This is the first in a series of papers that I have been writing for school. For my English class, I was required to write a paper about a positive change in my life. For me, it was this, my blog; it was you, my readers; it was my voice.
The Birth of a Verbal Assassin
It was a day like any other. For most people. For me, it would be remembered as the day that it all changed. I grew up as a daydreamer. My parents would tell me I was lazy. My teacher’s would say I had potential, if only I would use it. I would stare blankly, letting their words bounce off my invisible force field, never reaching their target. While they were diagnosing me, I was writing my stories in my head, page after page, book after book.
It took me years for my stories to make it out of my head, and onto paper. I started small, a creative writing essay, maybe a poem here and there. When I was in grade school, my stories would always have a big star on them when they were handed back by the teacher. Once I got into middle school, my teachers would look at punctuation and dangling thingies, by high school, my stories came back with more criticism than praise. The final straw didn’t come until college.
As a college freshman, I was so excited to see creative writing offered as part of the curriculum. I thought I was finally at a point where my stories would be praised and revered and quoted and used as examples of excellence to the students that came after me. I knew I was a literary genius, and finally, someone else would realize it too. I could hardly wait until our first assignment. Little did I know how wrong, and right, I would be.
The year was 1993. The home computer was in its infancy. College papers were either hand written or composed on a typewriter. If you were lucky, maybe even a word processor. Mine were written on a typewriter, and not even an automatic one. Since was the going to be the paper of all time, I was careful. I typed slowly, determined not to mar my genius with correction fluid. I labored for days to make it perfect. I read, reread and read some more. Finally, after a week, I was ready. It was time to turn the masterpiece in.
At the time, it seemed like months before the papers were graded and returned. I was probably closer to two or three days. It didn’t matter, because when I got it back, time stood still. A “D”. I got a “D”? The hastily scribbled note from my professor read “Poorly written, terrible content, be thankful accountants don’t need imagination.” My eyes teared instantly. I was devastated. Were my parents and teachers right in the beginning?
I would get the answer almost a decade later. They were wrong. And so was that English professor. But I wasn’t angry, because thanks to that professor, I would launch my dream, in the form of a blog, The Verbal Assassin. I developed a sharp tongue, a sharper wit, and my voice. My voice, my rules. As a parent, I should say the best moment of my life was when I held my first child. Yeah. Whatever. I love my kids, but eventually, they will grow up and they will find their own voices. Not the Verbal Assassin. That was mine. It will always be mine. I give it life, I make it breathe. I am its voice.
That is my legacy. I learned to write for me, the real me, not the person my instructors thought I should be, but the person that I actually am. And nobody can grade that.