When I was in seventh grade, I had a teacher from Africa. She was from Kenya, if memory serves. I am not sure if it was because she was stricter than our other teachers, but not many people liked her. One girl in particular loved to butt heads with her, and I can remember one time when it involved me.
My composition notebook habit began in middle school. I’d carry it around in my purse, from class to class, writing when I could or when I was bored. Sometimes, I’d try to write when I was supposed to be listening, or taking notes. This teacher from Kenya caught me and the girl who loved to butt heads with her defended me, arguing that maybe that was what I wanted to do with my life. Looking back on it now, I can’t help but roll my eyes at the whole thing.
What made me think of this episode was lying in the floor of my bedroom, just now, trying to write and thinking that I hate everything I’m working on right now. I think that’s normal, but it drives me crazy. When I was the nerdy girl carrying a book and notebook in her purse at all times, I wrote when I could, as often as I could. There was no question, no hesitation. I could think past whether or not I hated what I was working on, I just wrote because I wanted to.
Some people avoid making what they love a career because there’s always the danger that one day, it will become a chore. I don’t want writing to become a chore, but I’ve set a deadline for myself in April and it is ever looming in my mind and making the fact that I hate what I’m writing stare me down. Plus, there’s the argument that if you don’t like it, what’s to say your audience will?
Where that leaves me on March 3rd with an order of 50,000 words to do in the next month, I am not sure. I think I’ll figure something out because the fact of the matter is, I love this way too much to just stop.