BY MESHNA BHATTARAI
The best writing tip I ever received was to get my hands bloody.
‘Wrestle with words, scream at them, claw at them,’ my newest literature teacher told us. I stared at her, half in awe, half wary. First week, first day at a new school, and Ms Sorie was the only teacher who had reached decibels above what was expected of my prim and proper private school.
My first three classes had consisted of soft, slow, methodical instructions, stern reminders of the As that were expected from us students. Now, in fourth period, I was suddenly expected to get into a boxing ring with the ABCs? Because I was too unfamiliar with fiery passion to recognise it, the words floated out of my head in quick bubbles, leaving faster than they had entered. Safe to say, I did not adhere to her advice. Not until I got my first assignment back. Her black-inked critiques looked like ants on the page, crawling absolutely everywhere, not dangerous on their own, but the sheer number of them was enough to send my heart thump thump thump-ing.
Before I even read the critiques, my hopes for the one class all my teachers had guaranteed my success in crumbled like an hour-old sandcastle. It was the end of the world. Consequently, it bred tears, which metamorphosed into unbridled anger. What does one do with such rage? Sit and stew? That didn’t sound right.
My anger turned to ink-stained hands that fearlessly fought with words. ‘Wrestle with words,’ Ms Sorie had said, so I did. I screamed at sentences, clawed at paragraphs and battled with ideas until they compromised.
When I got the next assignment back, though, it crawled with even more ants.
I’d done what she’d asked of me. I’d faced my writing head-to-head, man-to-man. This was supposed to guarantee a critique-free return of my work.
As the determined and admittedly annoying student I was, I confronted her. Trying to keep the frustration out of my voice, I asked, ‘What did I do wrong this time?’ As hard as I tried, I was sure she saw through the I’m-really-upset-but-trying-to-keep-it-together act.
‘You’re checking boxes, doing what I asked for a good grade. There’s room to grow.’
Her words hung in the air like a challenge.
It wasn’t about getting it right the first time or even the hundredth time. In fact, there was no getting it ‘right’. She wasn’t trying to teach us how to write; she was teaching us how to think, how to engage (aka argue) deeply with our own thoughts and ideas.
The most valuable writing advice I ever received was to get my hands bloody. It’s not perfection that matters – it’s the mayhem.
About the Author
Meshna Bhattarai is a high school student from Nepal with a deep passion for writing. Aiming to make others feel heard, her work often explores human emotions and relationships.
