In sixth grade, we had a student teacher. I don’t remember her name, but we all fell in love with her. She was sweet and smart, but mostly, she was pretty. The boys loved her for obvious reasons. The girls loved her because we all wanted to be her.
Things were simpler then.
One of the assignments that she gave us was a writing assignment. I don’t remember the details of the assignment, but I remember that I wrote about pirates. Using the 5×8 tablet that the school provided us, I wrote page after page of pirate adventure. I wrote with great excitement and enthusiasm, but I suspect that was because I wanted to impress the student teacher. Like everyone else, I was clamoring for her favor and attention. The student who was complimented by her was a celebrity for the rest of the day.
She read my story. Out loud. I was in heaven.
My classmates hung on her every word. I wish I could believe it was because my words were so enthralling.
I suspect, however, that had she been reading the back of a box for hemorrhoid cream she would have gotten the same interest and attentiveness.
I’m a writer. But I’m also a realist.