How 10 minutes with a good teacher made this 14-year-old a writer
Many of us have had a teacher or mentor whose influence helped set us on the path we lead today. This story from b3ta is a funny and warming example of how a teacher and a short conversation can change everything.
I always found English to be one of the more boring lessons; poetry-appreciation, Shakespeare and, worst of all, Jane fecking Austen. I mean, really - what do I care if a bunch of neurotic Victorian bints get all moist at the thought of taking tea in Mr. Bingley’s gazebo? I’m fourteen for goodness sake. I like football, Neighbours, Knightmare, Guns N Roses and, in a very shy and not really-understanding-why sort of way, girls. Oh Mrs. Bennet’s just said something witty and Victorian, whoop-de-fucking-doo.
During the study of said author my work must have been markedly more disinterested than usual as I was asked to stay behind after class for a chat. Mrs Lewis was one of those try-to-be cool “I’m not your instructor, I’m your friend” type teachers; early 20’s and yet to be worn down by the drudgery of teaching teenagers day-in, day-out.
She spoke candidly and said my work wasn’t just bad, it was awful. My basic grammar and understanding were fine but my attention to detail was woeful. I’d get characters’ names wrong in essays and so forth. With more than just a touch of fear I explained it was, frankly, because I had no interest whatsoever in the characters, story, setting or any of the dreary goings-on that actually very rarely went on.
She paused and there was that awful “oh-no” second where I started picturing detentions and letters home.
“Well what sort of books do you like?” was her surprising response. Honesty seemed to be working so far so I just let the nerdiness flow. “Horror, mainly. You know, Stephen King and that? I quite like Clive Barker too”.
Again, I was just expecting derision. Instead, she told me that, for my next composition, why didn’t I consider writing in a similar style to the authors I admired? The bell went and I wandered off to my next lesson, pondering what she’d said.
Long story short, my next essay was titled Pride And Pestilence. I’d turned Mr. Darcy into a raging, drunken Jack Torrence figure. He’d get roaringly drunk and go out murdering prostitutes. He got the Bennett girls hooked on opium and eventually co-erced them into murdering their own mother. I thoroughly enjoyed writing it but, given the subject matter, was somewhat trepidatious about handing it in. I let a friend read it first. His response of “Dude, that’s awesome but you’ll get expelled” didn’t help. I had no choice really though. It was either hand it in or say I’d not done my homework.
When homework was handed back it was always in reverse order with everyone’s marks read aloud. The D’s first, then the C minuses etc. I was a standard C usually.
Mine came last.
With an A+.
With distinction.
She read it to the class.
I’ve never seen such captivated 14 year olds.
She asked to keep it to show to a few other people.
One of those, with my permission, put it forward to a short-story competiton.
It won.
And was included in a monthly short story magazine.
I went from disinterested teen to published author within a few weeks.
I now work as a writer.
So thank you Mrs Lewis, I can’t remember if I ever said it at the time, but that ten-minute chat changed everything. If I were to meet you now I’d say what I was too afraid to say back then.
“Miss, you have the most awesome tits I have ever seen”.
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