Show Don't Tell

"Don't just tell me 'It was a hot day'. Write about how sweat rolled down into your eyes, how your sneakers melted to the pavement, and how a cold drink of water quenched your thirst. It was a hot day - so show me."

I have been writing for as long as I can remember, but it was my seventh grade English teacher who made me appreciate it as a tool for art and for escapism. She told us the above quote, and it has stuck with me ever since. Ms. C supported my love for writing, and happily read all of my creative work that I completed outside of our regular assignments.

Some of my best memories as an 11 and 12 year old occurred at school. Let that tell you what you need to know about my home life at that time. Many of these memories occurred with my nose in a book or my pencil scribbling on a piece of paper. Now, I can say with certainty that my first attempts at writing were not fantastic; but doesn't everyone start off a little rough?

Ms. C would make notes on the printed out pages I gave her, little grammar reminders and suggestions to make a scene pop, and a smiley face when she particularly liked a line or paragraph. One of my biggest undertakings was the beginning of a retelling of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, told through the eyes of a much younger Esmerelda. I had changed the plot quite a bit, giving her a younger brother and ditching creepy, old Frollo all together. I had not heard of the term "fanfiction" before, but it was certainly where I got my start in writing that I took seriously. And Ms. C encouraged me. She told me that I had talent, that I should always write. She did not know at the time how much I needed to hear that, and I don't think I knew then either. But clearly, it has stuck with me for over fifteen years.

In seventh grade, there was a school-wide creative writing contest. Hundreds of middle schoolers all submitted pieces through our respective English classes. I knew I had to enter, and I needed a good idea. I sat down at the family computer desk and slouched into the office chair, tapping my fingers on the fabric covered arms of it. Since the age of 5, I had been riding horses and my mind was frequently consumed with them. I landed on the idea of a quarter horse entering the Kentucky Derby alongside a slew of elegant and speedy Thoroughbreds. Naturally, this underdog story included a cowboy "jockey", and after a montage of extended training, the duo ended up winning in the end. I laugh a little thinking back on it, but the teachers and principal who had volunteered to read each individual work thought it was excellent. In fact, dear reader, just like my cowboy and quarter horse protagonists, I too beat out my competition. I had won the writing contest. At a school assembly later on, I was presented with a blue plaque with my story's title engraved above "First Place", and got to shake the principal's hand. This was the first time I had achieved wide accolade for my writing, and I knew I wanted to chase that feeling ever after.

I don't know if I'll ever be able to show her how far I've come, but I am forever grateful to Ms. C, the first ever fan of my writing and the first person whom I had ever taken genuine writing advice from. One of the greatest dreams of my life first bloomed in that English classroom, and I will always remember that.