“Life’s tough, get a helmet”. I’m pretty sure that’s how it went. It has taken me a long time to write this story. I’m not exactly sure why, maybe it was lack of facts or maybe I was just not exactly sure what to write about. If you are expecting some story about a moment that dramatically changed me or something that will make you cry, this isn’t it. I’m sorry to disappoint but this is just an excerpt from the mind of a 15 year old girl. I am simply the writer, and that’s all that I will ever be. I am going to go right out and say that those words at the beginning are not mine. They are those of an English teacher that changed my life. I won’t mention names but hardly think she would mind. The first day of 7th grade English class is the exact reason that I am sitting in this chair, in front of my keyboard. Once the spark is ignited in a writer it does not die out. It is like the constant humming of a locus bug in the dead of summer. It is eternal, something that will never fade. She was short and people always cracked jokes about it. They made fun of her, sometimes she was a “bitch”, and sometimes she was “awesome!” I didn’t notice either way. The first assignment of the year was to write a paragraph on what is poetry. Now you probably expect me to say that the whole class grunted, sighed, and rolled their eyes. The reality of it is that everybody kept their mouths shut, probably because they were afraid she would scream at us, it was a distorted way of saying we respect you.

I wasn’t exactly sure about the assignment either. I did not know that I had a “gift” yet. The next thing I remember about that day is sitting on my porch, on a cool September day. I loved to sit in the shade because the sunlight peeked through the trees just enough to give me the light I needed for inspiration. I started to write and realized that it wasn’t even my own mind writing. Much like an oncoming train, my thoughts speed by, and once and a while I caught a few and turned them into a paper. The next day I came to class and she had these bright yellow pants on. I thought to myself then that it was going to take a lot to impress this lady! As the months went on I started to realize what an art that writing was. My teacher knew what it was, something that can never be judged. Critiqued maybe, but never judged. Writing is unique like snowflakes, not only do they come in different shapes but they fall in different places; eventually acuminating into one shimmering world of white imagination.

I wish I could say more about her. The funny thing is that she had such an effect on my writing and she didn’t ever really notice me. Sure I got ok grades, and she knew I had potential. I just remember her English class as the spark that ignited the fire and passion of writing in my soul. She may have been eccentric but she knew exactly what she was talking about. I know she would probably laugh if she read this. Even if I don’t mention her name she will know it’s about her, and that’s exactly why I loved her.