About Jay Squires
Older than Stephen King but younger than Ray Bradbury, I’d like to think the similarity doesn’t end there. But, thinking, or having, or doing, are two (or three) different things….
A bit about the early years: I started writing for publication at about eight years of age. It’s true; but it needs to be modified by saying I self-published at eight. And, by “published” I mean I hand-cut the pages uniformly to the dimensions of a paperback book, and hand stitched a crude binding with mom’s needle and thread. An artist I wasn’t, but I drew a stick-figure scene from the story’s climax, in crayon, on the front page, which acted as the cover. I remember laboriously printing the words to the story, itself, in pencil. Oh, yes, my book was entitled, “Sawdust and Glory” and was a riveting tale of the travails of a highjumper.
Not resting on those laurels, I duplicated the task a number of times -- I think it was 5.
And, why, the reader wonders, would an eight-year-old go to such trouble to hand-write and do the cover art for 5 books? Let me tell you why. My uncle Jimmy, I’m sure with a gleam in his eye, and beer on his breath, promised me if I wrote the books he would sell them on the sidewalk in front of the now defunct Woolworth Five & Ten.
Of course, he made that promise before I even started writing them, before he even heard my synopsis. Predictably (if you knew Jimmy), he ended up driving me to Woolworth, but sat in the car, improving the odds that I would not be kidnapped or otherwise taken advantage of.
Short story shorter, I ended up selling one book for a nickel. Uncle Jimmy bought the other remaining ones.
The old saying goes (or if it doesn’t, it should): “There is no experience in life that does not carry within it a lesson.” And, I might add, the lesson may have far-reaching effects.
A bit about the early years: I started writing for publication at about eight years of age. It’s true; but it needs to be modified by saying I self-published at eight. And, by “published” I mean I hand-cut the pages uniformly to the dimensions of a paperback book, and hand stitched a crude binding with mom’s needle and thread. An artist I wasn’t, but I drew a stick-figure scene from the story’s climax, in crayon, on the front page, which acted as the cover. I remember laboriously printing the words to the story, itself, in pencil. Oh, yes, my book was entitled, “Sawdust and Glory” and was a riveting tale of the travails of a highjumper.
Not resting on those laurels, I duplicated the task a number of times -- I think it was 5.
And, why, the reader wonders, would an eight-year-old go to such trouble to hand-write and do the cover art for 5 books? Let me tell you why. My uncle Jimmy, I’m sure with a gleam in his eye, and beer on his breath, promised me if I wrote the books he would sell them on the sidewalk in front of the now defunct Woolworth Five & Ten.
Of course, he made that promise before I even started writing them, before he even heard my synopsis. Predictably (if you knew Jimmy), he ended up driving me to Woolworth, but sat in the car, improving the odds that I would not be kidnapped or otherwise taken advantage of.
Short story shorter, I ended up selling one book for a nickel. Uncle Jimmy bought the other remaining ones.
The old saying goes (or if it doesn’t, it should): “There is no experience in life that does not carry within it a lesson.” And, I might add, the lesson may have far-reaching effects.