During the year I wrote in rez @ The University of Windsor, I held supplementary weekly workshops @ my apartment to remove would-be writers from the academic environment — Ain't that the truth? — and, in the fiction 'shop, this fellow arrived for the second meeting; he'd missed the first because he was working shifts @ a plant in Flint, Michigan. I gave the FitzKidz, as they called themselves, assignments; and, they had to drop them off in my mailbox a couple days in advance so I could photocopy and read them in order to be prepared for their brilliance a priori; also, natch, to offer suggestions and observations.
This fellow, his name was Chris, he'd never published anything; but, he'd entered a novel in some contest for Little, Brown in children's writing once, he eventually told me; and, he hadn't won. He'd done poorly, according to him, since he'd placed second (in the whole USA, eh?). But? The two pages he gave me? I started to tremble with joy by the time I'd gotten to the bottom of the first one; now, here was a fully formed prose writer taking this writing 'shop with eight other 'Kidz; and, he was so soft-spoken and shy; but, the piece?
It was flippin' hilarious; I'll never forget it. In it, he described a favourite (or, do I mean, "favorite?") pasttime of the protagonist and his older brother: Making little toilet-paper umbrella-type parachutes and setting them on fire before dropping them into the toilet to extinguish them, the closest the pair got to playing "war games."
When the 'Kidz came to meetin', I didn't say a word to the guy; rather, I asked him to read his assignment himself to the class. (He really was shy; and, polite.) So, of course, he did. When he'd finished, I swear, he got a standing ovation and the 'Kidz were laughing so hard, there were tears streaming down their cheeks. S'True; and, it was right about this time of year when a good laugh was the best meds we could have ingested, believe you me, living on the Detroyit River . . .
That FitzKid was known to us as Chris; but, he signed his pieces Christopher Paul Curtis; and, years later, he told a journalist he'd gotten more courage from a workshop he'd taken at The University of Windsor (and, I think that he also enjoyed our "graduation" party where everyone got stinko-blotto 'cept yours truly, natch, since I didn't drink by then); and, he also said who'd led that workshop and some very nice things I won't repeat because I am the one who got lucky:
I knew he would reach the top of the crop; and, now? CPC's exceeded everyone's expectations (prolly including his own); only his wife and I knew he would go far and become an enduring star with his name illuminated in gold in The Book of Eternity.
The first chapter of Elijah of Buxton, the book deservedly bestowed with the TD Award for Children's Literature, can be read at Scholastic Canada. I shan't say more; but, I am thrillabrillaciously pleased to have played a tiny-puny part in recognising and encouraging a truly remarkable fictionalist of the first magnitude (and, a truly fine and considerate young d00d).
BTW, those two pages? Turns out they were from that "second-place" novel, The Watsons Go to Birmingham — 1963; it remains one of the most unforgettable rollercoaster tears-and-cheers manuscripts I've ever read. (There is a God.)
p.s. Just noticed: James Adams adds his delicious one-potato-two to the satisfying Cristopher Paul Curtis stew
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