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Draft #2:
I guess it’s sort of ironic: my writing moment wasn’t even a
moment of writing. It was actually a moment of reading. My aunt took me to
Barnes & Nobel. Why? I don’t remember, but we went often, and on this
particular trip, she bought me a book. I argued: I hated to read. I read in
school all the time, every book is boring. Still, she insisted, and proceeded
to buy me a copy of Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. I not only resisted, I resented this book.
Its very existence insulted me. Still, I read it, for curiosity and fear of my
aunt’s fine-tuned wrath struck fear into my nine-year-old heart. It started
with, “We moved on the Tuesday before labor day. I knew what the weather was
like the second I got up…because I caught my mother sniffing under her arms,”
and I still remember my reaction to that first sentence: I laughed, even though
I didn’t want to. But how could I not? The thought was just so hilarious, so ridiculous!
Who would do something that?! (Little did I know the answer to that question
was everyone who had hit or surpassed puberty.) I didn’t want to be, but I was
hooked, and I just couldn’t stop myself from reading more. I read in class
while the teacher lectured, at the table as my mother said for the umpteenth
time, “Devon, put the book down and eat your dinner,”
in the car, even though it made me nauseous. Everywhere until I was done. And
when I was, I could feel a single seedling thought being planted in the earth
of my mind; I closed the book and I just knew that that’s what I wanted
to do with my life. I wanted to make others feel the way this book had made me
feel. I wanted so badly to pay this favor forward. I wanted to inspire the
world. I graduated high school with a single goal in mind: major in English and
write a bestseller by the time I was twenty. An unrealistic ambition. The
reality of college struck me down: English…was hard now. It was a lot
more than just typing and imagination; and it was a lot more than flubbing some
analysis, quoting a book and getting an A. Moreover, my accidental enrollment
was taking me in a completely different direction—I had unknowingly chosen
Kean’s English Writing Studies program instead of the standard (stereotypical)
Literature program. There were no creative writing classes in my curriculum, no
Poetry lessons, and not a single Brit Lit course in sight. Instead, I was
getting technical—I was learning how language was used, how your process is
just as important (arguably more so) than your final product. Soon, Blume was
an idea of the past; I no longer had the creative drive to sit down and write a
novel. After years of chasing after Blume, I realized I wanted something
different. I didn’t need to write a book to find my voice. I didn’t need her to
support me anymore. I had a voice of my own. And it was a pretty good
one, a voice much more suited to the analytics of English, not the fluff I had
been trying to capture. It was like meeting myself for the first time—I had
stepped out from underneath a shadow I didn’t even realize I was hiding under. And
I suddenly wanted to help others reach this stage of self-recognition. I
thought that publishing was where I could do the most good, and set my eyes
towards that finish line for most of my time as an undergrad. But ultimately,
it wouldn’t stick. I knew it wasn’t hands-on enough. I wouldn’t be able to help
the author improve permanently; I would only be changing one piece at a time. I
wanted to do more. If I wanted to make a real difference, I needed to be more
involved. I needed…to teach. I am so grateful to have ended up here, for
that book, for that first line, for every plan I never followed through. So I
guess it’s kind of ironic: I still want to inspire, but my desired method has
changed.
Draft #1:
I guess it’s sort of ironic: my writing moment wasn’t even a
moment of writing. Actually, it was a moment of reading. When I was nine, my literature-loving,
English teaching aunt brought me to Barnes & Nobel. Why? I don’t remember.
But I do remember going there often with her. I remember her always picking new
books for me to read, which I hated because I hated reading. All my reading was
confined to the limitations of the elementary school curriculum, and frankly,
my teachers couldn’t pick an interesting book if their lives depended on it. So
when my aunt picked up a copy of Are You
There God? It’s Me, Margaret I thought: what’s the point? I was downright insulted by this
books very existence, but she insisted I read it, that I would love it. And had it not been for my overwhelming
curiosity, I may have never opened that book and found my calling. “We moved
on the Tuesday before labor day. I knew what the weather was like the second I
got up…because I caught my mother sniffing under her arms.” Against my own
will, I laughed. It was hysterical and whacky and I loved it. I began to read everywhere:
in class while the teacher lectured, at the table as my mother said for the umpteenth
time, “Devon, put the book down and eat your dinner,”
in the car, even though it made me nauseous. Everywhere until I was done, when
I was, I could feel a single seedling thought being planted in the earth of my
mind; I closed my book and I just knew that that’s what I wanted to do
with my life. I wanted to make others feel the way this book had made me feel. I
wanted so badly to pay this favor forward—to inspire the world. I graduated
high school with the intent to major in English so I could write my bestselling
novel by the time I was twenty. The reality was a culture shock: English…was hard.
It was a lot more than just typing and imagination, and soon my classes were
taking me in a completely different direction. An accidental enrollment, I had
unknowingly chosen Kean’s English Writing Studies program instead of the
standard (stereotypical) Literature program. Soon I began to I understand that getting
a degree in English wasn’t just the books we read and that getting a degree at
all didn’t guarantee that I would ever write a good book. How many “bad books”
had I read in my life? Where was that author’s English degree? No, I
realized a good book was only as accessible and as unattainable as I let it be,
because it had to come from within myself. And I realized that I no longer
wanted to write. Creatively, at least. This revelation was truly a defining
moment in my life, because it was what ultimately led me to wanting to teach. I
had spent years trying to unlock my own voice, years chasing after Blume, but I
already had a voice of my own. And it was a pretty good one. This
discovery of self left me wanting to hear the voices of others. I had had
enough of my own. I wanted to guide people who were struggling to make that
book a reality. I wanted to help people find their own way, not force my way on
them like a book would. I thought that publishing and editing was where I could
do the most good, and set my eyes toward that finish line for most of my time
as an undergrad. But ultimately, it wouldn’t stick. It wouldn’t be until I was
sitting in some elective that I can’t even remember that I had the urge to
lead. The professor was not inspiring, no interesting, and I found myself
thinking in every class: I could teach this class so much better. And to
pass the time, I imagined what I would say, what my students would be like,
what homework I would assign. As the weeks went by, I began to get excited
about this otherwise boring class—what would we talk about today, and how would
I improve its delivery? How could I outdo the professor today? And when
I finally caught onto what I was doing, I realized…I wanted to teach!
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