The earlier part of my roots for writing began in fourth grade.
Mr. Taverna saw raw talent and encouraged my writing abilities.
That was truly the beginning.
He gave the class a writing assignment. Unlike most teachers who would be specific about the subject matter, Mr. Taverna told us to write what we wanted to write.
I still recall my feelings of melancholy.
It was one of those days that was the color of night. It was 10am and it was pitch black outside.
With the fluorescent lights cascading down on us, the class was utterly quiet. I stared out the window.
I focused on a lone ball sitting in a mud puddle under the swings during a spring storm.
The rain poured and we were stuck inside for the day, but not the ball.
The red ball sat and bobbled slightly, just barely on the water’s surface as the wind pushed against it. It couldn’t go far as the puddle wasn’t large—its world was small—and it couldn’t go anywhere without anyone playing with it.
I surmised that the ball felt lonely without the children playing with it as it looked in at us. There was no child to rescue it, but the ball could see all the children inside, sitting, doing things without it. Longing for a child’s touch and laughter, it sat in the rain while inside the dry children, unaware what was watching them, played without it, not noticing, not realizing what was outside in darkness and rain.
I still have that piece somewhere with the simple title Ball.
Written with 10 year-old sentences and only a half-page, it was short, simple and to the point. I believe the last sentence was: “There was no child to play with it.”
I came across the piece when I was a teenager and saw what Mr. Taverna saw.
It would only be much later that I would make the career choice to be a writer, but I won’t forget where the root began.