I was in third grade the first time a teacher encouraged me to write freely; it began as a short story assignment. A page or less, scrawled out on notebook paper— but I’d never been so excited about school work. Even now, I can recall the basics of that story; a lost polar bear cub, struggling across the Arctic in search for its mother— I was nine after all, though apparently just as cynical. My teacher took notice of that story; she talked to me directly, giving me advice on how to improve upon it, and encouraging me to read it in front of the class. I don’t know why it caught her attention— but I do know that day she sparked a passion. Because of her, I’m pursuing a degree in English, hoping to someday make a career out of writing.

From that day forward writing became apart of me. I scribbled in journals, plotted stories without endings, and thought ceaselessly about ideas I’d never put to paper. I was little, unsure of how to do much more than putting words to paper; something which started to change in sixth grade. I was finally taught to shape my words, rather than just dumping them on the page.

For the first time, I had a teacher who taught writing as not just a necessary skill, but something that needed to be crafted. In our weekly free writes, I would subject her to the senseless excerpts and rhythmless poetry that cluttered my brain; in return, she would provide feedback— each time furthering my understanding of language, structure, and story. In the most basic sense, she provided the first shape for my writing.

There was a point after this where I stopped writing. Maybe it was the fear of being unsuccessful, or just a desire to try other things. But upon entering 10th grade, I met the school's creative writing teacher-- and I found my passion again. For three years she worked with me; my work improving, surpassing my own expectations. And when I asked her if my writing was good enough to make a living on, she told me yes.

I'm now nearly a semester into my English degree. Truthfully, I don’t know if I will find success, or even mediocrity, in this field; I may just be taking the long road to a different path— one where the written word is but a hobby, pushed to the corner by other obligations. But, even if I’m destined to fail, it will be with an irreplaceable appreciation of words. And I have these teachers to thank for that.