I’d never thought about writing, per se, until my sophomore year in high school. In those days, in my school district (Wayzata 287), it went like this:
K-6 - elementary
7-9 - junior high
10-12 - high school
13-death - get degree, get married, get house, get kids, get depressed, get divorced, get Corvette, get pathetic, get ill, get purgatory…
When high school started, there was a parent’s night about a month into sophomore year. My (divorced) parents attended. This was not common, usually my ma was relegated to school and education bullshit. My old man generally sat it out. Both were in attendance that evening. That fact seems cosmically relevant.
When they got to Mr. Chamberlain’s history class, he started the informational session (full of only parents) like this…
“First off, who are Blake Donley’s parent’s?”
My parents (very) reluctantly raised their hands.
“He’s a phenomenal writer! Please encourage him to keep writing; we don’t have enough kids who write like him.”
They were shocked at this assessment. Both of them told me, separately. I too was shocked. I had no clue. My old man even admitted that he too was a “good writer.” I’d never known this.
Writing was just a thing I did, like breathing, listening to music, or imagining my dream girl while listening to music and breathing. I was oblivious that my writing was interesting to anyone other than myself.
From that point, I never stopped. Even when what I was producing was south of dreadful.
10,000 hours…
—
© 2025 – ∞ B. Charles Donley