Today’s Seven Sentences is from regular contributor Eleanor Biddulph. Read Eleanor’s blog here and follow her on twitter
As an “older” college student nearing the end of my formal education, yet still trying to find my way, I signed up for a senior experience class called My Life, My Story.
Our very first assignment was to write about a specific place from our childhood with this instruction: ”Be specific, be detailed, dig deep, you’ll be amazed at what you find.”
I wrote five pages about my best friend’s living room; her Mom welcoming us each day with genuine interest and affection, her sisters simultaneously loving and bickering, her Dad quietly tolerant of so many females, other friends from the neighborhood popping in and out, life lessons shared with humor.
My paper was returned with this note, “You must write more.”
Over the course of the ten week class, the professor cried when I wrote about my dad’s death, he gave me a hug when he returned my paper about my Mom’s Alzheimer’s; he marveled at my description of an ocean sunrise, he criticized
my attempts at fiction.
“Stick to the truth,” he said, “your heart has a unique voice to give it.”
And so, I write.
