Questions came at me faster than I could answer them. I usually don’t mind radio interviews because I don’t have to comb my hair for them. I look much better on the radio than I do in person. But this one caught me off guard. I stumbled over words as if I had been to the library liquor bar.
A syndicated station out of New Orleans. A fairly sizable audience. I had done an interview with them almost a year ago, and for some reason, they had forgotten how horrible I was at this, so they had me back on again today. We are waiting for the song to end to start my segment. I can hear their broadcast through my phone as I wait. It is some hip-hop skinny jeans country mess that wouldn’t know what a fiddle was if they were sitting on one. This stuff would have Waylon Jennings and Johnny Cash fighting mad.
Finally, the song ends.
“Alrighty, New Orleans! We have a treat for you today,” the disc jockey hollers. “We had him on a while back, and you guys wanted more! It’s best-selling author, Russell Estes! Or as we like to call him, Cousin Russell! Welcome to Wake-up Show, Cuz!”
“Appreciate you having me back. Sorry about your ratings last time I was on.”
“Man, that song we just played was a sure ‘nuff knee slapper, wasn’t it? Didn’t you just love it, Cuz?”
“Absolutely! It was great!”
I’ve done a few of these radio interviews. You have to have high energy to keep up. But then it will level off and you can just talk. Most of the radio personalities ask me things such as what I’m currently working on. Some ask me who my favorite author is. Others have asked me more important things, like do I believe in Bigfoot and if ketchup belongs on hotdogs.
But this one asked me things I hadn’t been asked before. I wasn’t prepared. I was asked things such as where my inspiration came from. I was quizzed on what my proudest writing achievement was. And I was even asked what I wanted to accomplish by being a writer.
I still can’t believe people call me that. I grew up thinking writers were well-educated folks who drank name-brand wine and wore V-neck sweaters with ascot scarfs. I drink sweet tea and break out in a rash anytime I wear a sweater and laugh anytime I say “ascot.” We are not the same.
But I answered quickly. Words fell out of my mouth before I could think. This was much easier than the scripted interviews I had previously done. Before I knew what I was saying, I had told the radio dude that my inspiration came from feelings that escaped me through horrible grammar. Feelings that were born in my heart, where no filter has ever been applied were where my inspiration lived.
My inspiration for writing comes from the people I grew up around. The people who believed in me when I didn’t. It’s the places where I cut my teeth — the two-lane back roads, kudzu-lined yards, and narrow trails that led me through miles of adventure leading to torn pants and shoes too muddy to wear inside.
All of that just rolled out like I had rehearsed it. Man, this was easy! I was on a roll. I took a deep breath. I smiled and fired again.
“My proudest writing achievement?” I repeated. “Well, that’s easy. Glad you asked!”
I think my proudest writing achievement came from that same place. You may say that achievements come from something you did, but perhaps they come from something more. Perhaps my biggest writing achievement took root when I was a kid, and it took this long to bear fruit. Perhaps it started before I knew that writing was part of my plan… back when I was only a reader of words, and not a creator of them. I would read everything I could get my hands on, but the days that the small-town newspaper would get delivered is when my excitement peaked. The small towns and communities I grew up in relied much on the print newspaper to fuel their gossip and knowledge of each other. I couldn’t wait to grab a copy of the local paper.
I would always flip through the Journal Record, hoping to catch of glimpse of me from the previous week's football or basketball game. I knew I wasn’t newspaper-worthy, but maybe, just perhaps, they had confused my number with someone else, and my name would appear in print.
And then I would flip to the stories and editorials. I would read about the adventure, humor and tall tales from writers with more imagination than Dr. Seuss. And I dreamed that one day, if I kept dreaming, my words would fill those columns.
And then it happened. The things I wrote were in demand. I was as shocked as anyone. I had published books in stores. I was on bestseller lists. Some were printed in languages that I didn’t even know existed. They were shipped to seventeen different countries. And then my favorite published pieces—the newspapers! My work has been in print magazines and ran in newspapers in more states than I have visited… and I couldn’t believe it. How could that happen to a kid who grew up on a shoestring budget with hand-me-down shoes?
But I still didn’t feel “accomplished” until the day that the same little newspaper that I grew up on published one of my columns. I almost lost it. I sat at my desk choking back tears. It may have fewer readers than what would attend a Tuesday night pinball tournament, but to me, I had just been spotlighted in the New York Times. And it had nothing to do with me, but where that paper would be tossed.
Perhaps a kid with a dream will pick it up. They may feel like they are trapped in a small town with a fence as high as the ocean is deep. They feel as if they are limited. But maybe they read this, and they will see the same kid that once felt the same… until someone believed in him. And perhaps that kid will realize that the walls are not so tall. Sometimes, the walls are only your imagination. Because once you realize what means the most to you, you really do understand what will make your dreams come true.
That’s home! That’s my inspiration. And that’s my proudest writing achievement. Seeing something I wrote printed in the little Journal Record paper that I would read front to back weekly is one of my proudest writing achievements. Because no matter what part of this big ol’ world my work finds itself in, it will always be about who reads it… and not where they are.
So, Mister Radio Guy, I’m sorry if I went over our allotted time. My tongue gets long when I speak from, ya know, that place—my heart. But, I think you had one more question… if I may.
You asked me what I wanted to accomplish. Okay, here it comes. Are you ready? You are recording this, right?
I’ve already accomplished everything I ever dreamed of. Actually, I had done that before you had ever found out about me. Because all I ever wanted was for you to see my heart. Because what lives in our hearts is what will always be the driving force behind our dreams. If you see my heart, you will have all your answers. I wouldn’t even have to wear a good shirt and come back on your radio show again.
And Mister… this part is important. New Orleans, turn up your radio. I want to never forget that compassion, love and kindness are the true mantle pieces to be proud of. And no matter where life takes us, we should never forget that. Never!
And whatever you do, always be honest.
Unless you're live on air and get asked if you enjoyed a hip-hop skinny jeans country song. That’s perfectly acceptable to fib a little.
Oh yeah… one more thing. Ascot!
(Editor’s Note: The Journal Record is proud to have been a part of Brilliant native Russell L. Estes’ childhood reading habits, very proud to have his columns be a part of our current issues and extremely proud (and grateful) he wrote and shared this special column with us and our readers!)
See complete story in the Journal Record.
Subscribe now!