Saturday, December 18, 2010
occasionally, in some romantic way, I'd like to say that I had one great teacher, one mentor who showed me the secrets of expressing myself and sharing my ideas, but I can't. No one person was my teacher. No one person showed me my gifts. My teachers came in many forms - school teachers, family members, friends, and those whom I may never meet, yet who nonetheless have touched me. Perhaps I didn't need a single teacher, like so often happens to artists in stories and films. Perhaps I never allowed myself such a teacher. Perhaps I never leaped at the opportunity. Sometimes I wish I had a storybook tale to tell of how I found my love of writing, some person other than myself, a master, whom I could credit with my inspiration. But I can think of no one. For me, teachers have appeared in many forms and through many different people. And you know what, that's just fine with me, being touched by many lives.