Kimberly Willis Holt
Kimberly
Willis Holt at the 50th Anniversary National Book
Awards Dinner and Ceremony. Photo: Robin Platzer.
My twelfth year was a solitary one. I had few friends,
none that I interacted with after school. Every weekday
afternoon, I raced home to watch the Watergate trials
and eat homemade fried apply pies. I wish I could
say that a desire to read all the great American writers
caused me to select a Carson McCullers' novel. Instead
a pretty blond girl looking wistfully at the moon
beckoned me to take a closer look.
Yes, I chose The Heart is a Lonely Hunter
because of the cover. But when I turned to the first
page, I was lost-lost in a world unlike my own, though
one I felt a part of. I felt like Mick and to my surprise
like the deaf mutes too. Back then I couldn't see
the connection between the lonely characters and the
chubby preteen on her couch, watching John Dean testify.
I only knew the story caused a lump to form in my
throat.
Today I recognize McCullers' genius. Her talent for
crafting a world made up of complex characters seemingly
without effort. But at twelve my view was simple;
her characters were real people to me.
Before I read The Heart is a Lonely Hunter,
I enjoyed writing but I never thought about being
a writer. After reading Carson McCullers' book, I
wanted to write characters that rang true with readers,
and more than anything I longed to write a story that
caused a lump to form in someone's throat.
Kimberly Willis Holt |
