One Small Step

Author's note: This story reads better on a PC or a laptop. Bear with me... I'm feeling nostalgic.

I've been writing on and off my whole life. Since I could hold a pencil, . really. .

I wish I could tell you that they were masterpieces of young creativity, but . unfortunately, my ability to put pen to paper was still very much in its . infancy. Luckily, I was a determined child. .

I must have been about seven when I was tasked with writing my first . short story in class. Oh my word, was I excited. I had been practising . writing for months, stapling pages together vertically and writing . nonsense on them, before running to my mum to show her my scribblings.. I started doing this as soon I grasped how to read and realised the . potential of a good tall tale. .

The task set out in front of me made my chest burn with excitement - my . first writing assignment. I just knew I was going to impress my teacher. . We had an hour to fulfil the challenge. I wasted no time and began . scribbling my ideas down, in a desperate race with my creativity. .

I can't remember what I wrote about, I really wish I could. However, I do . remember looking up at the clock and realising I had finished with forty . minutes to spare. I felt so proud of myself. I took another look at my story, . my little work of art, checking for any mistakes. I couldn't see any. .

I remember my chest swelling with pride as I snatched the piece of lined . paper from the table and almost skipped my way up to the teacher. As I . slapped it down on her desk, I was positively beaming. .

She looked annoyed as she glanced at the clock and picked it up. She spent. all of ten seconds looking at it, tutted and rolled her eyes. .

She cleared her throat before telling me it was a ridiculous attempt, . unreadable and full of mistakes. I don't remember saying anything, just . staring at her, no doubt with a stupid look on my face. .

She took the liberty of explaining, rather loudly I might add, that I had put. a full stop (or a period, for our friends across the pond) at the end of every . line. Not every sentence, but the end of every line of the perfectly lined . paper she had provided us with. She sternly informed I didn't understand . basic grammar and my story didn't make any sense. .

She handed it back as I tried my best to hide my embarrassment. My . cheeks flushed, of course, betraying me. 'Try again,' she snapped. .

I was heading back to my seat, desperately fighting the urge to cry, when . to my prepubescent horror, she addressed the entire class. .

'This is exactly why you shouldn't rush. I suggest nobody else brings . anything up for me to mark unless it is, at the very least, readable.' .

The room erupted with giggles and eager whispers, I felt twenty pairs of . eyes burning holes into my back as I walked, wanting nothing more than . the floor to open up and swallow me whole. .

I spent the rest of the lesson staring at my story, dumbfounded. I couldn't . fix the punctuation because I had no idea how to. I thought that was where. full stops were meant to go, at the end of the lines. I'd seen it many times . in books. Full stops go at the end, surely? .

I crossed my arms on the table, buried my face and wept silently until we . were excused. .

Shortly after, I sat in the playground on a bench on my own. The school . day was drawing to a close; I remember rain was threatening its arrival . with a few cold droplets caught in the wind which whipped at my coat. I . was gripping my ridiculous attempt at my story in my hands. I was torn . between scrunching it up and throwing it away, and keeping it because . truth be told, I was still a little proud, even if she wasn't. .

I had written something. .

As I sat in my indecision, I was approached by the playground monitor . and current Year Six teacher, Mr Field. He asked what I had there, in the . cheerily approachable way he was famous for. .

I almost burst into tears as I tried to stuff it back in book-bag, but he was . too quick, and swiftly lifted it from my grasp. .

I remember holding my breath and looking at the floor, preparing for the . next barrage of condescension, but it didn't come. Instead, a small laugh . escaped him. He sat down next to me and kept reading. With a bowed . head, I snuck a peek in his direction; he was smiling. .

'This is good. Such a lovely short story,' he said, turning to look at me as he. handed me back the paper. I hesitated a moment as I wiped my eyes. I . stared at the lines and my messy handwriting; the mistakes with the full stops glared at me. I began muttering to him about how Mrs. . Whatsherface said it needed a lot of work, but he cut me off prematurely. .

'I like it. Everyone has to start somewhere, and it really is a brilliant . attempt. You have a knack for telling stories. You should be an author . when you grow up.' He says as he winks at me, smiles, gets up and walks . off. .

I sit in stunned silence as I let the word sink in. My entire body tingled. .

And with that, crappy grammar be damned, a budding author was born. .