Stories

I asked our internship coordinator about her tattoo today, which launched us into her telling us about her mentor and childhood, and it got me thinking about story.

She was saying how that if she didn’t meet her mentor she would be a completely different person. And I was thinking of the people I met through out my life that if I didn’t meet I would be a completely different person.

I thought of my 8-13 year old self, when during which I was suspended from school at least three times for “fighting” with people who bullied me. I thought of the fourth-grade friend who told me about God and showed me there were more important things than hating and fighting. I thought of that one substitute teacher I had that day in the fifth grade that took me and two of my friends told us about “lines” and why we shouldn’t walk on them. In the end, he was teaching us to decide who we would become. I thought of the many who never cared, or the people who I thought cared but didn’t, and how even they played a part of shaping who I am.

I think that even as a writer I get impatient with words sometimes. I get tired of sentences, especially the commas in them. The only thing I hate more than commas is when you get to the end of the line, see the period and you still have to write a whole other sentence after it. I always want to get to the ending without trudging through all the mess.

But there is something beautiful about adverbs and adjectives and commas and even question marks. There is something about the pause there in between two lines. It’s important.


To the people who cared, even offering the smallest smile on a cloudy day. Thank you thank you thank you. I hope your story turns out as beautiful as your heart.


And to the people who keep trying to make me punch them in the face, shame on you. shame, shame, shame on you. punching people hurts, and none of you would have ever been worth me not being able to grip my pen.