Technically, I learned to write in kindergarten, practicing writing out simple sentences, and filling out handwriting worksheets, but I did not learn to truly write, to convey information in a meaningful, insightful, and oft times entertaining fashion until I was in third grade. I went to a smaller school, one that was not overcrowded, especially by today’s standards of classroom size, and I had a teacher who wished to foster the creative spirit in her students. Under her careful tutelage, our class wrote out stories about various animals, with no two student’s stories the same. There were fictional accounts of tigers befriending bunnies, and non-fictional accounts discussing the eating habits of the dinosaurs. Living or extinct, no animal was discounted. She made copies of all of our stories and used the teacher’s workroom to “publish” our book, with each student getting a copy.
Looking back on that book, the stories are exactly what you would expect of a group of third graders. Improper capitalization, simple sentences, and often times completely random facts thrown in, without regard for story progression. It doesn’t matter though. That teacher set out to do something and she succeeded, bringing home a love of writing to all of her students, and allowing them to have the joy of a published work, regardless of whether or not it would ever sell any copies. It is from her that I truly learned to write, and ever since then I have constantly worked to improve my writing styles, habits, and manner of delivery. I have known how to write for years, but it was not until I passed through the doors of her classroom that I ever truly understood what that meant.
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