Read Online Write This Down by Claudia Mills - Free Book Online Page A

makes her seem needy or greedy, soooo eager to be the teacher’s pet. I know, I know. I shouldn’t think such hateful things about Olivia, because down deep—well, not down all that deep—I’m as needy and greedy and teacher’s pet-y as she is.
    When Olivia is done—she used up seven whole minutes—I plunk myself down in the chair next to Ms. Archer’s desk. Wordlessly I hand her my essay. I added some stuff to it since the freewrite. I put in some of the other things I was—am—afraid of, like spiders and eyeballs (if I ever need glasses, I’m never getting contact lenses) and chairlifts where your feet hang down. At the end I added the thought about how I don’t have the flashlight anymore, just the memory. Other than that, though, it’s pretty much the same.
    It’s the tensest moment in a writer’s life: to sit there watching someone reading what you’ve written. The only thing even tenser is if they’re reading something you’ve written about your life .
    Ms. Archer isn’t reading fast or slow, and she doesn’t show any reaction. I can’t stop my eyes from trying to read upside down, so I can be reading exactly what she’s reading, exactly when she’s reading it.
    She looks up when she’s done and smiles.
    â€œThis is lovely, Autumn. So many vivid details to let the reader experience a five-year-old’s fear. Even as we know there is no such person as Mrs. Whistlepuff, you’ve made us believe in her. You’ve done a deft job of showing the family dynamics with so few words: ‘my father took the night-light out of my room because five-year-olds are big girls who don’t need night-lights anymore.’ And you’ve made us love Hunter.”
    Ms. Archer always starts with the positive. That’s good, but it makes me wonder if she means the nice things she says, because she really does find something nice to say to everyone.
    â€œBut?” I ask, prompting her for the criticism I know is coming.
    â€œWhat do you think it needs?” She turns the question back at me.
    â€œIt’s just an incident? It’s not about anything?”
    She considers this. “It’s about overcoming fear?” she suggests. “And how sometimes, as Beatle Ringo Starr once sang, ‘we get by with a little help from our friends’? How could you bring out that idea a bit more?”
    I shake my head. That’s not what it’s about, not for me.
    â€œOr?” she asks.
    â€œIt’s about my brother. How he used to be. Versus how he is now…”
    Even as I say it, I know this is not the right kind of about-ness. About-ness isn’t supposed to be personal; it’s the universal truth you’re trying to share with the reader. That’s what Ms. Archer told us the day we did the best-or-worst-present freewrite.
    I’m so tuned in to Ms. Archer that when she gives a slight nod, I know she’s not nodding for what I said, but for the ellipsis points at the end of it, for how I realized myself that it wasn’t enough.
    â€œActually,” I say miserably, “I don’t think it’s about anything that anybody except me would care about.”
    That’s why I came to you. Tell me what it should be about. Tell me how to fix it. Tell me what the universal truth is supposed to be.
    â€œMaybe…” she says.
    Tell me, tell me, tell me!
    â€œMaybe you’re not ready to write this yet. Let it simmer. Let it stew.”
    It’s due tomorrow!
    â€œWhat it means will come to you,” she continues. “You’ll wake up in the middle of the night someday, some month, some year, and say, ‘Cumin!’ or ‘Coriander!’”
    I don’t cook, except for my killer French toast, but I recognize those as names of spices. My essay needs more than a spice. It needs the central ingredient. Right now it’s like chicken soup without