I've written a lot about heroes, villains, and those who fall in between. In my last blog post, I wrote about the greatest enemy and the greatest hero of my past. Today, I'd like to write directly to them.
Dear Greatest Enemy,
My first question for you is--who are you? I don't mean your name. I don't remember your name, but I could easily look it up in my middle school yearbook if I wanted to. I mean, who are you? What's your story? Who and what made you into the kind of teacher you are?
It takes a special kind of person to want to teach creative writing to middle schoolers. Goodness only knows that the writing you'll see from prepubescent teens might make even George RR Martin flinch (and in fact, one of his first stories from that age was about a kid trapped in a basement who never makes it out!). It's almost certainly not a lucrative profession; even as a teacher at the private Catholic school my parents forced me to go to, I doubt you were making more than a middle-class income. Clearly, the calling to teach wasn't driven by a desire to retire young.
But it also takes something to tell a kid that they'll never be creative, never be a writer, never realize their full potential. I wonder, did you think you were lighting a fire under me? Were you just at a breaking point as a teacher, and I happened to be the target of your frustration? Had someone in your youth stunted your creative growth, forcing you to find a "safer" route that left you frustrated? God knows that while I've never pursued the "safe" route, I've only recently dedicated myself to being a full-time fantasy author, and even that has been slower than I wish it to be.
Part of me wants to tell you to screw off (actually, I want to tell you worse, but I want people of all ages to read this blog). Part of me, as a 38-year-old full-time creative--if not quite a full-time creative in the genre I want--wants to sit you down with a drink and ask where that came from. Part of me wants to forget you forever; part of me wants to ask you what you wanted to be remembered as when you were in my middle school shoes.
As I'm writing this, all of me is curious about two questions that underline the original "who are you?" What are you doing now? And is it what you truly want to be doing? With the rise of self-publishing, the long tail theory, and the ability to reach "your people" across the Internet, the dream of writing what you want is as close to in reach as ever. True, if you want to have a traditional publisher behind your back, it's just as hard as ever. But if all you want to do is write full time? It's there.
I know you couldn't know that twenty-plus years ago. I don't know what you were thinking at the time, and I don't know what you are doing now.
But I hope that wherever you are, you're doing something that really matters to you. And that in doing so, you encourage, not discourage, the next generation of creatives.
***
Dear Mrs. Baker,
Thank you for being the single greatest reason I am a full-time author now. You unlocked my creativity, confidence, and craft in a way that no one else has even come close to. Without your firm, lofty, but achievable standards, I might still be a fan of science fiction and fantasy, but I would not have the writing skill that I do now. For that, I have to express my immense gratitude.
When I first walked into your classroom, I have to admit, I was incredibly nervous. Mrs. Shaia had warned us so many times the prior year, "you're not going to be able to get away with what you do here with Mrs. Baker." For all intents and purposes, she made you out to be a dragon that would devour us with detention and low grades if we weren't anything short of perfect. In one sense, I appreciate what Mrs. Shaia did; she ensured we walked into your classroom like a knight might into a dragon's cave, as prepared mentally as possible without any prior experience.
But I quickly realized that you were the best kind of teacher. You didn't yell, slam your hand on your desk, or otherwise act overly demonstrative. You simply laid out the rules and expectations explicitly, promised us that you would make us into the best writers and most critical readers possible, and left the rest to us. Some of my peers expressed shock that a teacher would dare to give a pop quiz or a test where scores like 35 or 50 were written at the top of the paper, but I came to relish it. I quickly realized that you were preparing us for the real world, even if we didn't pursue a career that involved writing; after all, if we fail a job in the real world, we don't get graded on a curve. The employed get fired, the self-employed lose clients, and the creatives lose fans. I don't mean this to sound dour; rather, to simply say that by letting our preparation speak for itself, you taught me I had to do the work every day, be prepared for a pop quiz--whether literal or not--every day, and I had to stay focused every day.
That mindset prepared me for a career as an author. Every day, at 5:45 a.m. sharp, my alarm goes off, and I'm writing before my kid wakes up. Every day, I'm reading works of the great authors to observe their craft, see how they use elements like foreshadowing and allegory, and notice the evolution of their storytelling capabilities. Every day, I'm communicating with a reader in some fashion, whether in-person, by email, or on a social media post. That consistency is only possible because of what you taught me.
When I look on Charlotte Catholic's directory, I no longer see your name, and I presume that means you are in retirement. (A quick Google search, in fact, confirms this.) Wherever you are, I hope you are thoroughly enjoying retirement, whether on a motorcycle, out by a lake, or in the comfort of your own home, reading a good book. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Oh, and may I never have to read Shakespeare before a class again!
All the best,
Stephen