date":"2017-03-03T05:00:57","date_gmt":"2017-03-03T12:00:57","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/?p=4901"},"modified":"2017-03-02T19:41:04","modified_gmt":"2017-03-03T02:41:04","slug":"breaching-bright-air-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/2017\/03\/breaching-bright-air-2\/","title":{"rendered":"Breaching Bright Air"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

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

On Tuesday, April 22, 1975, my creative writing class of eleven students clambered into a New Smyrna Beach High School van to visit Jonathan Livingston Seagull <\/em>author Richard Bach. Jonathan<\/em> had spent 38 weeks on The New York Times Best Seller List, appeared on Publisher\u2019s Weekly top US seller lists in \u201972 and \u201973, and was made into a movie in \u201873.<\/p>\n

Florida morning steamed sweat and toxins\u2014like Dad\u2019s sighs of disappointment\u2014from my pores. Today he said I needed voice lessons\u2026 to speak. What was I supposed to do with that pearl of fatherly wisdom, go mute? Audition for My Fair Lady<\/em>? No one was happier puttering out of town in a van full of people who thought I was pretty much okay the way I was born. Around me fish and salt and the smell of clean laundry suspended in bright air.<\/p>\n

Linda Reader, a 26-year-old who had been tossed into teaching creative writing days before the semester began, had already wrangled a miracle bagging the field trip. She’d fired off a request for Bach to speak to our class. Bach scribbled a speaking fee of $2,000 in the margin and mailed back the letter. Linda scrawled that he had to be kidding, we were a small class in a public school with no money and sent the note back.<\/p>\n

The piece of paper shuttled back and forth across Florida until the twelve of us emptied onto the Gilbert Field tarmac in Winter Haven, laden with submarine sandwiches, milk, and a seagull-shaped cake.<\/p>\n

\"\"

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

Bach met us in front of the hangar 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<\/em> gave me pause.<\/p>\n

We traipsed after Bach, marching up a flight of stairs outside the hangar to his living quarters and our fate\u2026 a couple of Siamese kittens.<\/p>\n

\"\"

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

I handed him my edition of his novel. I peered, tongue-tied, as he drew sunshine, Jonathan Livingston Seagull in flight, two gulls doing loop-d-loops, a sailboat, the sea, a flock of birds, and the scrambled egg of his signature. 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

\"\"

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

James Knox\u2019s elbow jostled mine and my eyes shot to his, but he was intent on Mr. Bach. James\u2014my perennial crush\u2014and 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

My head jerked up. Bach could have covered his office in canceled checks, but he chose to immortalize \u201cSorry, your work sucks.\u201d Failure, I understood. Dad\u2019s disappointments papered the inside of my skin. Being born was the first time I\u2019d let him down\u2014not being a boy. And I slouched, got B\u2019s on my report cards. I leaned Republican when he leaned left. At 23, I\u2019d ask Dad if I\u2019d ever done anything that pleased him. Nada. Nothing. I\u2019d never pleased him. Not even once.<\/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

I toted my navy blue dust-jacketed copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull<\/em> from New Smyrna Beach to Lakeland, Florida, where I studied journalism at Florida Southern College. I took the novel to Ashland (Ohio) University where I completed a BA in creative writing. The book slipped into my family heirloom cedar chest with my clothes and a Bible that I carted from dorm to basement apartment to 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 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. I met Bach at the height of his fame, but it was his failures that caused me to crate Jonathan<\/em> at every juncture of my life.<\/p>\n

On the way back home, scrunched in the middle seat between Cheryl Hires 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. I didn\u2019t buy reincarnation\u2014what I wouldn\u2019t believe from Dad, I wasn\u2019t buying from Bach. 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

Starting, like Bach, from a baseline of failure, I aim high\u2014querying 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? Dad did worse and I survived. I\u2019ve been rejected by publishers, newspapers, public libraries, literary organizations, and my alma mater. Small change compared to my father.<\/p>\n

After ten years of rejection slips from traditional publishers, my literary agent dropped me. The publishing world slumped and she went into another line of work. I fell into the black abyss of failure for a few months. Then, one of my sons suggested self-publishing. His voice sounded a lot like the voice of God. So, I swallowed a hairball of pride and launched five novels.<\/p>\n

A few hundred reviews accumulated, over 100,000 copies of my free book were downloaded from Amazon in the first year, and a few thousand books sold. Dozens of newspaper, magazine, and blog articles were published.<\/p>\n

Ride over.<\/p>\n

Bach\u2019s mentor, Ray Bradbury, wrote, \u201cAt the end of life, will we think, \u2018I did my best!\u2019 or will we think, \u2018I never tried\u2026\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

I dust off my battered dream and press on. Two memoirs are under construction and I\u2019m pursuing a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing at Wilkes University. Bach and Dad taught me to climb on the backs of my failures and reach for bright air.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"

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

James wrote over twenty nonfiction books. Jane kept company with Jonathan Livingston Seagull <\/em>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.]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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