You Just Don't Get It
An Editorial
By M. Chad Durham
Let’s face it—some folks just don’t get it. My parents never understood my desire to write about the things I like to write about. I remember letting them read a rough draft of a short story I wrote my freshman year of high school. Mrs. Hines, my English teacher, told me, “This is the finest story I’ve ever read from a kid your age.” By contrast, my Mom's reaction just three days earlier was this: “You’re not actually going to turn in that awful story are you?”
Like a lot of pivotal moments from my childhood and adolescence, my parents would argue until they were blue in the face, look me square in the eye, and declare that the moment I just shared never happened. Now I love and respect my parents, but let's be clear--it did happen. I know it did because I swore I’d never allow them to read my fictional work ever again. Why else would I have sworn such an oath?
I guess it was about a year a year ago when I finally relented and let them read a short story I’d written about football. Actually, the story I shared to them was a revision of that short story I’d written almost twenty years before. In my own sly way I suppose I was testing them… feeling them out… giving them a second chance. I was just trying to see if things had changed. Dad said, “It’s a little wordy, don’t you think? And you really need to proof it better.”
(My Dad, Sentence Diagramer Extraordinaire! Misplace a preposition, even intentionally, and it’s right back to study hall... if you can find where it's AT! How unfortunate for a world-renowned grammar expert like my father to have a dyslexic for a child!)
When it comes to my love of film, most folks just don’t get it. My fellow Christians don’t get it because they think Hollywood is responsible for every sin committed in America since 1969. My family doesn’t get it because they think it’s a waste of time. Still others don’t get it because I suspect that secretly they are jealous that I am actually trying to accomplish something in a field a truly love.
In all fairness I must share one more story about Dad. A couple of months ago we were sitting together in his office when out of nowhere he said, “Son, I don’t care what you write about as long as you give people hope. Tell stories that give people hope.” Even now, as I type these words, tears are streaming down my face. As I watch my Dad grow frail I understand that our time is limited. He won’t always be around, but he wanted to set the record straight—he does get it! He understands that I like to write about human frailty and in the past two years I’ve been delighted to learn that he does have a profound understanding of human frailty.
I wish more people could get it. I do wish more people would see what I see. I’ve written nine screenplays. Every one of them is rough and in desperate need of a wholesale rewrite, but I’ve penned them nonetheless. The stories are all mine. As I reflected recently I realized that slowly my writing has become more and more hopeful.
By M. Chad Durham
Let’s face it—some folks just don’t get it. My parents never understood my desire to write about the things I like to write about. I remember letting them read a rough draft of a short story I wrote my freshman year of high school. Mrs. Hines, my English teacher, told me, “This is the finest story I’ve ever read from a kid your age.” By contrast, my Mom's reaction just three days earlier was this: “You’re not actually going to turn in that awful story are you?”
Like a lot of pivotal moments from my childhood and adolescence, my parents would argue until they were blue in the face, look me square in the eye, and declare that the moment I just shared never happened. Now I love and respect my parents, but let's be clear--it did happen. I know it did because I swore I’d never allow them to read my fictional work ever again. Why else would I have sworn such an oath?
I guess it was about a year a year ago when I finally relented and let them read a short story I’d written about football. Actually, the story I shared to them was a revision of that short story I’d written almost twenty years before. In my own sly way I suppose I was testing them… feeling them out… giving them a second chance. I was just trying to see if things had changed. Dad said, “It’s a little wordy, don’t you think? And you really need to proof it better.”
(My Dad, Sentence Diagramer Extraordinaire! Misplace a preposition, even intentionally, and it’s right back to study hall... if you can find where it's AT! How unfortunate for a world-renowned grammar expert like my father to have a dyslexic for a child!)
When it comes to my love of film, most folks just don’t get it. My fellow Christians don’t get it because they think Hollywood is responsible for every sin committed in America since 1969. My family doesn’t get it because they think it’s a waste of time. Still others don’t get it because I suspect that secretly they are jealous that I am actually trying to accomplish something in a field a truly love.
In all fairness I must share one more story about Dad. A couple of months ago we were sitting together in his office when out of nowhere he said, “Son, I don’t care what you write about as long as you give people hope. Tell stories that give people hope.” Even now, as I type these words, tears are streaming down my face. As I watch my Dad grow frail I understand that our time is limited. He won’t always be around, but he wanted to set the record straight—he does get it! He understands that I like to write about human frailty and in the past two years I’ve been delighted to learn that he does have a profound understanding of human frailty.
I wish more people could get it. I do wish more people would see what I see. I’ve written nine screenplays. Every one of them is rough and in desperate need of a wholesale rewrite, but I’ve penned them nonetheless. The stories are all mine. As I reflected recently I realized that slowly my writing has become more and more hopeful.
I wanna be like The Postman, remember him? Probably not. People were pretty hard on Kevin Costner for making that one, but during the course of the film a woman observes that The Postman gave out hope like it was candy from his pocket. That's what I want to do! I want to pass out hope like its candy from my pocket.
How can a minister be a movie buff? A film critic? How can a Christian be a screenwriter and a filmmaker?
If you have to ask, you just don’t get it.
Maybe better to ask—why am I a minister? Why am I a Christian?
Even so, if you have to ask, you probably just don’t get it.
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