When I was 13, our first significant creative writing project of the year was to write an alternate ending to “Animal Farm.” Super fun! Until I got pulled aside one day. My English teacher, Mrs. Creviston, firmly believed I had not written what I turned in, and in fact suspected the author to be my mom. As if. I was informed of this and that she had called my mom, who had denied writing anything for me or assisting for that matter. Too true. Outraged, I equally asserted the writing was mine, and she informed me with the confidence and disappointment of one grimly anticipating to catch a cheat that I would be staying right where I was and writing an entirely different ending to the story. Piece of cake, and I’m decorating it with a layer of ‘gonna make you eat your words’ frosting.

When Mrs. Creviston finished reading the pages, she lifted her head, apologized, and asked me what else I’d been writing. Lots of things at that time, but mostly poetry. Seriously, it’s a great form of expression for the hormone fueled torture chambers of puberty. She became an advocate and a mentor from that day forward- she encouraged me to enter contests, believe in myself, and showed me kindness and support unique to my circumstances at that time. Her final act of kindness before I moved left a mark on me so indelible as to permanently reshape my character and actions from that day forward. So naturally, I loved her with everything in me and though we lost touch some years ago after one of her kiddos developed significant health challenges, something I can fully understand under my present circumstances, my brief time as her student remains one of the single most influential elements in shaping the person I have become.

Why am I telling you this? Well, I was approached gently and respectfully by a valued and loved member of Tony’s therapy team with similar assumptions about the source of the writing in Hannah’s blog post. No hard feelings at all, I do get it.

In case she is not alone in her assumptions, officially I want to state up front the only thing I have contributed to Hannah’s writing is 50% of her DNA, and I have allowed her to pick her own topics also. The subject she chose for her first post happened to be on her mind because she overheard me telling Whitney something particularly upsetting someone had said to Tony and I that week in the store. Hannah is very much her own person, writer, and thinker, just as I have always been. So until my next regular post drops this Saturday, I hope the rest of your week is filled with moments and writers that make you smile, whatever and whoever that may be.