The Cherry on Top- When I think about where my writing journey began, I always go back to a big, open classroom in second grade. It was divided by rolling walls; one teacher taught on one side and another taught on the other. When we came in from recess, or gathered for story time or creative crafts, the walls were rolled back and one teacher took a break while the other guided us through whatever busy work we were supposed to be doing.

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On this particular day, our busy work involved a set of cubbies filled with baby food jars. Originally, those cubbies held bottles of soda. Our teachers had replaced them with jars, and each jar held a different task. Draw a picture of your family; make a beaded necklace for your mother; mold clay into a pretty flower. The jar I chose said: "Write a story about a cherry that is about to be eaten and tell how it feels."

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It was not the story I wanted to write, but one thing was certain: I did not want my cherry to be afraid. So I wrote about a cherry that was chosen to be the cherry on top of an ice cream sundae. I wrote about how the cherry was happy to be picked, how it laughed when it was plopped onto the fluffy whipped cream, and how it enjoyed the journey down the throat. To me, it was like a ride down a slide. I am sure I had plenty of misspelled words, but I knew the story I wanted to tell.

 

I cannot say that I wrote a lot after that, but I do know that stories kept me occupied on long trips. They kept me company when my mind wandered during long church services, and they entertained me when I was supposed to have my head down on the desk for nap time. For me, this was normal. At that age, I thought everyone had those thoughts.

 

As I grew up, I never shied away from an opportunity to write. In English class, writing was what I loved. One day in high school, my L.E.A.P. teacher, Mrs. Shirley, had an assignment on our syllabuses that included writing a Christmas story. L.E.A.P. was a college-prep class, and she told us from the beginning that she would not be reminding us of assignments or telling us when they were coming up. We could turn assignments in early, then turn them in when we finished, or turn them in all at once, as long as nothing was late.

 

For me, it was safer to do everything early. The relief of turning assignments in gave me the freedom in class to do something else: talk, finish work from other classes, read a magazine, or simply relax.

 

One day, as I was going down the hall, my journalism teacher, Coach Carter, stopped me. He was also the girls' basketball coach, and he did not care for me very much. I will tell that story another time. When I crossed the hall, he told me someone had given him something I had written. I thought someone had found a note and turned it into him. Yes, we wrote notes and passed them every chance we had. It was our form of texting.

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As I stood there waiting for whatever punishment he had in mind, he told me he had read my Christmas story. I had honestly forgotten about it since I wrote it in October. He said Mrs. Shirley had given it to him, and he was going to put it in the school newspaper.

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I was half shocked and very scared. What if my classmates thought it wasn't good? I tried to talk him out of it, but he would not change his mind. I believe he liked it. I think it was a good filler for the newspaper, and I also think it was his way of getting me again because he did not like me. To my surprise, people liked it, at least those who read it.

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After that, I started writing songs, stories, poems, and plays. This was literally my beginning.

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