I was fourteen years-old and entering the eighth grade. I was so excited. There was a creative writing class that everyone had to verbally interview for. I was so nervous. But I got in, presumably because I had convinced the teacher of my passion for writing.
Over the course of the term we were to each write a short story. The first half of the term was dedicated to reading published short stories from a variety of authors. Then, come mid-term, over the course of several weeks, each of us read our “first draft” short story to the rest of the class. When it came my turn to stand before the class, my teacher shut me down half way through.
“Stop,” she shouted. “Stop reading now!”
The whole class was stunned, I more than anyone.
“I’m sorry. I can’t listen to anymore,” she continued. She stood up, took in a deep breath and just stared at me for the longest time. “I’m very disappointed. Please take your seat.”
I was dumbfounded. I had spent so much time writing my little story. I had the best time creating this world for my main character to live in. And I was so sure that it was really good. When the teacher shot me down in front of my peers I was mortified.
Without any explanation of what she had done, she simply called the next student in class to come up and read her story.
There was a good 30 minutes or more left in the hour. As I sat frozen at my desk, my head was spinning. I could feel my face beet red. As student after student read their stories, I heard nothing but a swirling, churning bunch of garble. Panic gripped my stomach and my breathing became short and labored. I had to get the hell out of there. Without permission, and without a word, I rose, grabbed my books and left.
The rest of the day was a blur. I was so embarrassed. And the worse part about it was that I actually thought that maybe writing could be my thing. For the last few years I had written little stories and plays. I was beginning to think of myself as a writer in some small way. After what happened in class, I felt so hurt. So lost. Writing was to be my thing. Not anymore. The more I thought about it, the more pissed I got. I went to her class room to find out why she said what she did.
When I asked her what was wrong with my story she seemed to revel in telling me that the structure was non-existent, the plot would only appeal to a kindergartener, and the main character had zero character.
Holy shit, I thought. Tears welled up in my eyes.
“Look, I’m going to save you a lot of heartache,” she said. “In your interview, you said you loved writing and wanted to be a writer. Understand, that will never happen for you. I don’t wish to be cruel. But being a writer takes talent, which you simply don’t have.”
“Dang. What a bitch.” But in a weird way, in the back of my head, I kind of appreciated what she was trying to do. Save me from my own dreams. But, I was left with a problem. Being a writer is what anchored me as a fourteen-year-old kid desperate to grasp onto anything that would give me an identity. Now, who was I? That was a big problem to have for a gawky fourteen-year-old kid who was far too sensitive for his own good.
Throughout the rest of my time in high school, the experience stayed with me. I had the deep-seated need in me to write stories. It was an actual ache in my stomach. But why bother? I didn’t have any talent. I was hurting and very confused. It colored everything else I did in high school, and after.
It wasn’t until college that I was able to really deal with the embarrassment and humiliation. One day, as I was standing in line registering for classes, I was thinking about that day in class. Just then a thought popped into my head. She was an f’in teacher. She taught a creative writing class. If my story was so bad, and, just for the record, I’m sure it was, it was her job to teach me. But instead… “Damn. What a bitch.”
That moment standing in line was huge for me. I well imagine that many of my readers will think that I was a nut-case kid who never could shake off an insignificant bad moment from eighth grade. Sorry to say, for whatever reason, I was not able to shake it off…until that moment standing in line.
Instead of registering for a beginning accounting class, I registered for a creative writing class. And though I was not the star pupil in that particular class, I got better. The better I got, the more I wrote, and the more creative writing classes I took. By the start of my sophomore year, I changed my major to creative writing and I went on to attend UCLA graduating with honors.
That teacher? I have long since forgiven her. But I can’t help but wonder how many other students she affected in a negative way. What a shame. Her job was to teach and she didn’t.