Why I want to write
As an end of semester treat and because she is leaving the school next year, one of my teachers decided to hold a writing contest amongst the students. The question was simple; why do you want to write?
I should explain that I'm a journalism student at Centennial College in Toronto, so my class is one of aspiring writers. That being said only three of them, myself included, decided to take part in the contest. In the name of fairness the winner was chosen by ballot and only students who did not take place got to vote. So the vote was held today and no, I did not win; however I decided to post my entry here.
When I was a young girl my mother would spend hours reading to me. By the time the first grade rolled around I had developed a great love of the written word. In fact less than half way through grade one I had read every single book in my classroom. My teacher was forced to send me to the library, by myself, in order to pacify my seemingly endless quest for stories.The other two entries are posted here, although I think that they are going to be taken down soon.
It was in grade four that my future career was decided, I was going to write. It is entirely possible that other subjects suffered as a result, math in particular was always a challenge for me. But whenever my teachers asked for a short story or a piece of poetry, I merely had to reach into my already extensive collection of written works.
It should be said that while I may have had a knack for creative writing, spelling and grammar were an issue. This was never a big deal for me in grade school, my teachers acknowledged the problem and worked with me to fix it, but grading always reflected the creativity and effort put into my work, never the technicalities. That all changed when I hit junior high, where not only did we receive letter grades (previously I had only been graded in increments of satisfactory, average, above average etc.), but I found that grading become a lot harder.
One teacher in particular was quite harsh. I authored a story that I was sure would impress, but when I got it back, it was marked up with more red ink than I had ever seen and a great big C. After class I went to my teacher’s desk, I spoke quickly because my chest was tightening and I knew that it was only a matter of time before I burst into tears. I asked him why I had received the C and all he said was “spelling and grammar.” So I told him that I loved creative writing and that I was going to be a writer some day. His response? “Writers can spell.”
After that the idea of writing was pushed aside for a few years. Under the tutelage of my father, I picked up a camera and gave photography a whirl, there was also a brief “I’m going to be an environmental lawyer” period, but nothing ever got under my skin the way literature did.
I suppose writing won out because I was exposed to so much of it as a child. Really, a blossoming young writer could not have asked for a better upbringing than I had. My mother worked for This Magazine and later for the Ontario Arts Council in the literary department, where she still is today. On my dad’s side, my uncle is a fairly renowned poet and my grandfather was also a writer. Book launches, PEN benefits and poetry readings attended by my parents often found me in tow as well. And, while politicians, artists and activists were discussed at length in my house, the writer was always the most revered.
In the end, I think you’ll always have someone tell you that you can’t do it or that you aren’t good enough. But, really the choice is yours; you just have to want it. And I do.
posted by Liz @ 4:39 p.m.
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