I've thought back recently to moments that helped me know where I was going. Times in my life that tell me this is something I want to be. I've several of them, but one of the most driving points in my life came in one of the hardest times of my childhood.
When I was in seventh grade I was a
tiny quiet little thing, with glasses, braces, and a certain social ineptitude.
I was the least popular kid in all my classes, and school was a torment. I
might have fared better if someone told me what conformity was, or how to do
it, but even without my dorky appearance, every time I opened my mouth to use
extremely big descriptive words, I set myself apart from the group all over
again.
It was halfway through the school year
that my English teacher gave us an assignment, a completely open creative
writing project. We were told to write a short story, it could be about
anything. It was one of the first times that I could remember being given a
chance to simply write, without a dozen addendums and rules to take the joy out
of it. We were all to write a short story, about anything we wanted, and the
stories would be put into a book as a gift for another teacher.
I was excited. I don’t remember the
exact reason I chose my topic, but I decided to write a short story about a man
eating bear that stalked a man in his cabin, hoping to eat him too. I thought
it came out wonderfully, if I had saved a copy I’d love to read it again, I can
hardly remember how it came out. But I do remember writing the climax, the man
made a break for freedom, cutting through the woods, finally having to run as
the bear bore down upon him… And then the bear got shot by the forest ranger,
and the man was saved. (I don’t think it occurred to me to have the bear win. I
was twelve, and they tend to send notes home about stories involving graphic
death.)
I was so proud of that story. The
irony of it is I probably would have turned it in, received my marks, and
forgotten that story completely if not for what happened next. I turned in my
story, and then the next day, during study hour, the teacher called me to her
desk.
“I know what you did.” She stated.
(This all sounds so cliché, but I swear those were her exact words.) I blinked
in confusion. I don’t remember if I said anything or not, but she went on. I’ve
forgotten her exact words, but they went something like this.
“I read your story. It’s very good.”
There I smiled, she liked my work. “Except that it’s obviously too good. ‘Slavering’?
I don’t know where you stole it from but you aren’t fooling me.”
I was completely baffled, stunned
really. She told me I’d be receiving a zero for the assignment and had to take
home a note. I may have cried, but I don’t remember. Years later, it does
strike me as a certain irony that my English
teacher was oblivious to the 900 page hardback historical fiction I had propped
on my desk during reading hour. Or the fact that I was completely shunned by my
peers for using words like ‘slavering’ in a conversation, but it was the fact
that she didn’t that let this story
stick in my mind.
I brought the note home to my
Mother. I do remember her reaction, she looked at the note and looked at me.
“Why does she think you didn’t
write it?”
“She said the words were too big
for a seventh grader.”
“Has she met you?”
After that was a phone call, maybe
even a teacher conference. My Mother was outraged by the accusation. “She’s
scored at a 10th grade reading level!” The teacher was convinced, my
paper was accepted, and it all had a happy ending.
Yet through it all, it wasn’t the
final result that stuck with me, or even the words that I wrote, it was that
singular moment. That instant where I went from being told my words were good,
but that I was unworthy of them. That strange moment of disorientation, when my
ability was called into question.
I’ve always had a stubborn streak. This
whole incident served to prove to me that I had an ability to write, a
potential that I shouldn’t squander. The very words, “this is too good to be
written by you” only serve as fuel for my goal. I want to write my stories, and
tell them well, so that people will find them fantastic. I want to earn my
writers spot, because once upon a time, my words were good enough to convince
my teacher that they didn’t come from me.
