Why I Write

Ever since penmanship stopped being a burden and became something that I could do well (around the age of 12, I was a late penmanship bloomer), I have been an avid writer. It did not come easily, though.

I remember suffering over "Creative Writing" exercises in 4th, 5th, and 6th grades. Being told that I was not writing poetry correctly because my poems had neither rhyme nor meter, being told that my choice of subject matter was uninteresting, being told that my stories lacked (pick something)..

My youthful joy in writing was being crushed by these harsh criticisms by people who were supposed to be imbuing me with a love of the written word and who instead seemed bend on destroying any hope of my ever discovering this beautiful pastime for what it is.

When I was in 6th grade, eleven years old, I suffered a nervous breakdown. This resulted in my being placed in a residential treatment facility for the next three and a half years. It may sound strange to say this, but this was the turning point in my life, and the one thing that I can look back on and say "That had a major impact on my formative years".

While in the facility (St. Ann's), several things occurred. The first was that I had to attend twice weekly individual therapy sessions with a psychologist by the name of Joyce. At our first session, Joyce handed me a small package, which I opened. It contained a hard cover blank book with a pink flowered fabric cover, and a Cross pen. Joyce said to me "I ask all of my kids to write in a book every day. You never have to show the book to anybody, but you do need to write in it. If you ever want to show it to me, I will be happy to see it, but it is your private place for your private feelings."

It took me several months to get into the habit of daily journal writing. Often my entries consisted of just a couple of words, the most often repeated being "This SUCKS". However, as time passed, I began writing more and more, telling the book my feelings, my anger, my hurt. When I would be placed on room restriction for some rule infraction or another, I would write. I was not a rule abiding kid, so I had plenty of opportunity.

The second thing that happened is that my father wrote a poem for me. I had known all my life that he was a closet poet, but I had never really read his writing. The poem he gave to me had no rhyme, no meter. It was only 9 lines long. And yet, that poem conveyed so much feeling and emotion in so few words. It inspired me, and it proved to me what a poem truly is. A poem is not about rhyme, it is not about meter, it is not about daffodils waving in the breeze. A poem is a snapshot of the poet's emotions, and if written well, the poem makes the reader feel the poet's feelings to some degree. I began writing poetry again.

Another thing that helped me discover writing was a special teacher at St. Ann's, Mike Salvatore. Mike was a tough case, he expected his students to give their very best, whatever that may have been. He would not accept sub-par work from a student that he knew was capable of better work, and he continually helped us to improve our writing by teaching us grammar, punctuation, and proper spelling. He did not critique, beyond saying "You are capable of better than this, go and edit it."

A solid lesson learned from Mike was about plagiarism. One day he told the class to write a composition about our favorite rock band. I chose Boston, because I had their album on my desk that day to listen to during free time. My composition was about 20% my own words, and 80% lifted straight from the album's liner notes. When I handed this in to Mike, he read it, read it again, put it down, and looked at me. "I want to see you after school". "Okay..."

After school, he sat down with me and he said, "You didn't write that, did you?" I confessed, and expected major punishment of some sort. He just looked at me and sighed, and he said, "Jenn, you have such wonderful things to say that are all your own, why would you want to steal somebody else's words? You're capable of so much more than that. Don't ever let me see you do this again, it disappoints me and it hurts me to see you wasting your ability that way."

His words hit home, and I felt like absolute dirt. As I sat there with tears welling up in my eyes, he put an arm around my shoulders and said the words I'll never forget for the rest of my life. "Someday, your words will change somebody's life for the better. This is the greatest thing that any writer can ever have happen, and I know that you will achieve it."

I'm still trying, Mike.

So, why do I write? I write to change lives. I write to give insight. I write to keep my body and soul and mind in one piece. But mostly, I write in tribute to the three greatest teachers I had in my entire life. Joyce, Daddy, and Mike. Thank you all for this wonderful gift that you gave to me. I love you all, for this magickal gift that you gave to me.

October 15, 2000