Taste Your Words

When I was eleven years old, I wrote a poem. I worked for days to perfect it. I searched the thesaurus in the school's library, I read it aloud in front of a mirror. I worked harder than I had ever worked on any assignment. I labored. I shared it with exactly one person. A trusted teacher. I remember the butterflies in my stomach when I left it on his desk and shyly asked him to read it. "I wrote this thing." I said, unwilling to even label it as a poem, because, in my sixth grade mind, poems were for professionals.
Two days went by, I studied his face during every class. He gave no indication that he had any sort of reaction at all, and for little while, I wondered if I had actually left the paper, or if I had somehow dreamed the entire thing.
On the second day, during the last class, during the last minute of the day, he requested that I stay after the bell rang. I spent the next few minutes in a kind of frozen hell. I wanted to throw up, and then run, or run while throwing up.
After the last classmate had left the room, he said that he had liked my poem, that he could tell that I had worked hard on it. My spirit lifted. Then, he said, "Do you know what the word 'plagiarize' means?" I said that I did. Then he went on to detail what happens when a writer steals another writer's work. That passing someone else's work off as one's own is dishonest and hurtful to the person who put their best efforts into whatever they were writing. I got the message. The poem was good, so good, in fact, that my trusted teacher didn't believe that I had written it.
The poem found it's way into the trash can, I faced a long, sad walk home. I hadn't copied anyone's work. The words had been mine alone. I couldn't be angry with him. He had been as kind as an adult could be who was crushing the inspiration of a preteen girl. I am nearly forty years old, and all it takes is a second to remember the shame I felt, needlessly, sitting in that empty classroom. Words matter.
Two days ago, I shared a post about my father's death. A teacher I trusted and adored (and still adore!) in eighth grade commented that I should write more often. Her praise of my words lifted me up and made my feet light for the rest of the day. She had that effect in the eighth grade, as well. Words matter.
I write all the time. I write long, elaborate stories in my head. I write while I am reading and cooking and folding laundry. I write because it's how my brain works. I just don't share because that is also how my brain works. Sometimes I sit at the computer typing for hours. I reread what I wrote, and then I wish for anonymity because writing is a whole different animal from sharing. Sharing doesn't come anywhere near as easily as writing. Every single time I have shared a blog post, I feel like vomiting. Or running. Or running while I vomit. I always, without fail, want to take it all back and shove it back inside my head for another day. But the words matter.
I am happiest when I am putting thought to paper (or screen, as the case may be). So, I just wanted to say, thank you for reading my words. Thank you for your comments. Thank you for your 'likes' on Facebook. Thank you for the texts you sent. Thank you for what you said to me out loud, with all the world around us to hear. Your words? They matter. I carry them around with me, sometimes for YEARS.
There's a great quote, "Be sure to taste your words before you spit them out". This week, all of your words tasted sweet and light- and I am really and truly grateful.