Writing prompt: Write about a literacy narrative from school.

I loved reading and writing as a small child. I felt such pride when I finished a book, logged it into my reading log, and had it initialed by my parents. I also loved writing stories and drawing pictures to go along with them. At least until grade 5, my ambition in life was to become a writer. It didn’t seem like there was anything else I felt I could do half as well.

There was one problem, however: I didn’t like showing my writing to anyone, especially not my fiction. I’m not sure when the bashfulness started, because as a grade 1 student, I would let anyone read my stories. As my stories matured, and as I became more secretive, spending most of my time in my room, I became shyer about letting someone else read my work. I remember that, upon one occasion, I carelessly left my handwritten pages somewhere outside my room, and my dad found them. He read them and, being an English teacher, praised me for my diction and imagination. Despite his praise, however, I was utterly mortified, and I wept inconsolably. It felt like an invasion of privacy, as if someone had read my personal thoughts. Having someone else read my creative work left me feeling vulnerable. Perhaps it was because I wanted to be perceived as being a logical human being; while I openly enjoyed reading fantasy novels like Harry Potter or His Dark Materials, I didn’t want to be judged on the quality of my imagination in writing. I wrote many school essays and proudly shared them with teachers and peers, but to this day, sharing creative work always takes an extra bit of self-encouragement.

Enrolling in creative writing classes in high school was probably the best thing I ever did to partially overcome my fear. I still loved writing, and because a class of a dozen or so students was writing with me, I didn’t feel as vulnerable. I was aware that I censored myself quite heavily, though, staying clear of all intimations of personally sensitive material. When I did try to be emotionally involved in my writing, the product usually came out very abstract and distant, without using the pronoun “I” anywhere.

Although I do still write creatively today, I am still very secretive about it. The role of creative writing for me today is largely cathartic. I think that’s OK, although I will always admire those who put their work forward for scrutiny. Good on you; it takes courage.