NOTES FROM THE JOHN AND THE GREAT BEYOND by Reese Mobley

Unlike Miss Pat, I wasn’t raised on a farm with a lot of animals. My entertainment came from my older sister (not the least bit animal-like) and a brain that operated like a runaway train. Back then, I drove my parents and my sister crazy with my colorful imagination and nonstop energy. Probably still do, but they’ve gotten used to me by now. I hope.

Anyway, there were two events in my childhood that fed my writing dream. Both were followed with huge doses of encouragement that I gathered up close to my heart for safekeeping. You see, as aspiring novelists, we hold our dreams together with these threads of encouragement.

I must have been about eight or nine when I wrote this silly poem about our toilet. This is where the crazy part sneaks into the picture. My folks thought it was so good, so creative and entertaining, they scotch-taped it to the shiny tile above the roll of two-ply Charmin. You couldn’t help but see it when you finished your business. I was so proud. For the first time in my life, I felt like a real writer. No one bothered to tell us how weird it was or how their second born daughter might need special care some day. Seriously, what kind of child writes about their bathroom? I’ll bet my dear mom still has it saved it in her scrapbook. Now, that’s pride.

The other memory comes from this story I wrote a few years later about this young family who is waiting dinner on a loved one when they get a call from the police. You see, the roads were icy. And there was an accident and their beloved is missing. The family, of course, is distraught beyond words. They fear the worst. Then the dearly deceased man turns into an angel, says his goodbyes through a frost covered window and goes to heaven. The end. Pretty morbid stuff for a child—I know. But, the point of this is, my folks had me read it to everyone who stepped foot in our home. I remember handling those pages of notebook paper so much they started to get thin around the edges. Again, the pride my family felt in me was enough to keep me going. And it still is. I only wish my dad could have lived long enough to see my first novel on the shelves when it does happen.

Hugs,

Reese