It was in the second grade, I think.

Well, maybe the third grade.

Doesn't really matter. I had the same teacher both years anyway.

One day she gave out a writing assignment.

Most of my classmates groaned. I perked up a little.

I liked to think I told a good story.

We were instructed to tell a story about a past event in our lives.

I went home, and for some reason I decided to write about a dark time I had gone through, and how I had pulled through.

Pouring out all that cluttered my mind, I handed in my paper the next day.

Anxiety settled in when the teacher announced she'd be reading our papers out loud.

I glanced nervously at my classmates.

What would they think of me? About my weaknesses?

My fear only grew worse when I spoke to my teacher about it.

"You'll be okay," she told me. "There's no reason to be shy about what you wrote."

Then the time came. The teacher came brightly from her desk, pile of papers in her hands.

She looked at us, smiled, and began to read.

Most classmates wrote about when they got a new pet, or when they went on a trip. Some wrote about when their little sister was born or when their dad got a new job.

Each event seemed so happy.

So normal.

And I dreaded the moment when I would hear mine read.

The time came too soon.

I heard my title announced, and the teacher pleasantly began to read.

And all I wanted to do was melt into the floor and disappear from the nightmare I had brought upon myself.

Further and further she read.

The further she read, the tighter her voice became.

The more I wanted to disappear.

Finally, I heard the last words uttered. The teacher tore her gaze from the paper and rested it on me.

My classmates were quiet, but no wonder. I now realize the topic was way over their heads.

But my focus was no longer on them.

It was on the adults.

And their reaction.

And it was not lost to  my eight year old mind.

"She wrote that?" the teacher's aides whispered.

Their eyes were misted.

Their voices were tight.

Their expressions were somber.

They just stared at me.

And I stared back, taking them in.

They were moved.

By my words.

My story.

My life.

And that was it.

I knew I wanted to be a writer.

Because even then, I saw the power I had.

I saw what I could do to people just by speaking the truth.

I could move them.

I could show them hope.

A fire was lit that day.

And no matter what has happened since...

Every heartbreak.

Every let down.

Every dead end.

Every disappointment.

The fire still burns.

The desire to move people is unquenchable.

And if I only ever move one person in my whole lifetime, well...

No thanks to me.

It was that writing assignment all those years ago.