I’m not sure when exactly my love of reading transformed into a desire that included wanting to write, or how that desire took root in my heart and mind. Because while I have many happy memories around reading—trips to the library, reading books in my class in which we got to add a shape with our name on it and in the color of our specific class to the wall high above my second grade classroom (the shapes included train engines, sneakers, race cars, leaves, with our name and the name of the book we read) in which the three different second grade classes raced around and around that wall with their shapes for an end of the year ice cream party, and, two years before that, in kindergarten, being moved into 1st grade for reading time so I could participate in “more advanced” reading activities.
Obviously, reading has always been a favorite activity. And, at some point, the idea of being a writer and telling stories came up alongside that favored pastime and I added writing into my reading times, filling blank pages with what were then simple ideas. Even so, my earliest writing memory is a not-so-favorable one which came after we moved towns when I was in the middle of fourth grade and I began attending a completely different elementary school than where my love of reading took hold. This fourth grade teacher stood in front of the class and gave us a simple writing prompt: I’m driving home one day and see a box on the side of the road and pull over to look inside. What do I find in the box?
While I can admit looking back today at my short story about a box filled with several abandoned kittens the teacher loved and rescued because of her good and tender heart wasn’t nearly as imaginative as some of the things I would write a year or so later, I have never forgotten the moment that teacher read my paper out loud and unknowingly heaped humiliation on my young writer self. Upon reaching the end of that 2 or 3 page story, she paused, looked around the classroom with what now I will describe as a wry smile and shook her head as she said, that is something that would never happen (or words similar to this). I was both embarrassed and crushed as a fourth grade writer.
As a woman in my 30s I discovered a writer, Jon Acuff, who talked about how and why he became a writer. Jon Acuff is someone who talks about the importance of overcoming fear—punching fear in the face, is one of his favorite quotes—as well as overcoming our broken soundtracks. Broken soundtracks are the voices inside us that tend to tell us we can’t do a thing, that we’re too old to start a new thing, that we have nothing new to offer, or other harsh criticisms that tend to be based on lies. In his podcasts and books he talks about rewriting those broken soundtracks with new soundtracks.
One of the stories he tells to help illustrate his point is about his third grade teacher: I became a writer because in the third grade my teacher, Mrs. Harris, laminated some of my poetry and told me I was a good writer. He credits his teacher with being one of the positive soundtracks that encouraged him as he began pursuing the idea of being a writer. The first time I heard him tell this story in a video, I had a twinge of jealousy because my fourth grade teacher had the opposite effect on me and became one of the voices that contributed to a broken soundtrack that I was not a good writer. Eventually, I learned to seek out the encouraging and empowering voices and chose to write anyway.
Because of this dichotomy between mine and Jon Acuff’s writing experiences, I have remained steadfast in wanting to speak words of encouragement to each of our teenagers. I am acutely aware of how they can sometimes perceive themselves and I seek to empower them because I want to contribute to their believing they are incredibly capable and can do whatever thing they choose to do with their gifts, talents, and passions. As they consider their creative works, I love that they are learning to appreciate their abilities.
There are still times when they question whether feeling good about a piece of art or a poem or a story makes them arrogant or perhaps even egotistical, but slowly they are beginning to understand the differences in confidence and arrogance. Even more, I love that they are learning to accept compliments gracefully. But it is my hope they will come to appreciate and use their gifts as a means to add beauty and goodness to the world. They have that ability; I can see it clearly. My hope is that they, also, will see their abilities and listen to the inner voice that maybe sounds like mine and their dad’s telling them how remarkable and talented they truly are. Because that’s the voice of truth that will help guide them along their journey’s paths.