No Bad Writing

A writer is someone who writes.

—Pat Schneider

I always fancied myself a writer. Perfectly shaped letters—block and later cursive—led me to believe I wrote well. My letters always gently touched the lines or carefully intersected those horizontal dashes between the solid blue lines that showed the exact middle of the space where the letter should cross and sometimes connect. My elementary teachers, the Felician Sisters at Holy Name of Jesus in Buffalo, said I wrote well. Immaculate letters on a clean sheet of lined paper won the praises of my teachers. Yes, I even spelled well, which was a bonus. Fewer spelling mistakes meant fewer eraser marks. My principal, Sister Mary Richard at Most Holy Redeemer in Cheektowaga, said I wrote well, too. In fact, my “writing” was so beautiful, I was selected to write in “the book” in the principal’s office recording important information about the school for posterity. I would go to Sister Mary Richard’s office when summoned, step up onto the stool in front of a podium that held this huge leather-bound book, and write whatever Sister gave me to record. Sometimes it was a page; sometimes it was more, depending on what was happening in and around school. I never read what was given to me; I was just supposed to copy the information into “the book.” No questions, just copy. I took my time making my letters crisp, precise, and very legible. Sister Mary Richard would look over my work and then send me back to class with a “Well done” and a new pencil. The other kids were so envious. I would come back to class and go directly to my seat. My friend, Patti, would look over and say, “So what happened?”