A Thank You to the Librarian's Friend

Since I was four years old, it was well known that I was quite the storyteller.

Playtime was about the worlds for my toys to inhabit and the adventures they went on. At night, I would fall asleep in the middle of grand tales I would whisper in the dark.

But I hated writing. Writing, for me, was all about grammar rules and great spelling, two things I absolutely struggle with. Seriously, Grammarly and spell check was created for people like me. But when I was younger, we had to check our spelling with a dictionary, and our grammar was criticized by our peers and teachers. That makes me sound old, but I am only in my mid-20s. (Goes to show how quickly things have changed.)

To add to that, I wasn't allowed to choose the topics I wanted to write. Most assignments was of the answering a prompt variety, from explaining why we liked a specific color (pre-kindergarten) to listing the steps of becoming friends with someone (second grade). My creativity was locked in a cage with each assignment, eager to break free. Looking back, I could have written my stories in my spare time, but the little girl back then did not want to deal with something she struggled with unless she had to.

One person I never met changed that for me.

It was March during the year I was in third grade. The day I dreaded was here, the big writing assignment of the school year. I dragged my feet into the classroom, sitting myself at my usual desk. The paper with the writing prompt was faced down, forcing me to only guess what the prompt was. Probably something about my stance on my favorite subject or something like that.

What a wonderful surprise to see something that required some creative finesse.

Your stuffed toy suddenly becomes alive for a day. Tell us what happens during the day.

(I'm paraphrasing. But you get the gist.)

I don't remember anything about what I wrote except what toy featured in the story.

For the first time ever, I was truly excited by an assignment. My creativity burst free as I scribbled to my little heart's content. The things I hated about writing so much seemed small and unimportant. Well, I mean grammar and spelling were still important, it was part of the grade, of course, but it wasn't this overwhelming vice in my head for once.

What was more is I decided to rewrite the story for myself, adding to it and creating this whole story I was proud of and wanted to share with people.

A few days later, I was working on the toy coming to life story in my school's library when the head librarian came over to check out what I was working on. She was (in the fact that she is no longer the head librarian at the elementary school) a kind, well-loved woman who did everything she could and succeeded in encouraging reading.

She was rather impressed, considering how well she knew I didn't like writing much. Periodically, in between her shelving books, she would peep over my shoulder, smiling to herself. So, once I finished, I shyly dropped it on her desk for her to read. Before I attempted to rush out, she asked, "Would you mind if shared this with a friend?" I answered with an aggressive nod "yes" and swiftly left.

The following week, the head librarian and I ran into each other in the hallway, where she asked for me to stop the library for a quick moment. There she handed me back my story marked in a surprisingly minimal amount of red ink. I knew it wasn't her; I had seen her handwriting before. I felt my tiny face scrunch in confusion.

"Read the back."

I flipped the paper in my hand to find a note scribbled in the same red ink. I don't remember much, except this: "Don't stop writing."

The head librarian related how she had a few friends over the past weekend, one of which was an editor. They loved the story and asked her a little bit about who wrote it. When she told them that a nine year old wrote the story, they were pleasantly surprised and said I had the making of being a great author, one they would probably worked with.

The spark was lit. To hear someone who worked in the book/story business telling me I had talent when I hadn't believed it myself was uplifting. But primarily, seeing how my words made people react and feel, I wanted to do it over and over again.

Over the years, I still have that desire, to draw emotion out of readers. But it has also become about me processing some difficult topics, especially the series I have been working on recently. To add, writing has helped me gain some confidence I lost and provides me with a much needed creative outlet.

So now I close with this: thank you to the person who inspired this journey. If it wasn't for you believing in a certain nine year old you never met, I wouldn't be where I am now. No, I am not a famous author, and may never be. But I am still writing and who knows what may happen in the future.

Thank you.

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