Writing Practise

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When I was at school, I wasn't keen on most subjects whether it was chemistry or music.

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I wouldn't say I was an eager student who wished to get the finest grades and please my teachers.

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Even sitting in on a lecture that I possessed zero interest in was a drag, not to mention getting pleasure from equations, chemical tests and whatnot.

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But, as it turned out, I was terrible at everything but literature and had a strong preference for reading and writing.

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Composing essays or citing poems by heart were things that inspired me and made me highly effective.

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When I was writing, I felt on cloud nine, thoroughly enjoying crafting essays and discussing books.

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My teacher of literature and writing, Danuta Edvardovna, was an enthusiastic, middle-aged woman who knew her stuff and tried to do her best at encouraging her students' love of literature and words.

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At the beginning, we didn't see eye to eye.

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Most of the time I kept myself to myself in class, not doing homework and not lifting a finger in the classroom at all.

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In fact, it had nothing to do with her.

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Just like many teenagers, at that point in my life I felt a deep aversion toward the very idea of deliberate studying or any other kind of work.

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Back then, I didn't perceive this attitude as a kind of rebellion, deeply absorbed by my inner world, but that was exactly what it was.

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Still, Danuta didn't bat an eyelid, letting me do nothing for months.

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I think she felt that I would stand by what I chose on principle, so there was no point in trying to convince me to study.

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At a certain moment, things have taken a turn.

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Once I sat in class, listening to other students' answers and as always, doing nothing at all.

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However, I suddenly heard Danuta asking a student about a book that I'd just finished the night before.

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It was a novel by Michail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita, and the student had no clue what Danuta was talking about.

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Apparently, he hadn't read the book.

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But I read it.

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And I knew the answer.

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Ignoring the deep resistance I felt in my body, I worked up all my courage and raised the arm.

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Danuta hesitated only for a second, then looked at me with a barely noticeable smile and let me answer.

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I did it in a heartbeat, describing all the plot points, the main characters, and their motives.

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The next thing I knew, I was sitting in the front row and writing essays about my favorite books and writers.

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I ignored the standard curriculum altogether and wrote about every conceivable thing I deeply cared about.

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Danuta didn't force me to write about what she thought would be the right choice.

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Instead, she gave me the freedom to explore topics and things that I regarded as interesting.

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Yet, she thoroughly revised my writing and ggaveme useful corrections to my mistakes and style.

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I wrote about books that I came across in the library, people that I met on the streets and poems that struck a chord inside of me.

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Even though at first I didn't like writing, it turned out that when I sat at the deck and started scribbling words on the paper, I immediately became absorbed in the very process, and, to my surprise, even had something to say.

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Sometimes I miserably failed at explaining what I wanted, other times writing flowed like clockwork.

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At these moments, words were pouring on a sheet, letting me enjoy the process to no end.

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On the whole, writing on a level that she required me to write was a tall order.

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At times, I felt like a fish out of water, rewriting and crossing everything over again.

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Still, even though Danuta was a pain in the neck, because of her I got used to the discomfort of the writing process.

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Day after day, I broke the mold and went back to square one every time I wasn't satisfied with the result.

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Nevertheless, I grew from strength to strength in my writing and honed my skills every day.

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Danuta turned out to be more than just a teacher who wanted to see work done.

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She was a person who was eager to see how her students study in their own, unique way and finally find their feet in the world.

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She encouraged me to ask questions about myself and my place in the world.

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She taught me to connect with my topics on a deeper level instead of following traditional ways of writing.

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Even though I was the only person to whom she gave such freedom in the entire class, I never asked her about her decision, as well as I didn't discuss it with other students.

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This kind of freedom gave rise to all sorts of questions in my mind.

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It increased my curiosity about the world and, on top of that, developed a burning desire to write within me.

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Since then, my passion for writing has followed me throughout the years, sustaining me in hard times and being for me a lasting beacon in the chaos of the world.

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It helped me to write my first diaries and articles.

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All in all, it encouraged me to share my writing with others.

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I believe this kind of interest and enjoyment wouldn't be possible without Danuta, who helped me reveal my interests and instilled a love of writing.

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Attentively revising my essays, she helped me to believe that my efforts would never be in vain.

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Letting me have the freedom to write about anything and everything, she made me eager to take action and write in the first place.

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Eventually, she taught me to reflect on my choices and helped me realize that I have the most responsibility for the development of my interests and that my own actions are crucial to sustain my passion over the long-term.

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I ignored the standard curriculum altogether and instead wrote about every conceivable thing I deeply cared about.

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When I wrote, I felt on cloud nine, thoroughly enjoying crafting essays and discussing books.

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Yet, she thoroughly revised my writing and gave me useful corrections and recommendations on style.

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I wrote about books that I came across in the library, people that I met on the streets and poems that struck a chord within me.

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Because of that, I grew from strength to strength in my writing and honed my skills every day.

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At a certain point, things have taken a turn.

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Once I was sitting in class, listening to other students' answers and as always, doing nothing at all.

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At a certain point, things took a turn.

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Ignoring the stubborn resistance I felt in my body, I worked up all my courage and raised the hand.

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But I had read it.

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