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A Childhood May Be Stolen, But Can It Also Be Redeemed?

by R. J. Jeffreys

Published September 3, 2020 by Author magazine

As children, most of us spent many of our days at play. We discovered magical worlds inside empty cardboard boxes, and imagined all manner of things in the shapes of the cumulonimbus clouds that passed overhead on a warm summer’s day. At play, we felt connected to that magic, and fantastical places were our constant abode. Set free in our minds, anything became possible, and the horizons appeared limitless – horizons filled with memorable experiences that can last a lifetime. 

My early childhood was far from the place where magic existed, or where clouds became my playmates. Stress, anxiety and fear were my only constant companions. My horizon was not an open vista; it was like a pitch-dark theater scrim that I could not stop from setting on the most developmental stage in a young life.

A childhood stolen is one that can never be restored, but it can be redeemed. I know this is true, because it happened to me. It was manifested by the propitious appearance of my dear Aunt Marion and precipitated by the sudden death of my favorite uncle, her husband, Richard.

Immediately after Uncle Richard’s funeral, my aunt came to live with my family and me. Marion was an accountant by trade, but she also had an unquenchable thirst for reading and books. Her grasp of language, grammar and the written word was astonishing.  I cannot remember a single day spent with us when she did not have a book in-hand, and another two or three within arm’s reach.   

On my twelfth birthday, my aunt presented me with the entire Encyclopedia Britannica collection. It included fifteen, inch-and-a-half thick volumes, and over the next two years I read each and every book, cover-to-cover, from aardvark to zebra.

I would pour myself into those encyclopedia pages. They were filled with incredible images, and I was mesmerized by them. I was absorbing thousands of words, which described all manner of exotic fauna and flora, far away continents with giant mountains that rose to heights above the clouds, expansive oceans separating the five continents by great divides, and all things then known that existed in the heavens and on earth. 

Often, after reading something that sparked my imagination, I would dash to my aunt, while awkwardly attempting to hold that thick volume open, and excitedly show her what I had just discovered. Marion was always warmly receptive, and infinitely patient with me as I rambled on and on. 

It was during that time that I first started to write my own simple stories. I think that I had absorbed so much general knowledge and had read so many facts in the two years spent in all those big books that my unconscious mind compelled me to find some way to express it all, and in my own words.

As I matured and immersed myself in my own story writing, I began to notice I could feel that pitch-dark scrim slowly rising in this next stage of my life. The way was opening for infinite possibilities to present themselves to me. I started to see exotic animals in the shapes of clouds that passed me overhead, and I recognized that magic was real.    

Over the years, I have come to understand that writing for my aunt’s enjoyment also imbued in me a genuine sense of purpose in writing stories. It has allowed me to feel truly worthy of holding happiness, like a great book, in my own hands. And it is clear to me that achieving these aspirations were what Marion had always gently guided me towards, and intended, from the moment she first came to stay with my family and me.

I am now absolutely certain that my dear aunt not only redeemed my childhood, but also irrevocably shaped my entire outlook on life. Her powerful impact has had far too many positive influences on me to adequately express. That deep bond between us lasted until she passed away at the age of ninety-three. She had long since moved out on her own, way across the country from me, but I am certain that she was still holding a book in her hand when her wonderful spirit exchanged worlds.

Books have always entertained me, enlightened me, and unconditionally supported me during the most difficult and trying times. Throughout my life, some of the very best memories of my childhood are of having a book as my constant companion. And to this day, I know that books will carry you anywhere there is magic in the air, and where the cloud shapes of imagination are gliding by in your mind’s sky.

R. J. Jeffreys is an award-winning poet, writer, essayist, produced playwright, book manuscript consultant/editor and writing coach/mentor. He is host of "The Write Step with R.J. Jeffreys" podcast, senior producer Tiferet Talk and contributing editor at Tiferet Journal, Editor Emeritus and producer at VIDA: Voices & Views, associate editor/website developer at Cervena Bavra Press, and produces the Author2Author podcast.

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“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you” Ray Bradbury

by R. J. Jeffreys

Being that I am a purveyor of both poetry and prose, one could well assume that I would gravitate to like-minded writers. It is true that, in general, those who have excelled in both poetry and creative prose have deeply influenced my work. Many of the Transcendentalist period writers fall under this category for me. Exemplary and ‘double-duty’ writers such as E. A. Poe (who referred to Transcendentalists as those “Frogpondians”), Henry D. Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson are obviously at the top of my list.

When I made the decision many years ago of a total commitment to a life of literary bifurcation; I then realized that it was a more contemporary writer (who was truly born a poet) that had both inspired, and influenced, my poetry and prose above all others. And, that is Ray Bradbury.  I wholeheartedly shared Aldous Huxley’s opinion on Ray Bradbury and his writing, as he once remarked upon reading his prose, “You, sir, are a poet!”

The very first essay I published was an homage to Bradbury. I added an accompanying video of a 2001 keynote address titled "Telling the Truth" where Ray shared stories about his life and his love of writing at The Sixth Annual Writer's Symposium by the Sea. I was profoundly affected and moved by that lecture. Over the years, I have listened to and read many other remarkable talks on writing by Ray Bradbury. Each time, his words have resonated deeply in me, and then set firmly into my writer’s marrow.

Ray Bradbury is one of the most endearing and influential writers of our time1. His phenomenal collection of essays, with connecting passages, Zen in the Art of Writing: Releasing the Creative Genius Within You is a must-read for anyone truly committed to effective creative writing.

His seminal works have reached every corner of the world. They have been adapted for film (he wrote the screenplay for John Houston’s classic film, Moby Dick); further enlightened us on the inherent evil of censorship (Fahrenheit 451); and boldly led us onto other worlds (The Martian Chronicles). There are many more exceptional novels by him, such as The Illustrated Man and Something Wicked This Way Comes that have left an indelible mark on so many readers and writers. Bradbury’s characters are so deftly written, it is as if we have always known them, intimately. His writing flows as smoothly as a gentle spring rain falls off of a copper cupola

I once had the honor of having a handwritten letter I wrote given to Mr. Bradbury, via a mutual friend, during Ray’s 90th birthday celebration at his home in Cheviot Hills, California. I could not force myself to add my return address to that letter. But, was told that Ray had read it, and asked why there was no return address. He wanted to write back to personally thank me.

Needless to say, I will never forget that day. Nor will I ever forget Ray Bradbury, our preeminent writer (and poet)—the man who I feel I know, intimately, through his characters—the writer who I have had the absolute pleasure to read and from whom I have honed my own writing craft.

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