My unofficial job title:
This is an excerpted piece of feedback I just gave a student in my College Composition I course. One of my favorite parts of my profession (and there are many) is the moment I get to be the first person to tell someone this very important news.
I don’t know what her major is—she didn’t disclose and it truly isn’t relevant unless she tells me that it is. I don’t care if she majors in English because she doesn’t need to major in anything to be a writer: she only needs to put a true thing down on paper. She already knows how to do that, and she isn’t alone. I have classes filled with writers who don’t know it yet, and that’s the unofficial and unspoken responsibility I have: to show them what they already are.
I get to hold up a mirror made of words and show them that they create entire futures and universes just by putting a letter after a letter. I get to reflect what is because that’s my gift: I see.
I get to reflect what is and invite them—and you—to consider what could be.
If that isn’t the most amazing thing in the world, I’m not sure what is.
Can I ask you to consider something for a second?
What would happen if you believed this about yourself—if you believed for just one second today that you are a writer?
What would happen to your heart?
What would your hands reach for next if you believed that you are a writer?
If you’d like to share your response to this thought—that’s actually the gospel truth—please feel free to do so in the comments or send me an email.
Feel free as a majestic-ass albatross to believe & write like it’s what you know you’re supposed to do.