The Journey Begins

A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." ~ Lao Tzu

Welcome to the very first post on the Quinntessential Thoughts blog! I am so excited to start this passion project and to be able to share it with all of you. I hope that by sharing my thoughts here, you will find a little something positive to brighten your day or maybe even something to ponder. I don’t pretend to have all the answers, and I don’t consider myself a sage or guru by any means. This is just my way of sharing a part of myself and developing as a writer.

The idea for this blog was born out of a weekly email I send to my co-workers. I live and work in Phoenix, Arizona, but my co-workers and my boss are all based in Los Angeles. I usually send out a motivational quote to set a positive tone for the week, sometimes (but not always) with commentary. I call it Monday Inspiration. It has been my way of staying connected with my teammates, and the response has been so positive that I have continued doing it for quite a while. Quinntessential Thoughts will build and expand on that. My plans are to publish a post per week, usually based around the theme of a thought-provoking quote.

This blog is not only a passion project; it is a journey. As Lao Tzu’s quote alludes to, this post is the first step on that journey of a thousand miles. I don’t know where it will lead, making it simultaneously exciting and frightening. It is part of a lifelong love that I have had with the written word, both as a reader and a writer. There are so many books, so many writers that I admire, and I hope that I possess even a tiny spark of the magic they have brought into my life. And if I can take that spark and use Quinntessential Thoughts to ignite a flame, it will serve its purpose.

Books have been a part of my life for as far back as I can remember. They form part of my earliest, happiest memories. Those memories were created mainly, but not exclusively, by the women in my life.

I remember quite clearly sitting in the living room of my grandmother’s house as she read stories to me. The Poky Little Puppy, Hansel and Gretel, and The Little Red Hen were generally in the rotation. Grandma Sheriff lived next door to us, so it was a simple thing to go over to her house for a story. She frequently followed it up with some hot buttered toast made from her homemade bread. Orange Tang usually accompanied it, something Grandma always kept on hand for when thirsty grandsons happened to visit. Four of us grandsons were the same age, so she made a LOT of Tang during those years.

My Aunt Elaine, who tutored me through the difficulties of repeating Kindergarten, always set aside time to read with me. The Witch of Hissing Hill was my favorite, but Dr. Seuss was also a staple when I was at Aunt Elaine’s house. To this day, when I read Green Eggs and Ham, I hear it in her voice. Homemade cookies and Kool-Aid, going to the chicken coop to gather eggs, or playing with her dog Pixie were usually on the agenda as well. You may have noticed a pattern here: food and books make me happy.

Another voice that I can conjure quite easily is my Mom’s. She read The Digging-est Dog, The Best Nest, and Are You My Mother? to me quite often. She was an avid reader herself, but she did not share my love of fiction. She told me more than once that she read for information rather than entertainment. Mom was always reading some kind of self-improvement book, and although I didn’t quite get it back then, I think she was always striving to be a better person and a better mother.

I grew up in a little town called Oak City. It is a farm town nestled in the foothills of the Canyon Mountains in central Utah. I was the fifth generation of my family to live there, and it had a population of about 300 to 350 people when I was a child. Because raising cattle is one of the major industries, there were more cows than people. My grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins on my Mom’s side all lived there, and there is one road that brings you into town and takes you back out. Although it was a fantastic place to grow up, and it was practically like living in a Norman Rockwell painting in many ways, it was a tiny world.

I don’t remember when I stopped simply looking at the pictures and listening to the story. I don’t recall when the letters began to form words that I could decipher. But the change did come, and I became a voracious reader. I remember reading a series of books for children that were folk tales and mythology from all parts of the globe. A collection of stories from ancient Egypt was a particular favorite, and I read it and reread it several times. Other books in the series introduced me to folk tales from Russia, France, China, Mexico, and India. Those books enlarged my world. Those books transported me to magical, faraway lands. I became acquainted with powerful gods and goddesses, talking animals, and stories that had been passed down from generation to generation for thousands of years. My tiny world had expanded, and I was hooked.

