On Getting Started

He looked miserably at the blank piece of paper in front of him.  It was even worse than it could have been, since he'd left the assignment paper at school; that, at least, had the question written on it.  This had nothing but faint blue lines, in college rule.

"I don't know what to write," he moaned, head in his hands.  Granted, an essay about how you plan to make your mark on the world is a pretty tall order for an eight year old.  Still.

"Pull yourself together," I said, uncharitably, knowing exactly how he felt.  He blew his nose and sniffled.  "Now: write the word ... tomato," I commanded.

"What?"

"Tomato.  Don't look at me like that; just write it."

He demurred, scribbling the word, and then looked up.  "Why?"

"Now it's no longer a blank empty page," I told him.  "And whatever you write?  Is going to be more relevant and intelligent than the word tomato."

"That's true," he agreed, sucking his fang-like front teeth thoughtfully.

For the next half hour, we worked on a mind map: we wrote his question in the middle, and drew fractal-like arms radiating out from the center in stream-of-consciousness.  He grinned, thoroughly enjoying himself, and retreated to the back room, where he developed drafts "Tomato 2," "Tomato 3," and "Tomato 4."  I remembered what I liked about teaching writing.

By the end of it, he had an essay that hung together, that was mostly on topic, and that didn't say what I wanted it to say, but what he wanted to say.

I should follow my own advice more often.