by Jennifer Jacquet

Created on: January 08, 2009

Why do i write?

Well, i began writing when i was nine years old. My aunt gave me a journal for my birthday, and i began to keep a diary. And earlier that year, i had been asked to write a psalm for a class, and had produced my first work of poetry. Biography and poetry: this is how i began. But i didn't yet consider myself a writer.

Over the next few years, i dabbled in writing. I kept my diary more or less faithfully, and i tried my hand at one or two short stories (they never went anywhere). And then, i took an English class where i was required to write essays, biographical sketches, and papers frequently. And i decided that i hated to write.

This was not changed by my teacher, who told me frequently that i would one day be a great writer. She would go on and on about my clever use of sarcasm, about my witty slang and flip remarks, and she would write pages of remarks in illegible pencil. And then she would say, "One day, you'll be a great writer. You'll have a column in a newspaper or something, and you'll be well-loved and widely-read, and papers all over the country will be competing for you, and it will be because of your great style. But your style is just not appropriate for formal papers!" I always wanted to come back with a comment like, "Well, if i already have the talent to be a widely-read and highly sought-after columnist, then why the heck do i have to bother with learning to write formal papers?" But she was an English teacher, and we all know how intimidating they can be.

In my junior year of high school, two very interesting and important things happened to me. The first was that a friend of mine, Grace, had an aunt who offered to teach a history class for her neice and some friends. (Before i go on, i should mention that i was homeschooled from first grade on through high school). This woman, Mrs. Cunningham, was intimidating to a degree that i had never before encountered. She was brilliant, witty, and tough, and she had high expectations for us. I wrote several papers and essays for her, and from the very first one, she was a huge fan of mine. She praised my writing very highly. This was the first time that anyone had ever really praised my writing without some qualifier. The second thing happened as a result of the first thing. Our class of four met once a week at Grace's house, and three of us were there early for a Spanish class. Between Spanish and history, we had a break of several hours, and my classmates used to fill this time by writing

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