A short story on how writing changed my little 9 year old self.
For a very long time I believed that writing was something everyone was deeply passionate for. It wasn’t until 4th grade I discovered that what I felt very little of my peers could relate to, it wasn’t until someone told me that they believed I had something that a lot if people they knew didn’t.
However, the year I had first discovered the wonders of writing was the year that someone important in my life had drifted away and I struggled to find the motivation to do much of anything that I enjoyed.
Fast forward 2 years and we’re assigned to type our first paper of the year, with an intriguing prompt:
“Describe a time that you were frightened, and how you dealt with the situation”
I quickly found my ideal topic so I began to write that day and turned the finished copy in within a couple of days. I wasn’t really impressed with my work but I found it acceptable enough to turn in and receive a decent grade.
About a week later my 6th grade language arts teacher passed out our papers, when she reached my desk she paused for a moment looked at me, and gave me a warm smile. Confused, I took my paper and turned it to the side showing my grade. I seen a big red “A” on the top, with a note on top that read “Isabella, you are a very talented writer”.
I felt so undeserving of my grade. It wasn’t my best work, it felt like I had been cheated, like my teacher had been cheated.
But in the same moment I felt so proud of my work. Just knowing that something that isn’t even to my full capabilities is good enough.
I guess you could say that the experience in 6th grade “rekindled” my “relationship” with writing.
From then on whenever I write anything, no matter what subject, I try to put my best effort in it. Lots of times I don’t even finish because I get lost in the midst of the plot (which I’m sure others can relate to). But nonetheless I try. And I believe that’s all that’s important.