Today I met with my teacher. She took time out of her busy schedule to set a date with me and my wife at a local coffee shop. She asked what I'd been working on and I had to stammer, the answer was "Until I realized I was going to have to stop procrastinating so I could show you I'm a real writer, not much..." Yes the past day or so has been a whirlwind of marathon writing (as I tend to work in marathons with long bouts of recovery between) but I have not yet finished the project she so graciously critiqued for me over a month ago. I was filled with shame and guilt. You see, I'm not in her class anymore. She's retired and I'm a grown man, we met in Creative Writing in my sophomore year of high school. She gave me an A- in the class, but she also gave me a whole lot more.

Long ago, I wrote every day and every night. But I never finished anything. I would get a few pages down and then plan and talk about the adventures my characters were going to have, the running gags they'd make, the victories they'd achieve, and then not finish the stories. In her class, she taught me the difference between writing minor characters and major ones, between sub plots and sidetracking. The high order of concerns and the middle order concerns and the low order concerns. She encouraged me to write alliterative poetry and play with language and she gave me inescapable deadlines and word counts. Those last two, are the things I needed most and would not have picked up without her instruction. I'd had plenty of deadlines in other classes, but if you will read my last blog post, you will learn just how much I valued those other classes, which is to say "Not much."

What happened with this last project? I got stuck in the details and stopped moving forward and then whiled away the hours on Facebook to distract myself from my own harsh judgement. Harsh self judgement is useful to writers, but it can also cripple. When we sat down with our coffee and birch beer (it's like root beer)she gave me another gift. She said something along the lines of "If you can't get to that point with that story, then acknowledge it and move on." She was dismissive and forgiving. Not dismissive in the sense that she didn't think much of my writing, rather in the sense of "have a breezy attitude and don't cripple yourself." At least that was my take on it. Her attitude was infectious and I'm rejuvenated with desire to produce what work I can and to forgive my stories for not fitting into impossible standards.

I'm not in her class anymore, she doesn't get paid to teach me. Yet she continues to do so whether she knows it or not. She is a teacher and she teaches. I've heard other former students of hers singing her praise and espousing a love for her and her inspiration. I am very lucky to have met her and luckier still, that she chooses to make a long drive to have coffee with this former and forever student.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have a tire to change and then some fiction to write.