The Story to End All Stories

I remember reading The Artist’s Way. They ask you to explore some idea or concept like who was the critic that killed your artistic career. There was not a single critic who came to mind. I remember all of those praises as a child for my art. But it wasn’t art like paintings or drawings. It was the writer that got killed.

I was in first grade and we were asked to write a short story, so I chose to do a revision to The Princess and the Frog. Like who in their right mind wants to kiss a frog? And isn’t he just kind of needy from the start of the story? She’s got all the autonomy for once and really she should have walked away from that problem. It’s a frog. It’s unlikely that he will become a prince.

Now I wrote whatever glorious piece full of sweet childlike attitude I could muster. I thought it was a brilliant remake where everyone discovers they are powerful and healthy boundaries are set. Then the grade and comments came back. The teacher couldn’t figure out what word I was spelling on a couple of occasions.

After that, I unwittingly swore off writing because it was unclear. I would listen to her read James and the Giant Peach. But I couldn’t imagine being that writer. So I stopped.

I collected quotes I loved and wrote random quotes of my own. I drafted lots of writing but I would never go back to them and create finished pieces. This would continue until high school, in which I found myself unable to stop. It was like someone or something took over my brain. And it was non-stop poems and songs.

Then I get into college and the short stories started slipping out of me. It’s like something inside of me was dying to be heard and seen. Then my second strike will hit. My professor will give me the most unimaginative and intolerable writing prompt. What was life like before getting a cellphone?

At this time, everyone has a flip phone and people switched from beeper code to text messages. The camera phone is nothing shy of a joke. So I write very little has changed throughout the essay. The resulting D grade resulted in a three year strike. The professor would teach Shakespeare and banned books. And not a single paper passed from my hand to hers. She would watch me do the prompts in class and discuss the books. She would beg me and implore me to write. I didn’t waiver. I went on to discover how many college classes could get passing marks without writing a paper. I heard professors change the value of the midterm and final papers after I left those classes.

It wasn’t until I wanted to be an English major that I had to write another paper. The first paper was for the class I failed under a new teacher who believed students should read at least three other student papers. The papers were nothing shy of painful to read. The themes were lost and muddled in the arguments. The words were not only misspelled but misused. There were messes I could never clean up without a phone discussion. And that professor came to mind. During the time period that she was imploring me to write again, I had stopped and asked her why. She said “you’re a good writer. You have a clear voice. The world needs clear voices. Please keep writing.”

I can hear her now. Her voice is clear now.