My Seventh Grade English Teacher

I was in English class. I was in the seventh grade and I was twelve years old. Our English teacher asked us to write short stories based on the fairy tales we read in class.

I wrote a short love story about a young man who fell in love with a girl he saw bathing in a lake. My English teacher loved my story and she told me I ought to get together with her to discuss how to get it published. I did not pay her any attention. I was embarrassed to be recognized by her. I did not like to be the center of attention and when she told me about how she felt about my story, I did not respond. I placed my attention on something else at the time. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that she was disappointed.

I got a good grade on my short story. I do not know where I put that story. I did not think it was possible for me to write for a living. That story was never published anywhere.

Near the end of that school year, my English teacher announced that she was going to teach at a different school, in Cape Cod.

I did not let myself feel anything at the time.

Now, at 29, I still remember her face, name, and some of the lessons I had in her class and some of my classmates.

I am starting to write again and I think about her face now whenever I write something. I do not know if I can earn any means from my writing but I love it very much and I hope to affect some people out there with it.

I think nearly nonstop; I only stop thinking when I sleep. Once I wake, I think again. Because I think, I have so much to say. Writing has been the best way for me to say what I want. I will never stop writing again. Let me see where this goes.