My Daughter Who is NOT a Writer

(I know I haven't written in forever.  I've got a case of writer's block or Too Much News or something. I know people are worried because people have started CALLING ME, which only happens when people are REALLY worried, given that I will call them back NEVER. I'm trying to recognize that part of my creative process is the need for a lot of white space so that whatever is percolating in my writer's soul can rise to the surface. The one constant in my life is, and has always been, writing, so I trust that I'll be back. Thanks for thinking of me.)

So, my older daughter, Ana, refuses to let us call her a writer.

Despite the fact that back in August she received this letter:
(Click to embiggen and read)
(May I just say that there is a special place in heaven set aside for teachers who care enough about their individual students to sit down and write this kind of letter?  Every time I read it, I get a little teary at the  goodness of it.)

Still, Ana will tell you, she LOATHES writing. And she will say it just like that, because she is 14 and articulate and she feels strongly about things.

Loathing writing didn't stop her from winning first prize for poetry in the Huntington Youth Writes Contest for grades 6-8, though.


There were 1,500 entries.

I'm so proud of that little non-writer, I could burst.
She may loathe writing, but she liked the frozen yogurt with which we celebrated her win.

There's an awards ceremony in May and she'll be awarded a $100 check and her work will be published along with the other winning entries in some sort of publication put out by the town.

Here's her winning entry:

You Remind Me of a Certain Summer Sonnet
  by Ana Cooper

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Like my bare feet on a burning sidewalk,
And staying inside when it’s too hot to play.
You are the dryer that eats only one sock.

You compare nicely to ants at a cookout,
Eating the food before anyone can touch it.
You are the lifeguard that fails to be a lookout.
You are the ice cream I drop before I can clutch it.

You are the pasty legs sticking out of shorts in disgrace,
And sticking to car seats hotter than an oven.
And more maddening than mosquitoes that maul my face,
Or crowds at a concert, cursing and shoving.

Like a rotten actor in a bad summer movie,
You promise kindness, but deliver envy.

(With apologies to William Shakespeare)


tanita✿davis said…
Okay, so if I cry a little from poet envy, then it's okay, right? Because, she's not even really a writer or anything.

Well done, that girl.

B., we'll call her a writer just between ourselves, okay? In a whisper.
Barb Matijevich said…

I won't tell her if you won't.

Anonymous said…
So thrilling, congratulations to your amazing child! I hope she loathes curing cancer too!
Rosie c.
Susan said…
Tell Ana that SHE IS SO A FREAKING WRITER! No whispering from me.
Anonymous said…
OK, so she's not a writer. She's a poet.
Miri said…
She is an original, that one. No matter what she calls herself. And by the way, she can *write.*

And per your margin/white space/cogitative time: me too. Maybe it's a thing now. It's okay to take time to consider the lilies before one describes them.
Susan said…
So wonderful to see her talent and to have it verified by her thoughtful teacher. Wow.
Lomagirl said…
I teared up at that teacher, too. What a gift.
(BTW- have you read Frindle? Great kids book, but not really for kids.)