Becoming a writer

Last week, after a silly exchange with a coworker that involved both of us trying and failing to dredge up basic French phrases from long ago school days, I spent my commute home thinking about eighth grade — the year I took French — and the lessons I learned that year that have stuck with me.

Eighth grade was the year I enrolled in drama, when even an iota of self-awareness would have been enough to realize what a terrible fit it would be for me. I never made that mistake again. 

It was the year I enrolled in the aforementioned French class and committed to memory a poem about a fox and a crow and a piece of cheese. I can still recite a few lines, a skill that’s oddly not in high demand.

But the lesson that’s had the most staying power over more than four decades came from a student teacher in my English class that year. I don’t remember her name. I have an impression of dark hair, curls. I have an impression that I did not take her seriously when she arrived in our classroom.

One day, she gave us a writing assignment: describe a basketball. How ridiculous, I thought. What a stupid assignment. And so I “forgot” to do it until about 10 minutes before class, when I tossed off something quick and dismissive — orange, round, black lines.

The student teacher should have given me a failing grade. She could easily have been as dismissive and disrespectful of me as I was of her. Instead, she took me aside and said, “You’re a better writer than this. Do better.”

She gave me a chance to rewrite the assignment, and she gave me a reason to care. She thought I was a good writer. She expected better of me. 

When I sat down with pencil and paper for my second attempt, I really thought about the concept of a basketball. I imagined holding it, smelling it, hearing it bounce, seeing it carom through a hoop. I thought deeply about how to creatively describe a basketball.

I don’t remember what grade I got on the revised assignment, but the lesson that student teacher taught me — I’m a writer, I can do better — has stayed with me for more than four decades. I think about her often, especially when the writing gets hard, when I’m tempted to resort to cliches or rush through a scene in an attempt to get to “The End” faster. I wish I could remember her name. I hope she had a fantastic career and inspired hundreds, thousands, of students to do better. I’m glad she gave me a second chance to describe a dang basketball.

Eighth grade — the year I gave up any dream of becoming a famous actress, the year I memorized a silly poem about cheese, and the year I began to think of myself as a writer.

Coming soon

Shotgun Honey Presents: Thicker Than Water, a charity anthology to benefit breast cancer research, releases Friday and includes my story, “Some Things Never Change.” I’m proud to be included alongside many writers I admire.