anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn’t he danced his did
Those lines still ring clearly in my head. I was thirteen, almost fourteen, awkward. A seventh-almost-eighth grader with six inches worth of height I had gained in a year and didn’t know what to do with, I walked into almost everything I could see in a room. I had hands bigger than my face and shoulders that could not hold themselves up no matter what I tried. I wore that tall girl slouch like it was my favorite coat or favorite oversized sweater, maybe…I had just given up wearing velvet drawstring pants and clogs.
I loved to read, though, and some other kids around me thankfully did too. I had written a 120 page novella to which I couldn’t find the perfect ending, a spiraling sci-fi story of two friends that fall in love and must make it through an alternate world once there is a major power shift from human to alien-slash-robot. Half of the dialogue is in French, and I handled the translation entirely on Google Translate.
My middle school English teacher, Zachary Roberts, who is to this day one of the best teachers I have ever had, read my entire novella cover to shittily illustrated cover. He gave me notes, encouraged me to send my short stories out to literary magazines, and continued reading even when it looked like there was no chance of the story ending. As it spiraled into future worlds, more Google Translate (this time, German), and the tragic death of Heroine A, he continued reading.
