My Writing Origins

Today is the Origins Blogfest. (Thank you for organizing this Alex, Katie, D.L. and Matthew!) It's also my birthday. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! Now for my writerly beginnings.

My ninth grade Honors English teacher was an evil little troll. Mr. Pringle was short and tubby and he wore the same cowboy boots every day. He disliked me because I was the boss’s daughter.

My father being the principal caused problems between my teachers and me more than once, but this was different. I always did well in English—until I enrolled in Mr. Pringle's class. Then all my assignments came back oozing with red ink. I couldn't write anything well. After months of incessant criticism I finally got up the courage to ask Mr. Pringle why he didn't like me, and you know what the evil little troll did? He told my father I had an issue with him. After that, it was war. I spent hours every week on my English homework.

When our class was assigned to write a two-page descriptive essay, I wrote about a donut shop. I poured everything I'd learned into that paper, hoping Mr. Pringle would feel the urge to rush to Krispy Kreme when he was done reading it.

The week after I turned in my descriptive essay, I received my graded assignment back. The only red ink, tidy numbers on the upper right hand corner, said 100%. Where was the blood? I searched, but there were no red notes on either page. I was flabbergasted. I wrote something Mr. Pringle didn’t rip to shreds.

The odd part was, I didn't feel triumphant—I was disappointed. I'd grown accustom to Mr. Pringle's critiques. How would I become a better writer without them?

Since then, I can't say I've savored every critique I've received, but I do view them as a challenge to better my writing.

Thank you, Mr. Pringle, for being an evil little troll. You toughened me up for the writing world. I doubt I'd appreciate critiques as much as I do today if it weren't for you.