A Hand Pressing Hard
It’s hard to see through my tears this morning. I keep thinking about Patrick Acosta, the kind, gentle writer and illustrator of children’s stories.
Patrick was a writing student and client. I loved his imagination, faith, and storytelling. He’d found a brilliant approach to telling the Noah’s Ark story by combining sacred texts of different religions.
I remember sitting across from him at a coffee shop, admiring his clever, colorful pictures, laughing at the voices of his characters, at Noah’s unruly teenage son, at the antics of the animals.
At November’s Wildfire Wednesday at Cascade Park Library, Pat took the podium and read his work. His voice was strong and musical, softened with Hispanic notes. He displayed his vibrant illustrations for the audience.
Afterward, as we nibbled from paper plates, Pat mentioned severe back pain which had put him on disability. It sounded like a terrible setback. But of course I thought I would see him again.
He died a week ago. Pancreatic cancer. I found out through Facebook.
I’m not sure what is breaking my heart the most: the fact that he suffered so much and said so little. Or the fact that financial resources kept him from pursuing the healthcare he needed. Or the fact that I have his goals right here on paper in front of me:
In five years I hope to be successful in publishing at least two books.
He didn’t expect to be dead.
I’m crying to think how his writing gave him enormous joy. Having a few of his works and poems recognized meant the world. It’s something he told everyone about, wanted to be remembered for, as friends and family now acknowledge.
I look again at the Coaching Form on my desk. Clear, neat printing in blue ballpoint ink, made by a hand pressing hard. Typewriter-style A, showing unique flair. Two rectangles where he crossed out words and made a new choice. On every line, a word misspelled.
Writing crystallized for him only during the last couple of years. Gaps in education made things tough, and he never had the time or money to pursue his gifts the way he deserved.
He had a hard time squeezing in appointments. He’d say, “I’m helping my family move,” or, “I’m working overtime,” or “I’ve been looking after a friend during a crisis.”
His own dreams seemed to come last.
I thank God Patrick was able to at least get started on those dreams. Yet I am hurting to think he could have gone much further. Probably I could have helped. Could I have encouraged him much more? Yes. Could I have given him technical assistance? Yes. Could I have phoned him more than that one time? Yes. He was always grateful for whatever I offered.
Shoulds and regrets are useless. But Pat’s death reminds me that I’m not just helping people write their little stories. I’m not aiding them in a mindless, innocent pursuit that wastes their time. I’m helping them find their best joy.
Oh, I want to do this more. I want the next Patrick to find joy.
And this: I’m also the next Patrick.
I need to make time for my creative dreams no matter how impossible they seem. I must not let everything else get in the way.
Pat did finish the Noah’s Ark story, and was moving toward publication. A friend of his sent me an email: “Thank you for your part in helping Patrick realize one of his lifelong dreams.”
At the bottom of his coaching form, Patrick wrote:
In ten years, I hope that my writing will have made a positive difference in all aspects of my life.
I hope the same for you.
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| | "Harvest Dance" by Patrick Acosta |
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Need a story prompt?
- Visit the Bookish board for wild and inspiring images.
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Join our workshop series:
Finding Your Stride:
How to Build Momentum in Your Writing Life
Instructors: Sage Cohen and Christi Krug
with Laura Stanfill
Tuesdays,
March 4-25,
6:45 - 9:00 p.m.
Email to register:
christi@christikrug.com
Special event:
Wednesday, February 26, Wildfire Wednesday at Cascade Park Library. 6:00 - 8:00 p.m.
Bring your work to read. Free.
Classes:
New Wildfire Master Class, Wednesdays, 6 pm, March 5 and March 19, April 2 and April 16. Constructive feedback for writing, drafting, revising.
Thursdays in February and March: Wildfire Writing II at Clark College. You can take this class whenever you need a creative boost as it is different every session! Concludes March 27.
Thursday mornings: morning Wildfire Master Class, currently full.
Keep the dream. Create something today.
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I've added Portland classes to the Meetups schedule!
Please join . . .
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