Shane Rhyne

Isn’t it amazing how something as simple as a date on a calendar can make you stop short and catch your breath? That’s the way it was for me earlier today when I realized today was a reminder of a missing friend.

Alex Haley, known to the world as the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Roots, died on February 10, 1992. That was twenty years ago, one score of years. His passing is now so far in my own past I can use Biblical measurements to calculate the distance. And, yet, if I close my eyes and think for a moment, I can hear his voice as clear as if he were sitting next to me now.

It’s no revelation to say that time is a funny thing. I can remember details of that February day with amazing clarity, while I’d have a difficult time trying to tell you what I had for lunch yesterday.

My own father was responsible for introducing me to Alex. In 1990, my dad and Alex struck up a business deal in which Dad would license the rights to Alex’s name and image to produce a series of limited edition collectibles based on Alex’s childhood memories of life in Henning, Tennessee. I was asked if I wanted to come home from Memphis back to East Tennessee to work with them on the project. At 21 years old, I left college in my rearview mirror and put my studies on hold for a chance to work alongside a legendary writer. I wouldn’t regret a moment of that decision.

I had a variety of tasks to handle. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had essentially taken my first job as a public relations professional. I would work with Alex to schedule media interviews and public appearances. I helped coordinate the formation of a fan club of collectors of the figurines and the one and only gathering of the club’s national membership at Haley Farm in 1991. I was also a magazine and newsletter editor, writer of press releases, and researcher.

All along the way, Alex was a kind influence upon me. I was always impressed that he would take the time out of his busy schedule to talk with a young man just barely above legal drinking age when the world was pulling him in so many directions. I remarked to someone once, and I don’t think Alex would have minded the comparison, that he had become a third grandfather to me in some ways.

Naturally, we talked about writing a great deal. He asked me what I most wanted to do in life.

“I want to be a writer,” I said.

“No,” he told me. “You want to write. People who say they want to be a writer mostly want to appear on talk shows and at literary cocktail parties. You can do better than that. You can write.”

It was a lesson that, twenty years on, I am still trying to master.

Alex had a personal motto. It was a simple reminder of what he thought was the essence of writing: “Find the good and praise it.”

He lived that motto. If he saw a job well-done, he made a point to offer praise. It didn’t matter if he was complimenting another writer or a busboy at a restaurant. I know, because he once made a call to me that will forever rank as one of the best phone calls I ever received.

Alex was on the road constantly in those final years, traveling to schools and corporations to speak about his writing. He was, to his own chagrin, a writer now – someone who spent most of his time talking about writing. This meant that a lot of writing assignments fell to me in regards to the collectibles line. In addition to the publicity materials and press releases, I would often have to take Alex’s handwritten notes, and sometimes even audio recordings, about stories from his childhood and transcribe them into stories the artists could use to inspire their sculptures. All of these materials would have to be read and approved by Alex at some point before moving forward.

One afternoon, I received a call at my desk. I immediately recognized the whispered tones of his voice, but he introduced himself to me anyway as he would any time he called.

“Shane, this is Alex. Alex Haley. How are you doing today?”

With pleasantries exchanged, he moved to the point of his phone call. He said he did not have time to speak very long. He was at the airport in Detroit waiting to change planes. He then told me he had spent the flight from Knoxville reading all sorts of documents given to him by his administrative assistant to review and approve.

“About halfway through the flight, I realized that these weren’t just business documents,” he said. “I realized these had been written.”

He placed a great emphasis on the last word, then paused a beat before continuing.

“When we landed, I called the office and asked to know who wrote all of these papers. They told me it was you and I immediately called you. I thought you should know that I like your writing very much. I also hope that you would consider helping me edit some of my own writing some time.”

I stammered. I stuttered. I managed a thank you and a few likely nonsensical sounds. He made a soft chuckling sound and told me to keep up the good work. He had to go. His flight was ready and he asked me to wish my family well.

I had the pleasure of working with him for another year before he died while on another speaking tour.

Sometimes I wonder if he is able to see the path he set me on with his simple praise on the phone between connecting flights. Writing isn’t easy. In moments of frustration and self-doubt, I have his gentle praise to push me on. In memory, he reminds me to write and not worry about being a writer.

Selfishly, I wish Alex was still among us. I think he’d be an amazing blogger at the age of 90. It would fit so well with his love of storytelling.  I don’t know what he’d think of Twitter, but I bet he would have embraced YouTube with open arms. He’d be delighted by the power of social media and the Internet to connect us across oceans, to conduct research, to teach, to collaborate, to kindle friendships.

I think he’d relish the way our ability to tell stories has evolved in the digital realm. If only we’d remember to write, to find good and praise it.

Twenty years gone in the blink of an eye. It’s time to get serious about my writing again before another twenty years slips away.