Carving My Own Path

(A version of this story appeared on The Heart of The Matter on May 24, 2023. )

As a young boy, I watched my father take a block of wood and hold it in his hands. Where others saw a piece of rubbish, my father saw value hidden below the surface. He’d analyze the wood, turn it over, and examine it for imperfections. When he was satisfied, he’d set the block down on the workbench, pull out a pencil, and outline an image: a mallard duck, a dog sniffing the ground, or a somber sea captain.

The drawing was rough, but it held enough detail to give the block a shape. Then he’d pull out a small pocketknife. He had bought it as a young man, and while it showed years of heavy use, he kept it sharp enough to shave the fine hairs on his forearm.

When everything was just right, he’d make his first cut.

From Nothing, Comes Something

He’d shave off a few small flakes, which fluttered down to his lap and the floor. My usually talkative father stayed silent while he worked, looking down expressionless as he made one smooth, deliberate cut after another. After an hour or so, as the chips piled up, you’d begin to see the outline of a face or a pair of arms. With each cut, the image became crisper, until a sea captain was staring back at you.

I never learned how to carve like my father. He didn’t like us kids playing with his sharp knives, worried we’d hurt ourselves. Despite his warnings, I’d occasionally sneak into the basement and try to carve something out of a stray piece of scrap wood. I’d take a few awkward strokes and give up as soon as I started, racing back outside to ride my bike or upstairs to watch Saturday morning cartoons. I lacked the strength to slice through the wood and the patience to see it through. I couldn’t yet see how one small cut, joined by dozens of others, could create a masterpiece.

Carving Out My Own Path

I gave up any thoughts of becoming a master craftsman like my father, but I soon realized I could create bold, striking characters in my own way. I learned that I, too, could create something from nothing.

I learned that I could write.

My images came from the deep recesses of my mind. I’d stare at a blank page, twirling a pencil in my hand round and round until I could see exactly what I wanted to capture. When the moment arrived, my hand raced to catch up with my thoughts. Words jumped onto the page. Some I kept; others I erased in a flurry of eraser dust. I’d add word upon word until, slowly, a vibrant scene began to emerge from the blank page.

Stories All My Own

For me, learning to write was the exact moment I discovered what it meant to be a creative person. In my fictional worlds, I held complete control. I could put the winning run on third base with two outs and our best hitter coming to the plate. I created magical lands with dragons and heroic knights. I wrote, too, about my dog, Snoopy, and her life as a superhero. Oh, in real life, Snoopy—a small Toy Terrier-Fox Terrier mix with penetrating eyes—was more interested in sleeping and her next meal than becoming the next Lassie, but that didn’t matter. I was the one in charge. While many of my classmates dreaded writing assignments, I couldn’t get enough of them. I could let my imagination run wild and get rewarded for it.

The Power of The Pen

My writing gave me freedom. When I was writing, I wasn’t the smallest or shyest kid in the room anymore. I could scale tall buildings or command the strength of ten men. In the simplest terms, I could go anywhere that I wanted. I could communicate my thoughts and ideas—yes, my very own—and not have to worry about my stutter or stammer.

My writing gave me confidence and let me be me.

Decades have passed since I sat in that basement watching my father work. Time has a way of carving away the years, and today I’m a husband and a father with three grown kids of my own. Yet every time I sit down before a blank page, that same familiar magic takes over. The tools may be simpler than my father’s pocketknife, but the purpose remains unchanged: I write to connect, to shape something out of nothing, and to leave a piece of myself behind.

Where does your creativity and growth come from? I’d love to hear from you.