I don’t write to be famous, I don’t write to be known, I write because I am and I want to be read. How sad to fill a room with paintings no one sees or play music no one hears. Writing is talking without sound, singing without score and dancing without movement and yet, it is all of them. It is a solitary art conjured from thought and expressed by the need to communicate.
HEAD SLAPS, SPEED BUMPS and LIGHTBULBS, one woman's WTF, oops and ah-ha moments of life.
They were published once, and as every writer knows, once is not enough.
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
My youngest daughter received a Graduate Degree last Sunday. She already has her masters in something else and a graduate certificate in another field, but this one, this is the one which is tattooed on her soul, teacher.
I can’t fathom why anyone, once out of school, would want to take teaching on as a career. It's a tough job. To me, teachers, like nurses, have halos.
For students who like school and love learning, for others who want to just get by and get it over with, for the kids who hate being in school and reek of indifference, for all of them, education matters eventually. That my daughter will make a difference in so many lives is a wonderful life-long legacy.
I can remember a few teachers who really made a difference in my life, one actually changed my path simply by saying, in front of the class, “Carolynn, you are a writer.” After a shocked and pink-cheeked thank you, I was speechless, rare for me.
Back then when the idea of being published was an unrealized dream I wrote serious stuff, some controversial and some, so from the heart, I left little mitrial pieces as exclamation points. The rhythm of my heart's chambers became a back-beat theme song to my pages.
The essays and newspaper columns I write now are fun; they chronicle my life and the everyday absurdity of my family. But Saturday was not absurd, it was momentous. A teacher was made.
Think of the teacher, or teachers, who cleared a new path for you. Have you thanked them?
The same teacher, who plowed under the hedgerows which had blocked my writing dreams, taught my older daughter years later. In class, she asked if the teacher remembered me, the teacher said amazingly nice things about my writing. My daughter was immensely proud of me and I beamed when she told me what he had said.
I finally got to thank the teacher who made a difference for me. His name is Greg Stone, and I believe he still teaches at UCONN, which means he still wears a halo. What teachers made a difference in your writing life?