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We writers know overwhelming odds. Getting to write The End when you complete a manuscript is a moment fought for by all of us. James Patterson likened finishing a novel to a task no less difficult than sailing around the world.
Today I pack and finish the last minute details needed for going to Nationals, and I can't help but think about the places I'm going to see, the things I'm going to do: I hope to stand in the room where Margaret Mitchell penned one of the most famous romances in publishing history; I want to be awed by the beauty of nature at the new aquarium everyone tells me I should not miss; I think about the nerves I have surrounding my editor and agent appointments, and how I want to simply nail them and come away with requests for fulls.
But, that will all be set aside on Tuesday, July 25, 2006 when I stand in front of the marker where Henry "Hammerin' Hank" Aaron stood on April 8, 1974, as he knocked a fast ball over the left field fence of Fulton County Stadium in the fourth inning in front of 53,775 screaming Atlanta Braves fans.
Watching Hank Aaron play, the joy on his face when he was on the field was obvious and complete. The worry wasn't there when he hit the ball, not the moment he had to concentrate and do his job. In spite of everything happening around him in 1973 and the Winter of 1974, he persisted. He showed up to train, he travelled with the team, he produced the runs and fielded the balls that came to him in right field. He kept his dignity throughout it all.
He also endured death threats on himself, and his college daughter; there was an abortive attempt to kidnap her. He hired a bodyguard to be with him everywhere. All because he was born black and was on the verge of tying and breaking Babe Ruth's home run record.
As a 14-year-old white girl living in the San Fernando Valley, I rooted for Hammerin' Hank. I have always felt records are made to be broken, that we should all aspire to go beyond the greats, setting the bar higher for the next generation. I knew, in spite of my being a woman, I would never face the same adversity as Hank Aaron did in his lifetime.
When I stand with my Wonderful Husband™ at the marker where Aaron hit home run number 715, I hope to soak up the achievement and take some of it with me. I'll never have to hire a bodyguard to go to my computer and write. My stepson will never be threatened or nearly kidnapped if I win more RITAs than Nora Roberts. I will, however, love what I do with the same passion, and remember that the same thing inside Hank Aaron that made him persist and wreck that baseball to conquer the Babe lives in me, too.
In the face of that, hitting one out of the park at my appointments should be a piece of cake.
See you all in Atlanta!
Don't Stop Writing,
Sandra Richards
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