lost and found

While sitting here at work I recdieved an email from my grandpa containing an attatchment leading to an essay I wrote back in my senior year of high school. I believe this essay was to be a memoir giving a snapshot into a piece of our lives that made us who we were. I chose to write about my love of writing and what led to it being something I wanted to do for the rest of my life. In high school I was always pumped to write, but as I've gone through my first year of college I've slowly become less and less thrilled about it. Not that I don't still love it, I mean I am a journalism major, but I think when you're required to write multiple papers week after week and allow them to be brutally judged and graded it takes a toll. Anyway, after reding through my essay a year and a half later I remember why I chose to strive to make writing of some sort my career. (keep in mind this was a high school essay, so if you think it sucks give me a break!)



The Love of My Life
In a time when most of my peers were amazed by pokemon cards and being hit by game boy fever; in a time where our biggest worry was who would receive the distict honor of being the captain of the recess kickball team; in a time that consisted of mastering the skill of counting to one hundred and completing first grade level sentences; I found my one true passion in life. While it did not match the priorities of my juvenile fellow six and seven year olds, I knew in my little heart that it was something I treasured. I fell in love with the craft of writing.
My amazing first grade teacher, Miss Werth, loved the written word. She believed that even as first graders’ writing was something that would be valuable and enriching. Everyday neatly printed next to our Daily Oral Language and Daily Oral Math work was a writing prompt meant to get the tiny wheels of our brains turning. Each morning as my fellow classmates and I clambered into the back room filled with cubbies and coat hooks, I would throw my pink book bag into its assigned place and race out to my desk. Once situated I would pull out my black jumbo-sized pencil and large lined paper and begin to write works of first grade literary perfection.
One morning upon rushing to my seat, I was appalled to see the absence of my beloved writing prompt. In its place were three boldly printed words, Young Authors Contest. Anticipation rose up within my tiny body as I pondered what those three words could mean. Just when my anticipation was near its absolute peak, Miss Werth took her place near the front of the class to explain the disruption in our normal routine. What she explained to us would be the spark that started my fire.
The Young Authors Contest, as we would soon find out, was a contest designed to mold our developing brains into those of great pre-pubescent writers. Each one of us in my class would write a story, create illustrations to go with it, and submit it to be judged with hundreds of other entries from other kids in our school. The select few winners would then have the opportunity to represent our school at the Young Authors Conference, where we would receive recognition for our achievement and have the chance to read our written masterpieces to students from all around the area. The pure thought of my two favorite entities, writing and competition, being thrown into one idea awakened a sense of adrenaline I had never yet experienced in my seven years of existence. Almost immediately I began writing feverishly the best story I could ever imagine to come up with. No piece of paper was safe, and no pencil was to be left unused-I was a little girl on a mission. Within days of receiving the news of the Young Authors Contest, I had briskly completed a story that I believed to be the best thing to come out of a New Haven Elementary School classroom, ever. Being the former over-achiever that I was, I was the first to turn in my piece of writing, and the first to be left to wait in anticipation of the announcement of the winners.
One day, four thousand years down the line, or so it seemed, Miss Werth once again stood near the front of the class. With wide eyes and gaping mouths, my peers and I leaned forward in our desks in hopes that this would be the day that we found out the results of Young Authors. While it was in fact the announcement we had been anticipating, the news was not as great at we had expected. Miss Werth congratulated us all on submitting excellent stories that were far beyond her expectations, however only two winners were picked from our class of nearly twenty-five children. With even the minor thought of failure setting in my vision became blurred, my body feverish, and my normal breathing pattern turned into a wheeze. In what seemed like slow motion Miss Werth deemed it time to announce our class winners. With the anticipation nearly unbearable, the name of the first winner; a boy named Tyler. At the sound of his name he leapt up from his desk and took a victory lap. A single chorus of “nah-nah-nah-nah-nah” could be heard bouncing from wall to wall throughout the silent room. While Tyler continued his joyous celebration around the rest of us impatient souls, our teacher began to read the second name. Just when I thought I could no longer contain myself my name was called out in front of the class. After experiencing a brief moment of shock, and allowing for all of my vitals to normalize, a sense of joy and relief swept over my body.
After receiving the news of my first Young Authors win, I became more and more determined each year to continue the winning tradition. Besides the obvious satisfaction of winning that first year, I also became more interested in taking writing seriously and developing myself into a bonafied writer. Each year, until I was no longer eligible to submit to the Young Authors Contest, I took the time to sit down and take my thoughts from my head, to my paper. And each year I was pleased to receive the news that I had once again met my own self-goal to become one the prestigious students to be chosen to be recognized for their writing. To this day I look back and reflect on my experience with the Young Authors Contest, and am proud to say that it helped me further extend my passion for writing; an enthusiasm instilled in me from the gusto Miss Werth exhibited for the craft. Without her persistent writing prompts and her belief that, even at six and seven years old, my classmates and I could make an impact through writing. Even as a senior in high school, nearly twelve years after first being introduced to the written word, a passion still burns inside me for the one thing I’ve ever truly loved.