December 8th marked the last day of some of my classes for the fall 2016 semester. As I gathered my belongings and wrapped my coat around myself, I was about rush out the door per usual, but stopped to pause for a moment. For some, the last day of classes comes as a blessing, a chance to escape dull professors or painful assignments. We run from classroom to classroom blindly, and the end of the semester creeps us on us faster every time.
I was fortunate to take both a creative writing and creative nonfiction class this past semester with a phenomenal professor I’d heard nothing but the best reviews about. I still remember how she put me instantly at ease when I met her for the first time last spring. I’ve been passionate about creative writing since I was a small child. I scribbled story ideas on scraps of paper and hid them in nooks and crannies and drawers, some forgotten forever. My parents were insistent that I needed to be a STEM major, however, so I tried to push away my imagination and fill my brain with formulas and equations to no avail.
It was a milestone for me taking creative classes, since I was pushed away from them so much as a child. It was such a relief to once more pour my thoughts onto paper, empty my mind of its contents and feel free. Under the direction of my professor, I constantly pushed myself and challenged myself to work harder and write better. I grappled with syntax and diction and voice, trying to come up with ways to show not tell and convey exactly what I meant on paper instead of just in my head.
It didn’t fully hit me until that last class how much my professor meant to me. I think in the back of my mind I thought there would always be more classes with her, more days to work under her careful scrutiny and praise, until suddenly there weren’t. Sure, I plan to take advanced courses with her next fall but circumstances change and for all I know that may not be possible. In many ways she’s restored the hope I’ve carried of being a writer for all these years. When I read a new poem aloud in class, hands shaking, she always knew just to praise and suggest revision. When I sat in her office one memorable afternoon and revealed my newest story, she told me I was a very strong fiction writer and had a lot of potential. When I wrote her after the election and poured out my anxieties and thoughts and frustrations, once again she knew just how to respond.
I’m incredibly grateful for the chance to study under her this past semester and learn the craft of writing. As I stood there about to leave that last class, I tried to think up a way to tell her everything running through my mind. I wanted it to be eloquent but not too clichéd, something that would be meaningful. I needed a way to thank her for everything she’d taught me and helped me with over these few months, and that’s when the lightbulb went off. I turned around and looked at her, and simply said “thank you.” And that was all that was needed.
