Perhaps the title I assigned this blog is misleading. This is not intended to address words created in sentences and paragraphs to bring the opening scene of a story to life. Instead, I have been asked the question so many times—how did you get started writing or did you always want to write—I though I’d share my journey.

Imagine being in a sixth grade class, taught by a nun (although she was pretty cool for a nun), in a classroom where a handful of boys could cause a teacher to have a nervous breakdown and intimidate a group of 30-some peers. This is one of those phases in a person’s life where the less attention she or he receives, the better. Thus, when the teacher gives an assignment in which we are to draw a topic out of the hat and write a story, the prospect seems scary. And it gets worse. Not only are we required to make up a story based on the prompt we draw, we have only one night to write it and will be required to read it in front of our classmates. Not a welcome assignment, especially when you have no idea how to write a story, let alone share it for all to hear. The potential fallout here is unbearable. 

Thus far, we’ve gone from bad, to worse, and now the kicker. Everyone will vote on their favorite. Okay, now the fretting begins and all the imaginative ways to avoid this embarrassment flip through my mind. I will forever remember the fateful title I drew that day. How the Raccoon Got His Black Eyes. I don’t even like raccoons, but I did what every child on the verge of hysteria does, went home and whined to my mother, hoping to build sympathy.

Of course, my mother, in her brilliance, sat beside me and pulled out my notebook paper. We got into a disagreement about using the obvious conflict for a raccoon’s black eyes - a fight. I complained it was too obvious. She asked me if I had a better idea. Not really, since I didn’t want to do this assignment in the first place. So, painfully I put words on the page describing how my raccoon got into a fight on the school playground. As traumatizing as this situation was, my memory refuses to drudge up remaining details. Reading it aloud in class was a total blur with all those eyes staring at me. Not a sound could be heard other than my squeaky voice. Not a good sign. I braced myself for the rude comments from the typical class cliques and fell back into my desk as fast as I could.

When the dreaded hour ended and the votes were in, believe me, I was shocked. My story won. Unbelievable. And this was the first of many story assignments we endured that year, but the fallout I expected turned into the most peculiar events to finish out grade school. Fellow classmates would come to me and ask if I had written another story they could read (yes, before video games were popular). Obliging the demand, I turned out numerous stories to keep them happy. In the eighth grade our class acted out a one-act play I had written—a courtroom scene. I haven’t stopped writing since. And I have my sixth-grade teacher to thank for her huge nudge outside my comfort zone and pointing me in a direction I may have never traveled.