To Mr. Morgan!

Picture it.

I’m thirteen years old.

I’m standing in front of Mr. Morgan’s English class and I’m reading a story I wrote.

When you’re me at thirteen, you’re about two steps away from being freak of the year anyway. yep, ju8st call my name and give me the award.

And it started. The story was a WW II story. an event I missed because I was born over ten years after it ended.

But the story was there anyway.

And it started.

When you’re thirteen and a freak, your classmates don’t hold back.

But Mr. Morgan stopped it.

“I thought it was one of the better stories I heard today,” he said.

“What do you mean?” someone asked.

“What makes a good story?”

No one knew.

“Here’s a simple story,” he said. “A man climbs a tree. People throw rocks at him to knock him down out of the tree. The man climbs down out of the tree. That’s a story.” he paused. “Rich took it a step further. The tree was fear and it was a man confronting that fear. And after confronting it, he relaxed, knowing he’s face it again tomorrow. His story was real. something we face every day.”

I decided right then and there that if I ever wrote a novel, I’d give him a shout out in the dedications.

I did, too.