Wednesday, December 26, 2012

The Semester

During my last year of high school, I had the greatest class possible: an independent study in which I did nothing but write.

I was 17 years old and working on a novel. (Yes, I was overly ambitious; to this day, that novel remains unfinished for many reasons, but I hope to complete it in the near future.) Somehow, I managed to talk an English teacher into signing off on the project, and she made a permanent hall pass which allowed me to travel to and from the library during third period each day. While she taught an introductory creative writing class, I sequestered myself in a quiet corner of our high-ceilinged media center--in the literature section, where few students dared to stray. For fifty minutes each day, Monday through Thursday, I wrote, by longhand, until I filled my personal quota (three hand-written pages). On Fridays, I went to the school's business office and Xeroxed my manuscript, turning the copies in for credit while retaining the original so I could work over the weekend. 

That semester was one of the greatest of my academic life. It also helped set the stage for later creative writing study. I remain grateful for the opportunity and remember those days fondly. I'd like to start writing like that again. 


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