Writers’ egos want to be noticed. We want to be studied. We want captive students to be assigned essays about what we meant.
Or do we? On reflection, no, I don’t want some future high school students forced to study me or find hidden meanings inside “Love God and love your neighbor.” I hope the meaning is plain enough and the reader is going through my words because she wants to.
When Hester Prynne and Arthur Dimmesdale climbed on the scaffold together and I forgot that I was reading because someone made me, when their story grabbed me by the heart and a man writing in 1849 reached across a century and seized me by the imagination, when I realized I loved Nathaniel Hawthorne of all things, my life changed. No one was more surprised or delighted than I.
When Winston Smith looked back in horror to discover he had written “Down with Big Brother” over and over again in his diary, I was frightened for him, too.
When Harry Potter carefully explained to Voldemort why it would be perfectly foolish to cast that killing spell, my eyes were opened and I braced for evil’s final defeat. It was delicious, wasn’t it?
It all began with that assignment, though: “Read The Scarlet Letter.” No one dared suggest I might like it; perhaps that was too much to hope for. You’re supposed to endure your English assignments, not be thrilled.
That is a dream — to be a class assignment in 100 years or so and touch a weary, unsuspecting student in the heart, so his mind is as enchanted as mine was when I was swept into Hawthorne’s story.
Did Nathaniel time travel? Did he see the future where I, not even 18 yet, sat hunched over his book turning pages to reach the climax? Did Hawthorne envision old me, a decade older than he ever was, remembering with goosebumps the night Dimmesdale revealed his truth?
What do we owe those who came before us, who ignited the desire to craft our own tales? What do we owe those who come after? Just this: To point the way to what inspired us, to try building our own fires in their hearts, and to give the next student that ember of “Here, now it’s your turn.”
Yes, The Scarlet Letter is one of my favorite books. You wanna make something of it? I sure do.
