Your Course Is Clear

How YA author Richard Peck urged me on my way as a writer.

YA author Richard Peck and me, October 2017.

Ghosts Have I Been, the story of a girl with second sight who watches the Titanic sink, was one of my favorite books as a child. It’s a breadcrumb on the path that connects what I loved to read with what I ended up writing as an adult.

Richard Peck, the author of that book, was more than an early influence on my literary leanings. He also bestowed a gift of hope.

My senior year of high school, Mr. Peck made a book tour stop in my hometown. I was asked to be one of three student panelists to interview him about his latest novel, Remembering the Good Times. As part of his visit, he offered to read creative writing submissions and give some feedback. I didn’t know at the time this was a common practice for writers who visited schools, and the idea a “real writer” would read my work made me excited and anxious. I shared an essay about a friend I missed who was no longer part of my life.

The interview took place in our high school’s library. Classmates filled the rows of chairs that faced a long table where Mr. Peck and the panelists sat. We asked him questions before the other students got a turn. At ease, friendly, and gracious, Mr. Peck held our attention and showed his respect for his young audience.

The next day, I received the original typed essay I submitted without a mark on it. But on the last page, he wrote, “Your course is clear. You’re a writer, Ronlyn. It was a pleasure to meet you—and to read your work.” He signed his name with elegant strokes.

RIchard Peck’s handwritten note on my essay.

My chest warmed as if I’d drunk an invigorating potion. If I could have slept with those pages without crushing them, I would have.

Instead, I stashed the essay in a box along with everything else I’d written, by then a stack of bad poetry, maudlin plays, and adequate short stories. I made myself a promise that if I ever published a book, I’d give back in some way to young writers, as he did.

In 2005, almost 20 years after meeting him, my first book released. During the years that followed, I was asked to visit schools and classes, and I agreed almost every time. Every time, I thought of Mr. Peck.

In 2017, the last book of my trilogy came out. A few months after I was invited to have a session at the Louisiana Book Festival, the staff sent a preview of the participating authors’ information. I checked mine then skimmed the list. There was Richard Peck’s name. His most recent book released in late 2016.

I went straight to my well-organized archives, found that old essay, and made a copy of the last page on which he’d written. As an adult, I understood his words were meant to be encouraging, not that he truly saw any promise. But over the years when I wrote and then didn’t, and tried to get published until I did, I sometimes pulled out those pages and remembered how I felt when I first received his comments. His words meant something to me for a long time, and I wanted to let him know.

Friday night, at the festival’s author party at the State Library, he was the first person I recognized when I walked in the door. I waited and watched for an hour before I saw him alone and could ask to have a private word.

I told him about his long-ago visit and what he’d written. I pulled out the page copy, folded neatly in my pocket, and handed it to him. He stood holding it for a long while. He may have been reading the final paragraphs and his comment. He may have been touched. Then he looked at me and asked, “So, did you become a writer?”

I held up my author badge. “My fourth book came out two months ago.”

“Would you like me to sign this, too?” he asked, still holding the page and taking a pen out of his pocket.

“Yes, please.”

He leaned over a carrel wall and signed his name with a shaky hand. The flourishes remained. He gave it back to me.

“I’m so glad I could say thank you in person, after all these years,” I said. 

We talked for a few moments longer. I asked questions about his almost 50-year career. We discussed how much the publishing industry had changed, especially in the last two decades, and what our future plans were. “It’s possible this will be my last book,” I told him. “This might have been my last, too,” he said. Neither elaborated on the reasons why.

We shared parting words and shook hands. Someone warmly greet him as he turned away.

Seven months later, I logged on to Facebook and saw multiple posts about Mr. Peck’s death.

Though he wasn’t a friend or mentor, I took the news as a gut punch. What softened the blow was remembering his kindness to me and having no doubt he bestowed that gift on many others. Like the readers who felt seen through his stories, the young writers he touched felt the same way.