J. C. Woods

Biographies, like obituaries and resumes, are often collections of useless statistics purporting to inform while giving the reader no purchase on the person described. To say, for instance, that I was born in Memphis, TN in 1954 tells you that I am currently middle aged and grew up in the segregated South. You have been told the facts, but have no inkling of the use to which I have put them. That I am an Episcopal Priest means that I have a couple degrees (BA, Grinnell College, ’75 and M. Div., Episcopal Divinity School, ’79), so I must have stayed awake in class often enough to pass some courses, but the content I learned and how much I have retained are left in mystery. So, let me tell you a story:

Once upon a time, when I was a small boy, I brought my Mother a book that I wanted her to read to me. She begged off, offering a lame excuse, so I bit her on the knee. Fast-forward three decades. My Mother and I are in a conversation and I reminded her of that night and watched her eyes cloud over with recollected anger. “Mama, ” I said, “it was a book and I couldn’t read it. Imagine my frustration.” A light went on in her head. “Of course,” she said, “ you couldn’t read yet and I wouldn’t read to you, that would have made you very upset.” As indeed it did.

The child could not explain himself to his Mother. Unable to put his feelings into words, he acted them out. Later, when he could speak, and she had known him longer, he helped her to see the event differently. Life, lived forward, is understood backwards. If I wanted to describe myself as a writer, I would say I write books about love and memory. Everything I have written so far comes down to describing this conjunction.

From my cradle I have wanted to be a poet, but God neglected to give me literary talent. “If you can’t do, teach and if you can’t write, criticize” (would that work as an epitaph?). I write books about books by truly great authors who wrote stories about love and recollection. Wrapping myself in their feathers and lip-syncing (if unconvincingly) to their songs is my consolation prize.

Hopefully, instead of a dry recitation of my cv, I have explained something of why I am a writer and have written these books. They were all written in and for my happiness and if they make you happy as well, all the better. There is no greater love than to give one’s life for a friend, but as for me, I’ll just write a book.

Grace and peace,

J. C.