When I was very young, I wrote for anyone who would read my words. Pens and paper were toys. Desk organization was play.
Then I learned my writing wasn’t. So I stopped.
I got a little older, and I wrote because someone made me.
After the very long time known as school, I read writers who dipped right into my heart, as if they were me, yet were the furthest thing from me. At this point I was certain, I would never write.
Years passed, and my teaching life began. Suddenly, I became that person to make others write. Horrified by this sudden turn of events, it became apparent there was only one way out of this mess: I had to write.
I tried. Sort of. I’d write with my students. But it was half-hearted. Again, I was doing what my teachers told me to do. Not because I valued it. I was not writing about things that mattered to me. I was not writing for my peers. I had nothing at risk.
I started writing in this space to look at my teaching self. In looking, I’ve realized if I were to stop teaching tomorrow, I’d write.
I write to notice moments that are washed away by the fatigue that ends a day. To understand what surrounds and inundates me. To discover who I am or maybe find who I want to be.
I have a writing self. One that chooses and revises thoughts, one that edits words and their placement. And I have a self that enters the world. One who reacts and experiences. One who publishes instantaneously. Perhaps I write to get that self, the one that enters the world, a little closer to the self I leave on the page.
Thank you, Two Writing Teachers, for Slice of Life Tuesdays. You provide a place to notice, discover, and understand who we are and who we want to be. Read more slices here.