When I was 12 I started to write down a dream I had because I thought it was an interesting dream and I wanted to know what happened at the end, and the easiest way I found to get to the end was to write it down and see where the story went. Eventually I shared it with my friends and they encouraged me to keep writing it down because they wanted to know what would happen too. After I filled two notebooks with the story, I realized it really wasn't that great of a storyline and I became bored with it. I did actually write an ending for it even though I left off in the middle of the story. My English teacher did an amazing job of encouraging me to do what I loved. We would talk about books we enjoyed after school and she would recommend her favorites for me to read. She encouraged my imagination in ways that I don't remember specifically, but I remember how I felt in her class. I remember how much I loved doing her assignments and getting feedback on my writing. I remember the poetry unit we did and how she told me my creativity and writing were astounding. But most importantly I remember writing my story in my notebook in her classroom after finishing an assignment early and how for the first time I thought I could actually use my writing to do something with my life, and how she pulled me aside after watching me write so furiously to tell me I should think about becoming like the authors I admired so much. I will always remember that classroom being the place where I suddenly knew who and what I wanted to be.
