I wouldn’t be aware of it for a few more minutes, but my tongue was sticking out. As I carefully crafted letter after letter I was determined to write just as well as Mom had. For a four-year-old, learning to read and write usually isn’t a priority, but I had always been interested in books and had already been reading for a year. I had convinced Mom that it was time for me to learn to write too, and because I was the only child at that point, I got my wish. Now I was sitting at the kitchen table, swinging my legs and intently focusing on creating the perfect “m.” With my brow furrowed and my tongue still on display for the entire world to see, I continued to move my pencil across the page.
“Good. Now do a whole row just like that.” Mom got up from the table and returned to cleaning the kitchen. I kept my eyes on my paper. This was a make or break moment; I had to be able to write the perfect letter without Mom’s help. The graphite tip of my number two pencil brushed the paper as I drew in a deep breath. Carefully I pulled my arm towards my body, creating the first line of the “m.” Good, just like the last one. My entire body shifted back and forth as I completed each line of what I knew would be the perfect letter. Finally, confident in my abilities as the best writer I had ever known, I blazed through the entire line, feeling that each “m” was more grandiose and excellent than the one before. Triumphant at the end of the row, I tossed my pencil to the side and rushed to bring Mom back to the table, eager to show off the fruits of her fine teaching and my exquisite talent.
I clambered back onto the chair, shoving my paper into her hands. As Mom sat down, I looked on at first with excitement, than with dismay; suddenly I could only see imperfection. Looking along the row, each “m” catalogued further deteriorations in my writing technique. Suddenly my disappointment became worry; what would Mom say? I had just explained how well I had done and then handed her a paper full of nothing but mistakes. This was it. I would never learn to write now. Mom placed her finger on the first “m” I had painstakingly created.
“This one is very good Emily. I like your nice straight lines.” I nodded, a lump forming in my throat. Sure, that one had been a labor of love, but what about the rest. My sloppy work was painfully obvious below the careful letters Mom had provided as examples. “But, with the rest of these I’m sure you could do better. Make them look more like the first one.” I scrunched up my face, submissively receiving her words along with the paper, which she handed to me as she rose to return to the kitchen. I was about to release slow, steady streams of tears from my eyes. I was so embarrassed and ashamed. I knew better. I concentrated on carefully erasing every mark I had scratched across the paper, working backwards across the line. The methodical work of removing my scrawled attempts at the letter “m” helped me to regain control of my breathing and I stopped feeling the need to cry.
It was time to begin again. This time each letter had concentration and effort behind it. At long last, the row was done. Instead of bustling immediately into the kitchen, I took the time to look back over my work. Occasionally I would discover a crooked line or an arch too large for the rest of the letter and work to correct it. After another few minutes of careful work and observation, I deemed my efforts worthy of display to Mom. Calmly I walked into the kitchen and explained that I was prepared to show what I felt to be quality work.
Sitting and watching her eyes quietly scan my writing, I again felt a sinking feeling. From this angle, even more mistakes were presenting themselves. Would I never write as well as her? Mom returned the paper to the empty stretch of table in front of me, between my pencil and eraser. I looked down, feeling as downcast as I ever had, knowing that I was about to be instructed to try again.
“I like how much better you did this time, Emily. You showed some real improvement. Someday you’ll be able to write very well.” Giving me a quick hug, Mom returned to the kitchen. I just sat there in shock. Convinced that on her most recent trip into the dining room Mom had lost a good portion of her sanity, I looked again at the paper.
The longer I looked, the more I came to conclude that perhaps it wasn’t as bad as it had first seemed to be. Certainly I had a long way to go before I achieved the lyrical handwriting I wished for, but in a matter of minutes I had improved. As I moved to the next row, I still carefully formed each segment of the “m” as if it were a work of art. But, now each letter appeared to become a work of art and not just the imitation of one. Shining through the imperfections was a love of writing. The energetic frenzy of a few minutes ago had been replaced by a love for accurately creating letters, rather than mass-producing them.
Even now there are times when I get caught up in what I am doing and carry myself over the edge so that I crash down into defeat, realizing that I have overstepped my bounds and fallen short of my expectations at the same time. There are times when I believe I have created works of art from how I craft the written word, only to find that as I read back through my work, I have greatly deceived myself. However, with each successive draft my clarity and imagery slowly improves. My first writings have grown into papers I am proud to call my own, and while there is always room for improvement, I can recognize my growth and continue to strive for improvements I know I am capable of.
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