"C" is for coward

For years I was a factual writer. Too much time spent behind an editor's desk and the expressive side of writing gets trumped by a limited word count. Get straight to the point, no fluff, no emotion. It got me into college and paid my way through. It also landed me my first "C."

The assignment was simple: write a 5 page paper on a person in my life, living or dead, who had inspired me. The college professor, years of grading papers under his belt, dropped my paper on my desk without a word. Missing was the constructive criticism in the form of red ink. No chastisement for faulty parallelism or dangling modifiers. Not a mark on the paper, with the exception of the fat red "C" screaming at me on the last page. Attached was a small post-it note that read, "See me after class."

I was confused. My great-grandmother, Nana, had been the inspiration for my paper. I felt it was thorough and well written, and it had touched on all of the most important and relevant aspects of her life. My professor agreed, thus adding to my confusion. His explanation and the comments that followed forever changed how and why I write.

My paper read like an obituary, he said. Well written, but entirely fact based. It was completely void of emotion. It lacked heart. He said, after reading the paper, he understood why someone would be inspired by my great-grandmother, but he never felt that someone was me. As a writer, I was completely disconnected from the piece. I began to argue that I had been trained to do just that throughout my years on newspaper staffs, when he stopped me. He told me I had to make a choice. I either opened myself up when pen hit paper or I get a job with the AP.

It was so much easier to hide behind the facts. Facts are safe. Writing about me, my life, my fears, my inadequacies, opened it up to personal criticism. Essentially, if my writing was hated, so was I. I had, up to that point, avoided that type of criticism by avoiding that type of writing. But my professor left me no choice; spill passion onto my pages, or take the C and walk away.

He gave me 2 days to re-write the assignment. I trashed the first draft and wrote furiously for 48 hours. I had opened the flood gates and they would not be shut off. The revised paper was turned in on Friday, and the waiting began. I had never been so nervous about an English assignment before, but I felt the stakes were suddenly higher. I was invested this time.

The second time that paper hit my desk, I skipped past the red comma reminders and flipped directly to the last page. It read:

"Oh Amber,
I am absolutely stunned. This is a beautiful and touching piece of writing that I would be proud to have written myself. This is a shine of brilliance above and beyond my expectations. If I thought for just one second that my class helped you write this, it would make my semester. Blown away, John."

I saved that paper and stumbled upon it recently. It not only made me feel all warm and fuzzy, but it reminded me why I am so honest in my writing these days. When the years have done irreparable harm and I am looking back on my life through journals and blogs, I want to know what I felt as I experienced life. Might not be a "shine of brilliance" very often, but there will be passion behind the words. And that is worth an "A" in my book.