Dear Diary:

I don't remember any formal writing instruction. I don't remember learning the parts of a sentence nor how to construct a good paragraph. I can't recall a lesson about grammar usage or punctuation rules. But what I do remember is that words have always been important.

As a child I watched as my father penned sermons. I always smiled as I listened to the reactions of the congregation during delivery. "Amen!" "Hallelujah!" "Speak the truth!" I remember hoping that some day my words would evoke similar passion in others.

In high school, Mr. Carlos Symonds inspired me to delve deeper as a writer – to use my pen as a weapon against the mediocrity that had claimed so many of my classmates. Rewrite! Screamed across my paper like curse words, causing me to inwardly question why I'd taken the class. Yet, each time, my pen would rise again, to try again.

Unlike normal kids, my sister and I spent summers completing mother-assigned writing pieces. 'Read this newspaper article and summarise in 100 words or less'; 'Read a book and give a detailed account of character, setting and plot, with evidence to support.' How I hated summers.

But these experiences empowered me with the gift of words. Unfortunately, I know that very few of my students have had any of these experiences. Transferring the understanding of the power of words to my students has been my greatest teaching challenge.

Taking a student, especially a reluctant one, through the writing process is much like birthing a baby. The nurturing and feeding of the spirit encourages the development of motivation. The shared grunts of frustration as we work together to put words together to express an idea strengthen the collaborative nature of our work. The final completion of the piece is like a moment of sheer joy.

It can be painful but the end result is so worth it! And that's why, I'm going to keep doing it.