Today I went through a box of stuff I’d hidden away with my magpie like instincts during middle school and high school. Along with sheets and sheets of funny pages pulled from the Sunday papers I found a remarkable number of old drawings, and even more amazingly some original handwritten manuscripts of stories I’d started and never finished.
Most amazing, however, was a letter I’d received from a teacher at the middle school, who I’d had for Drama in 7th and 8th grade and Language Arts in 8th grade. After I’d moved on to high school I sent a copy of a story I had written with my younger sister to give to her, and she’d written back wonderful and encouraging things.
Teachers have such an impact on us, and their encouragement means the world to little girls who are terrified of speaking aloud to their peers and instead bury themselves in fantasy realms. I’ve grown a lot since middle school, and I no longer clam up the instant someone tries to speak to me (though I am pretty quiet), but those fantasy realms are still a major pillar in my life. I tell stories, and have been telling stories as long as I can remember. Her letter has been sorted into the pile of things to save, and I will probably keep it for the rest of my life.