In the Making

in the making: I have notebooks and notebooks filled with unfinished stories giving a home to my lost characters, all in search of some kind of something in hopes of filling a repetitive void. These fictional souls are drenched in wine, apprehension, lack experience and scream potential. Stories about love, lust, loss, romance, betrayal, obsession, all of the above. Artsy individuals just trying to drain their frightening past and gain some piece of mind. Some in search of a remedy, a quick fix to numb the facts. Some with an intense urge for something new in hopes of a self-discovery, an enlightenment of some kind. An answer to an unspoken but obvious question. Written on all their un-existent faces that travel through their eager empty eyes. However, their endings are all the same, unassembled, unwritten, hidden in the matrix. Frozen in another dimension? Or could it be that these lives I’ve convinced myself I’ve brought to existence already exist? Through a portal, on the other side of our infinite universe. Maybe, my mind is connecting with this other world somehow; with these other souls and their stories are unintentionally speaking through me. Through this pen, as I write and dream, colliding together. The bonding of two worlds, both intangible to the other, so close yet worlds away. Can only be sensed never seen, the true meaning of imagination. Or MAYBE, this could just be the start of another failed attempt to portray a potentially polished chronicle that will end like all the others, with no ending at all. Kay Murdy’s Granddaughter Juliana Rose

Gaining New Sight by Kay Murdy, Author, Speaker

Was it just a coincidence? Or was God trying to teach me something — again.

I was attending a retreat earlier this year with my husband, and as I was leaving the chapel, a young woman sitting in the back pew looked up from her reading. “Are you Kay Murdy?” I didn’t know her, but I smiled and said yes. “I wanted to get in touch with you,” she said, “but I didn’t know how to find you, and here you are.”

“Here I am,” I said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

She told me that she was a parochial school teacher and she was using a book I wrote some time ago in her sixth grade class. The book was “Praying the Lord’s Prayer Backwards: A Journey to Freedom through the Exodus.” I couldn’t imagine how this would appeal to sixth graders. “We are studying the Old Testament and I thought your book would be a good companion to the text book. My principal has given me permission to buy each student a copy of your book. But I didn’t know how to find you.” She looked at me hopefully. “You wouldn’t happen to have 35 copies of your book with you?”

Now it just so happened that I did. The trunk of my car is my portable bookstore. Meeting her was a happy coincidence for both of us. My husband loaded the books in her car and she promised to send me a check. And she did.

A short time after this, I received an email from this teacher. Her school was having a career day and her students were anxious to meet me. Some of them were aspiring writers she told me. I called her. “I would be happy to come and share what I can about the writing life. Since I don’t drive freeways, my husband usually chauffeurs me. Where is your school located.”

“In Compton . . . South L.A. . . St. Lawrence Brindisi near the Watts towers.”

I took a deep breath. An inner city school in the heart of a troublesome area. But I had already said I’d come. Could I say no now?

A couple of weeks later, my husband drove me to the school. I was nervous. “That area is not a crime-free utopia,” I said.

“Well, it’s not Afghanistan either,” he said.

“I don’t know what to expect. Will the kids be rowdy, rude, bored? How will they relate to an old woman who writes books?”

“Why don’t you ask them if they have any questions? Then it will be their agenda, not yours.”

When we arrived at the school, we saw a police car in the parking lot. Uh Oh! It turned out the policeman had shown up for career day, too. Me and my snap judgments. The principal met us at the door, along with one of the students who showed me to his classroom. The teacher had also invited seventh graders who were interested in writing. There were so many kids, many of them sat cross-legged on the floor. The demography of the area had changed. Eighty percent were Hispanic and the other twenty African American. Another surprise awaited me. I was met with applause when I walked in. Definitely not rowdy, rude or bored.

After an introduction from one of the young ladies, I told them about myself and how I got started writing — when I was their age, typing on my Dad’s portable Royal. Then I did what my husband suggested. I asked if they had any questions. Hands shot up. The first question took me aback. “Do you write in any other genres?” I was surprised that he knew that word. Jumping to conclusions again! “Do you ever get discouraged writing?” another asked. “How do you feel when you’re rejected?” “Do people tell you that you’re wasting your time writing?” These questions sure told me something about where they were at. I told them that I might get disappointed but I am never willing to give up. I encouraged them not to give up either. I also told them not discourage one another.

“How do you write in the middle of chaos,” a serious boy asked. My mother always called us kids “wild Indians” when we went on the warpath, but his home life must have been another thing altogether.

The questions continued non-stop. “Where do you get your inspiration?” “How did you get published?” “Do you have a fan club?” I told them that they were my fan club. The questions went on and on until the recess bell rang. The teacher told the students to go to the cafeteria if they hadn’t had breakfast. This school also fed their bodies as well as their minds. But the kids didn’t leave. They wanted my autograph, and they lined up to get it, bringing scraps of paper. Some of them wanted me to sign their notebooks along with their friends’ names. What an honor! “I want to be a fashion designer,” a pretty black girl said shyly. “Would you write something to encourage me?” Another girl said she loved to draw but also wanted to be a veterinarian. “When I have my office I’ll hang my drawings on the wall.” Not “If” but “When.” These kids had dreams. Then the principal brought a little third grader for my signature. “I want to be a writer, too,” she said, holding up her notebook and pen.

Before I left, the children serenaded me with “We are one on the Spirit … and they’ll know we are Christians by our love.” So true. Then they presented me with a lovely bouquet.

Driving home that afternoon my husband and I couldn’t stop talking about our experience. These were the brightest, sweetest, respectful children we ever met. I could barely hold back the tears. Yet I could see more clearly now with the insight I had gained.