When I realized that I was a writer

This is in response to what Amuirin wrote here.

In Ohio History class, in 7th grade, we had to write a fiction piece about the civil war. Half of the students wrote about a slave. Several wrote about Abe Lincoln. One wrote about the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, some aliens, and a motorcycle.

My story was about a Union soldier who had been shot on the battlefield. As he died, he muse about the irony that the idea that freedom, the one thing worth living for, was the reason for all this death. In all honesty, I had blown off the assignment. It was something I threw together in 15 minutes during lunch.

I turned it into the teacher without much thought. After class, the teacher called me up to his desk . “Jason,” he said. “This is a great piece…I’m just confused about something.”

“Um, what, Mr. Brown?” I asked.

“What did you mean by “How ironic that the wone thing worth living for has caused all this death?”

“Well…I thought it was kind of funny…er…not funny, but you know…that all these people died for freedom in a country that supposedly already had freedom? Like…it’s realative or something?”

I figured that he must have thought that I didn’t write it myself, so he was testing my understanding of the story. Once convinced that I must have written the story, he asked if he could use it in his other classes as the example to strive towards.

That’s when I realized that I was a writer.


One Response to “When I realized that I was a writer”

  1. both when i read this in comments and again here, I wanted to add to that last sentence so bad.

    “That’s when I realized that I was a writer… and I wept.”‘

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