I’m a reflective person, taking journeys through my memories to mine them for ideas. These memories tell the story of how I came to think of myself as a writer.
Photo chickalps.com
— Remembering the day in second grade when I wrote my first story—a retelling of “The Country Mouse and the City Mouse”— in pencil on lined paper.
— Recalling the proud moment in third grade when I started composing my stories on a typewriter.
— Passing stories back and forth in fourth grade during the boring parts of the school day. I guess that was my first critique group.
Mostly these memories make me smile. But sometimes they dredge up moments I’d rather forget.
The Sorcerer’s Apprentice
I learned a bitter lesson about myself in seventh grade. I had the opportunity to attend enrichment classes after school. We studied advanced math, beginning French, and creative writing. I hated the math, tolerated the French, and lived for the writing.
One day, the teacher announced that she was going to play a recording of a classical composition that told a story. If we knew the piece, we could write that story. If we didn’t know the title, we could make something up.
I inherited a love of classical music from my father, and we attended many concerts together. I was confident I would recognize the music, and I did. The composition was “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice” by Paul Dukas. But the only story I knew was from the Disney film Fantasia, which featured Mickey Mouse as the sorcerer’s apprentice. I did not want to tell that story.
So I made something up.
I gave the apprentice and his master names. I invented a kingdom and a curse. I wish I had that story. But I threw it away. You see, when I told my dad what I had written, he said, “That’s wrong. That’s not the story.” And then he told me the “real” story. I was crushed.
A Very Bad Day
I didn’t think I could feel worse, but I was wrong.
The teacher submitted our stories to a city-wide writing competition, and my story won for the “best retelling of the legend of ‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.’” One of my friends won for writing the best original story. The teacher asked us to read our stories in front of the class. I was so ashamed. My story was wrong.
Jane Austen From biography.com
So instead of reading what I had written, I retold the story as my father had related it to me. I told the “right” story. It was only many years later that I wondered where I had come up with the idea of the “right” story. Why did I value that “rightness” over my own creativity? I also wonder why the teacher never said a word to me. Maybe she could have saved me years of doubting myself and my writing.
This painful memory prompted me to think about my current life as a writer. I’m grateful for my wonderful critique group and the community of writers at SCBWI. They keep me sane and writing, even in the face of rejection letters and self-doubt. Most importantly, they encourage me to keep writing my stories. I can’t be Jane Austen or Sarah Dessen or Jandy Nelson. But I can be myself. And I can write my stories.
I hold onto the hope that my stories will turn out to be the right stories for people waiting to read them.