Around the age of 7 or 8, I discovered my grandparents’ copy of Readers’ Digest. They were astonished to find out that I was reading it. “He doesn’t just read it; he actually understands it!” Grandpa Sheriff exclaimed with amazement when he told my Mom about it. I was just reading the small snippets and shorter articles, but it was still impressive to Grandpa. He was an enthusiastic reader too. There wasn’t a Louis L’Amour or Zane Grey novel that he hadn’t read multiple times.

School also played a role in my love of books. My 4th-grade teacher, Mr. Bassett, made a point of reading aloud to the class every day just before lunch. Island of the Blue Dolphins was one of my favorites, and I can still remember how the class, Mr. Bassett included, cried at the end of Where the Red Fern Grows. The library was my favorite place, and I rarely was without a book to read. Reading ignited my love of history when I discovered a series of famous Americans’ biographies. I couldn’t put them down. When I say I couldn’t put them down, I genuinely mean that I couldn’t put them down. Mr. Farnsworth, my 5th-grade teacher, caught me reading many times during class. It was discussed at parent-teacher conferences, and I got a very stern talking-to afterward.

In high school, my love of fiction and my love of history intersected when I discovered historical fiction. I was obsessed with The Kent Family Chronicles by John Jakes, following one family’s story from the American Revolution until the post-Civil War era. And it occurred to me that ordinary people living through extraordinary events could generate enthralling stories.

I also ventured into the dark, mysterious world of Stephen King. One warm spring evening toward the end of the school year, the sun was just starting to go down, and my bedroom window was opened slightly. I found myself reading a suspenseful, pivotal scene in Pet Sematary. Timmy Baterman had returned from the dead. He was evil, he was scary, and he knew everyone’s darkest secrets. Some men from the town decided that Timmy had to be “dealt with,” and they went to the Baterman home to carry out their mission. They found him, just as the sun was going down (how ironic), and as I read about Timmy walking around the front yard, I heard grass rustle underneath my window. For a brief second, I thought Timmy was outside my house. I will neither confirm nor deny that my hair stood on end for a moment. It was only Mom coming home after being at Grandpa’s house. That is just one of the many moments that Stephen King has had me on edge, and he is directly responsible for me sleeping with the lights on many a night.

High school was also where I discovered I could write. My English teacher, Miss Beckwith, even invited me to join the school newspaper. I didn’t last very long, owing to my own inability to stick to anything for very long more than anything else. If I remember correctly, I only wrote one article. But it ignited a spark within me because I realized for the first time that this was something I not only was skilled at but enjoyed. Rarely had those two things aligned.

College honed my writing abilities, mainly because I chose to major in history. Research papers 15 to 20 pages in length, complete with citations and bibliography, were required in almost every class I took. I enjoyed writing and researching so much that I could get carried away. In one course, I wrote a 10-page paper responding to a question posed by the instructor. I eagerly awaited getting my assignment returned to me, with feedback praising my thoroughness and insight. I was pleased to see that I had received an “A” but was a bit red-faced when the comments on the paper said: “Great job, but the answer begins on page 7.”

I love writing, but I haven’t found my niche yet. I also don’t think that I’ve found my “voice” yet. I enjoy academic writing, and I’ve occasionally turned my hand to poetry. I would love to publish a novel someday, although my attempts at writing fiction so far have been fruitless. This blog is a new and essential part of my writing journey. I keep feeling a “pull” towards writing, as well as sharing what I write. While I may not be ready to write a book yet, I am prepared to take the first steps to do so. Quinntessential Thoughts is my way of honing my craft and priming myself to accomplish that goal.

As I said before, I don’t know where this journey will lead. As I share my thoughts and feelings, I hope to bring something positive to a world that can use all the positivity it can get. As I continue to grow, develop, and find my voice, I hope that in some small way, you as a reader can benefit. Thank you for being here. Thank you for being my traveling companion.