(no subject)
I had this teacher once, who always said, "Write what you feel, Bri. If you do that, you'll always be the writer I know you are." She always had more confidence in me than I had in myself. She always told me I was the best writer she's ever had. Her confidence inspired me to try, to stretch, to look at writing as something more than schoolwork. After I moved on, and no longer had her as a teacher, I still wrote. I still wrote what I felt, filled the blank pages with my thoughts, scratched across the empty paper until my hand hurt. Some things I showed to other teachers, they usually came back with enthusiastic comments, pleas to join the creative writing class, or to send the essay into a contest. Empty words, because for some reason no one could match the intensity of the one who first fanned my flame. No matter how heart felt any teacher was, it somehow fell flat in comparison to my first cheerleader. So for some reason, I stopped. I wrote when I had to, but the pile of completed journals stopped growing. I tucked them away, along with my aspirations to do something grand with my writing one day. My mother was sad, she didn't say anything, but I could see the sadness in her eyes when I refused her offer to buy me a new journal, or send me to one of the writing camps I used to love. It just wasn't there. I couldn't say why, but the force that used to make the words flow out of me had stopped, dried up.
I'm going to see my teacher in a few months. She moved to Poland shortly after I had her as an instructor, and I've only seen her one time since then. We've revived our correspondence in the past few months, and her enthusiasm came spilling out of her emails, flowing into me as it used to when she told me I could write, could write in a special way. Ever so slowly, as we've been talking more and more, I've been looking through my old journals. I pulled out a collection of my essays from middle and high school, and read through them. The journal display at my favorite bookstore has been looking ever more appealing. Yesterday, I wrote again. For the first time in years, I really let it go. I didn't think really, just wrote. Nothing too spectacular I'm sure, but it was me again. Me, on the page.
When I was finished, I could think only one thing.
Joyce would be so proud.
I'm going to see my teacher in a few months. She moved to Poland shortly after I had her as an instructor, and I've only seen her one time since then. We've revived our correspondence in the past few months, and her enthusiasm came spilling out of her emails, flowing into me as it used to when she told me I could write, could write in a special way. Ever so slowly, as we've been talking more and more, I've been looking through my old journals. I pulled out a collection of my essays from middle and high school, and read through them. The journal display at my favorite bookstore has been looking ever more appealing. Yesterday, I wrote again. For the first time in years, I really let it go. I didn't think really, just wrote. Nothing too spectacular I'm sure, but it was me again. Me, on the page.
When I was finished, I could think only one thing.
Joyce would be so proud.