From as early as I can remember, I've wanted to be a writer. Books had always fascinated me with the different ways they affected people; by reading a certain combination of words, a person could be moved to feel every emotion under the sun and lose themselves in the uniformly-typed language. From the moment I learned to read them myself, all bets were off. I wanted to do the same. On very rare occasions, I would actually let people read what I'd written, but would always be afraid of them hating my work. In the back of my head, there was always the fear that what I'd written would never be good enough.

When the time came for me to enter seventh grade, I'd already heard of my teacher. There had been whispers around the older kids that she was a tough grader and assigned way too many papers and projects throughout the year. Though I liked doing these things and didn't see them as too big of a task, I was still nervous. I entered the year trying my hardest to impress my teacher with my writing, as it was something that I saw myself as being fairly good at. Every other subject seemed a mystery to me, and English was the one topic where I felt right at home.

Now, I'd be lying if I said my teacher went easy on us. Things that would've been let slide back in sixth grade were underlined in red in seventh. My biggest fear for the first portion of the year was seeing the deep red marks on papers I'd written. Sometimes, I'd need to take a few deep breaths before turning my paper over to look at my grade. Each and every time I turned in a paper, I would always see corrections on it. At first, it would discourage me and make me feel as though my writing was terrible. I racked my brain trying to figure out what it was I was doing wrong, and even told myself that no one would ever want to read what I wrote. However, that wasn't the point. Though I didn't know it at the time, those little red marks made all the difference in the way my writing progressed. They urged me to keep looking for things to improve, and to continuously challenge myself to write each paper better than the one before it. Even today, I hold myself to that standard.

For years, I had been a writer. I wrote for solely for others and for the purpose of getting some sort of validation from them. If others didn't like my ideas, I wouldn't pursue them. Simple as that. Though it was never spelled out in plain terms, something about those little red marks taught me to be my own validation. Because I am and always have been my own worst critic, I learned that I can't disregard my own ideas just to make others approve of me. I became an author when I began writing for myself just as much as I did for others.

On the day of eighth grade graduation, each of the students had a table where their families sat and ate dinner together. Each of us had a basket on our table which held pennants, sweatshirts, and balloons from the high schools we'd be attending, as well as cards from our friends and parents. When the reception had already begun ending, I saw a small book on my table among the other items. Upon opening it, I saw that it was a journal that my seventh grade teacher had given to me with a letter from her inside, urging me to keep writing. Years later, I have continued to follow her advice. Somehow, that book has lasted me through high school and into my sophomore year of college, and holds some of the most important times of my life. For me, it is not only a documentation of these events, but a reminder to never give up on myself.