I was eight years old when I first began writing. It was the first day of second grade, and my teacher, Mrs. Domerese, had gone around and placed little green notebooks on all of our desks.
Once we got to class, we were instructed to write our name on the cover, turn to the first page, and write a story about the prompt on the board. It was about how we had lost our first tooth. The pages had thick lines, meant specifically for little kids who were still figuring out how to write, and a big empty space at the top meant to have a picture drawn in it. I didn't think anything of it at the time, I just picked up my pencil and wrote.
I told the story of how my Dad had taken me out to the garage and set me on his workbench, and very gingerly, with a pair of pliers, popped the tooth out of my mouth. (It sounds so much worse than it actually was.)
Once we were all done, Mrs. Domerese picked up our notebooks from each of our desks and began her first-day spiel, about what her rules were, and how we had to ask to go to the bathroom. The day ended, and I had decided that second grade wouldn't be so bad after all.
The next morning we entered the room, and the little green notebooks were all sitting on our desks again. I opened mine, and at the end of my story, there was a sticker and a comment. I don't remember exactly what it said, but I do know that it was encouraging. As the year wore on, my stories got longer and more detailed, and Mrs. Domerese's comments became even more encouraging.
Later that year, I wrote my own story, outside of class. I wrote it all out in a wide ruled, spiral bound, purple notebook. Once I was done, I got on my parents clunky, old, desktop, and typed it out. It took me what felt like hours, and when all was said and done, it was four pages long, including the clip art I used to illustrate it.
I didn't realize it at the time, but that was the beginning of a lifelong love affair with writing. I began carrying notebooks with me everywhere that I went, writing whenever I had a spare second.
Whenever an idea was sparked, I'd pull out my notebook and scribble it down. At night, I'd lay in my room, and write until my eyes blurred so badly that I couldn't see the lines on the page. (Maybe that should have been my first sign that I needed glasses.)
Over the years, when things got difficult, I would turn to the pages I kept with me, and write until I felt relief. My writing grew with me, going from short, clumsy, stories which didn't always make sense to more intense, longer, real stories.
Today I still write those stories, but I also write about me, and who I am. I write awful poetry, and less awful poetry. Whenever anything happens that I deem important, it is immortalized in ink and paper as soon as I have the opportunity.
Words have had a profound effect on me since I first encountered them. They have allowed me a release from this weary world. I hope that whoever you are, wherever you are, you have something that gives you the same sense of relief.
