Get a second opinion

The small town where I grew up had its small town school. (My classmates numbered just under sixty students.) We were treated to the same teaching staff for various subjects for three years (junior high) and another set of teaching staff members for the next three years (senior high). Before entering senior high (grades ten through twelve) each student had to choose a subject-related path: Academic for the smart kids (who planned to go to college), Home-Ec for girls (who would work in factories but whose real goal was to get married and raise a family), and Shop for boys (who would learn to use tools).

That’s the way it was and nobody ever questioned it … except me!

I was not a gifted student but school work came easy for me, and knowing I wanted to experience something other than small-town life, I chose the Academy Path.

My senior high English teacher had a bit of a drinking problem and a huge biased mindset. Based on his wife’s assessment (she was the junior high English teacher) and his own thoughts, as each student walked through his doors on the first day of freshman class, he decided what kind of grade each deserved.

I, he decided, was definitely a bit above average, but not spectacular, so...
 
I became the eternal B student.

For three years, no matter how well I scored in tests, no matter what I wrote in my essays and book reports, no matter how well I stood in front of the class for oral reporting, I would never receive a grade higher or lower than a B.

Fast forward to grade twelve when I wrote a short story that finally broke the barrier, one that earned me an A minus minus. (Yes, that was an A with two minus signs after it.) Beneath the mark, Blackheart (the name I gave him in my first novel) penned the words, “Did you really write this?”

When my guardian read that remark he went straight to Blackheart and asked him why he doubted my work. “She’s just a B student,” he said.

My guardian told him I planned to go to college, to which Blackheart remarked, “Not good enough for college. She should have been in Home Ec,” to which my guardian said, “I’ll get a second opinion.”

Fast forward again to the point where the guidance counselor agreed, at the behest of my guardian, to take me to a college entrance interview she would be attending with another student. I went, I talked, I was accepted, and less than four years later, I had my degree.

(It would be many jobs and many years before I returned to my childhood dreams of being a working writer but it did happen.)

I’m not writing this as a sad tale of baggage from the past but as a cautionary message to those starving writers, those dream-filled writers, those rejection-letter-laden writers who live with the doubt of others. Stay on your path; listen to your heart; practice your craft; perfect your style. Enjoy the process. (This writing life isn’t a get-rich-quick experience, unless you’re already famous and rich, in which case you'll just get richer.)

Next time I’ll be adding some practical advice -- or not.