BILLSMOOT

How did Bill Smoot’s essays come about?

I wrote my first essay because I had to. I was sixteen, our principal had just announced that President Kennedy had been shot, and one of my classmates said, “I hope he dies.” Somebody had to take the speaker to task, and lacking a sword, I tried my pen.

Many years later, much has changed about my essays, but not their motivation. A tourist’s callous insult of ancient Greek culture, the soil in which Trumpism grows, the death of my mother, the way little kids play baseball now—I write about these because an inner voice says I have to. They are vessels for my hope, my worry, my care, my grief.

Some of my essays are analytic. I argue why The Catcher in the Rye is an important book to read. Some are love letters—to my mother, my students at San Quentin. Some are explorations of questions without answers.

Though the essay form dates to the ancients, its modern name, bestowed by Montaigne, derives from the French essayer, “to attempt, to try.” I accept the modesty implied by essayer. In these pieces I may not have achieved my goals, but I tried. I had to.