Phil Egan
When I told my father as a young boy I was considering a career as a writer, he probably viewed it as similar to the adolescent dreams of becoming a firefighter or astronaut.
In other words, not serious.
But I thought I could do it, and the opportunity came to prove it in 1962 when I was a 14-year-old Grade 10 student at St. Patricia’s High School.
The entire school was given the assignment of writing a short story as part of a school-wide competition. I worked on mine for weeks before submitting the final version.
The winning entries were announced in May, about six weeks prior to summer break. The results amazed me.
The winning entry had been penned by one of my closest friends – I’ll call him J.T. The teachers were so impressed with J.T.’s short story they put a copy on the main bulletin board and encouraged everyone in the school to read it.
I read the story after school one night and was stunned. It was one of the most impressive pieces of writing I’d ever seen.
The story revolved around an international conference held amidst an atmosphere of global crisis and panic. J.T. had used haunting allusions to the swirling snow outside the conference to brilliantly heighten tension.
In all the years I’d known him, J.T. had never expressed the slightest interest in writing; but clearly he had an awesome talent.
In the midst of J.T. being praised and congratulated by the teaching staff and receiving backslaps and “way-to-go’s” from all his friends and buddies, another surprise was unveiled.
The top two short stories – J.T.’s and mine, the recipient of second prize, would be published in the weekly Sarnia Gazette. The legendary newspaper was published by future mayor Marceil Saddy.
J.T.’s winning story was first to go to press, published in two installments
After the first installment, all hell broke loose.
According to the Gazette, they received more than 1,000 phone calls advising that J.T.’s prize-winning entry had been taken word-for-word from a six-month old issue of McCall’s magazine.
In lieu of publishing the second installment, Saddy penned a diatribe on the evils of plagiarism.
Needless to say, after being burned by one student, Saddy and the Gazette weren’t about to take a chance on another. My story never saw the light of day.
My young career thus stymied, I went into the travel business instead, where I remained for the next 40 years.
Now I’m back, having learned the old maxim at an early age that if you steal from one writer, it’s plagiarism, while if you steal from many, it’s research.
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