PSU Magazine Winter 2003

of Baslictball and Honor on the Little Big Horn, the sLOry of a gifted high school basketball player and Crow Indian liv– ing on a Montana reservation. After three years working on the book, li.e sent in his draft. While wailing for Doubleday's response, he volunteered to teach a couple of writing classes al Grant High School. A t the school, another light bulb went off. Most teachers , Colton says, have little or no training in how to teach writing. "Young teachers come out, and they don't understand the process of writ– ing," says Colton. "They don't know how Lo get kids to rewrite, which is such an important pan of writing." A t the same time, his own professional experience wasn't going that well . Doubleday was taking their own sweet time about getting back to him, but in the end maybe that was for the best. Ultimately, the publisher of Goat Broth– ers decided to take a pass on Counting Coup. In fact , they hinted, iL wou ld probably be impossible for anyone to ever publish the book. T alk about deflating," says Colton. "Not only did they reject it, they wanted their money back. At that point, I did think , 'Maybe T'm in the wrong business."' 12 PSU MAGAZINE WINTER 2003 A fter 18 years of writing, Colton was back to square one. "l was in huge denial," he says. "People would ask how the book was going, and I'd say, 'OK."' To earn a living, Colton built on his observation that teachers needed help teaching kids LO write. He snagged grants from local movers and shakers like Arlene SchniLZer and the Meyer Memorial Trust and started a program of residencies in the schools to teach writing-featuring himself as the first writer-in-residence. And he re0ected on Doubleday's message. "A fter I got over my shock, I realized Counting Coup didn't deserved to be published. It was a great story, but the book had no point of view, no pas ion . It was trying to be politically correct. " That summer, he started over. He wrote 50 pages and showed it to a couple of friends, one of whom praised the work highly. But school started and Colton went back to his writer residen– cies. month later, he and the friend , one of Portland's power players, went to lunch at an upscale eatery. The friend asked how the new work was going, and Colton confessed that he'd not had Lime to write since school started. "He went ballistic," says Colton. "He told me, 'You ought LO see a shrink. You have talent and you're wasting it. ' Peo– ple were turning around to stare." The friend demanded to know how much ColLOn needed Lo finish the book. "I hemmed and hawed ," says Colton. "Finally I told him I thought I could do it for $35,000. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his check– book and wrote me a check. "My first thought," he jokes, "was I should have asked for $100,000." Instead , Colton decided against Laking a friend's money in the event the sec– ond draft also bombed. "I gave him the check back, but his confidence and his support bolstered my own confidence." Colton began writing every day from 6 a.m. to n oon and working in the afternoons on the writers-in-r~sidence program, now called Community of Writers. He took seven months to rewrite the manuscript, which was accepted, nominated for a 2001 Ore– gon Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize, and given the first-ever Best Non– fiction award for work originally published in eBook form from the Internati onal eBook Award Founda– tion. N ow, he's al work on his next book, a nonfiction account of four World War 11 submariners who were Japanese - prisoners of war. He still sticks Lo his 6 a.m. to noon writing schedule and works on pro_Jects in the afternoon, including a new one Lo create a week– end of literary events in Portland next October. ith his daughters grown, a solid relationship with his third wife, and two critically acclaimed books Lo his name, Colton should be enjoying his successes. But for Colton, that's not always easy " In high school, college, my formative years," he says, "my identity was spons. I was a California boy. I didn't think of myself in terms of \Vriting. In college I had to take remedial Eng– lish-we called it 'Bonehead English.' And I 0unked. l had Lo take it twice. "N ow, when I give a speech al the Oregon Book Awards or put 'writer' as my occupation on my Lax forms, I feel like I'm an imposter. I think, this is a joke. Someone's going to tap me on the shoulder and say, 'Oh , by the way. You still haven't passed Bonehead English. "' □ (Me lissa Steincge ,; a Portland freelance write,; wrote the article "On the Road for Humanity" for the fa ll 2002 PSU Magazine.) What's the easiest way to become a good writer? The answer is uncomplicated and obvious. Work hard. "I labor over every sentence, every paragraph, and I rewrite and rewrite," says Larry Colton, Portland author and former professional baseball player. "If I had worked as hard at baseball as I do at writing, I'd have probably been in the Hall of Fame." Colton knows something about fame. He's a Pulitzer Prize nominee, nominee for the 1993 and 2001 literary nonfiction Oregon Book Award, .,--, and winner of the 2001 eBook Foundation award for Best Non- fiction work originally pub- J;_; lished in eBook form. ,, Now, as the founder of the J Community of Writers (COW) / program, Colton and 50 other Portland writers are attempting to share their intimate knowledge about writing-and rewrit– ing-with kids and their teachers in grades three through eight. Their goal is to improve student writing achievement by improving the quality of writing instruction. Each summer, using grants from local philanthropists and foundations, COW puts teachers through a week– long workshop in writing-taught by local writers and focused on teachers becoming writing students them– selves for the week. The following school year, teachers who have com– pleted the workshop can select four writers to visit their classrooms for one-week residencies. The teachers get $400 to buy books for their school. And they have help with a "Family Write Night," an evening for fami– lies to spend writing with one of the writers-in– residence. Affiliated with PSU's Center for Writing Excellence, COW offers professional development credits to teach– ers who take the workshop. "The teachers write, and we work with them and give them strategies to teach writing," says Colton. "I'm hard on them, but I try to be supportive. We've had 400 teachers go through the program, and 399 said it was the best professional development they've taken." He pauses, then adds tongue-in-cheek, "We summarily executed the one." □ \\ INTER 2003 PSU MAGAZINE 13