From my seat, next to the window, I would intermittently stare out across the street at the assembly of smokers grouped homogeneously in threes and fours, envying them their dissidence and Doc Martens.
As I absently picked at the soft denim frays exposing a bare, boney knee where I would rest my chin, I wrote.
She wore her hair in a blunt bob of steel gray, its severity only rivalling that of her calculating gaze as she regarded us over the wired rim of her glasses, that hung on a chain around her neck. The precarious position of those glasses, just above the tip of her narrow nose, was unsettling.
She had no patience for frivolity of word or character, both of which I was guilty, and doled out approval begrudgingly.
Our attempts at various assignments were often met with short, reprieval or curt interjection, guiding us through numerous revisions. It being an advanced creative writing class and her having extraordinary standards of excellence. Standards that were at once intimidating and exhilarating. Seemingly unobtainable.
And as I worked furiously over some writing assignment that's nature is lost to me now, I felt her presence hovering behind me.
"Good", she blandly declared before moving on leaving me, mouth agape, wondering if I had heard correctly.
In that singular statement she validated my writing, my words. And they have gotten me through, they have kept me company, they have made light where lightness was necessary.
A little over a year ago, I remembered that writing was better than not writing.
Because its good.
Happy Blogiversary just doesn't do it justice.