How things change
Some kids hate eating vegetables. I hated writing.
From my earliest moments in primary school, I avoided writing whenever I could. I'd push my book away, drop my pencils on the floor and make a face when forced to write.
'Just one sentence,' the teachers would say. 'If you don't finish your writing, you won't be allowed to play any games.' Children have looked at plates of overcooked Brussels sprouts with more enthusiasm than I directed at my workbooks.
I still don't know why I found the process so painful. I had no trouble forming the letters, teaching myself cursive in grade one. The shapes came easily enough, and I copied lettering styles from the covers of books. Most of my letters became pictures, quickly growing to fill the blank space on the page. Words were far less interesting than pictures.
It wasn't a matter of learning a vocabulary, either. I read voraciously, hauling dozens of books home after each trip to the library. My head was full of stories, and I filled exercise books with pictures illustrating them. My teachers despaired. 'No more drawing in class!' they demanded, hoping that I would start to write instead. I didn't.
I still have an exercise book from grade three, proudly labelled ‘Writing Journal.’ Despite the optimistic title, the book contains just four words: 'On the holidays, I'.
Whatever happened those holidays, I certainly didn’t feel like writing about it. The rest of the book is blank. Pristine expanses of prime writing real estate, untouched by pen or pencil. I keep the book to remind myself how things change.
As the years passed, I slowly grew out of my loathing. While my peers were learning that broccoli and sprouts were, in fact, edible, I discovered that words weren't always a poor substitute for pictures. In grade five, a substitute teacher coaxed three paragraphs from me. After a unit on fiction in year eight, I turned in sixty pages to a shocked teacher.
Many years and thousands of pages later, I found myself enrolled in a Professional Writing course. Looking back at how much I've changed over the years, I guess I must be getting old…
From my earliest moments in primary school, I avoided writing whenever I could. I'd push my book away, drop my pencils on the floor and make a face when forced to write.
'Just one sentence,' the teachers would say. 'If you don't finish your writing, you won't be allowed to play any games.' Children have looked at plates of overcooked Brussels sprouts with more enthusiasm than I directed at my workbooks.
I still don't know why I found the process so painful. I had no trouble forming the letters, teaching myself cursive in grade one. The shapes came easily enough, and I copied lettering styles from the covers of books. Most of my letters became pictures, quickly growing to fill the blank space on the page. Words were far less interesting than pictures.
It wasn't a matter of learning a vocabulary, either. I read voraciously, hauling dozens of books home after each trip to the library. My head was full of stories, and I filled exercise books with pictures illustrating them. My teachers despaired. 'No more drawing in class!' they demanded, hoping that I would start to write instead. I didn't.
I still have an exercise book from grade three, proudly labelled ‘Writing Journal.’ Despite the optimistic title, the book contains just four words: 'On the holidays, I'.
Whatever happened those holidays, I certainly didn’t feel like writing about it. The rest of the book is blank. Pristine expanses of prime writing real estate, untouched by pen or pencil. I keep the book to remind myself how things change.
As the years passed, I slowly grew out of my loathing. While my peers were learning that broccoli and sprouts were, in fact, edible, I discovered that words weren't always a poor substitute for pictures. In grade five, a substitute teacher coaxed three paragraphs from me. After a unit on fiction in year eight, I turned in sixty pages to a shocked teacher.
Many years and thousands of pages later, I found myself enrolled in a Professional Writing course. Looking back at how much I've changed over the years, I guess I must be getting old…