How Red Pen Changed My Life (FYW Award: Second Prize, Style)
by Rachel Pullino
Hidden in a folder somewhere in my room sits a 14-page draft of the first chapter of my book. It’s not well-written, at least to my current standards, and all over the pages are red pen ink and scribbles that I once thought to be critical, but I now see as growth. I remember those notes in that damned red ink being so painful to read at the time. I wasn’t at the stage of confidence that I am now. I wasn’t capable of accepting criticism without taking it personally. So, I kept the paper around as a reminder for me to be better, and I let that red ink taunt me for a couple of months while I rewrote. After that first draft, there were a couple more that I slid across his desk for review. And each time, they came back with that same red ink and brand new critiques. Eventually, they stopped hurting me and instead made me proud to have something to improve upon. I had about a handful of these drafts marked up in that ink by the time my senior year was cut short, and I’ve gotten rid of most of them. But for some reason, I can’t seem to let that first paper go.
As someone who had the pleasure of being in the class of 2020, it’s safe to say my senior year was special. Even before the pandemic, it was certainly the most chaotic and disorganized year of high school that I had, right off the bat. My guidance office provided me with a schedule that was missing four entire periods, so I spent the majority of the first couple of days in the library trying to sort that out. At the time, I found it to be the greatest burden of all time, but looking back, it was a blessing. Sitting with my guidance counselor, we managed to put our heads together and filled most of my schedule, excluding my first period. He tossed a couple of classes at me that I was entirely uninterested in taking, and we were starting to hit a dead end.
Acting 2? No. AP Latin? Absolutely not. Retake yoga? No way. Unfortunately, there were no studies that period that were open. So, instead of leaving me to be miserable, he proposed I take up an independent study. It seemed that would be my best bet, so we sat and outlined a course for me that would last an entire year and allow me to focus on a topic he knew I was passionate about: writing. The class was perfect, but the only problem was I needed to find a teacher to supervise it. Unfortunately, most of the teachers I had bonded with throughout high school had an opening first period, so I was starting to run out of luck. The possibility of me having to take yoga loomed over my head like an icicle, waiting to pierce. I had one final hope, and I was utterly terrified about it. I had a new English teacher that year, Mr. Kucker, one of the only ones in the department that I hadn’t already established a relationship with. From things a previous friend of mine had told me about him, he was a teacher I should’ve feared having. So, having to speak to him for one of the first times ever and ask a huge favor was unnerving, to say the least.
At the end of that class, I waited until almost everyone had left, and introduced myself properly. He was confused as to why I stayed but kind, and I showed him my proposition for the independent study. He read it over and told me he was interested, but would like to work one on one with me to develop it into something better. He had a class that first period but was open to working with me on the side and helping me come up with a final project that we would both be proud of. I was ecstatic. Still unnerved, but the thrill of not being subjected to yoga again was enough to mask it for at least a couple of weeks.
That mask held up pretty strong, at least until Kucker asked me to give him my first draft of the novel I had been working on in my free time for the past couple of years. By the time he asked for it, I had been in class with him for a couple of months, and in those months, I had written multiple essays, personal and analytical, and everything he had to say about those was positive. There was no reason for me to believe he would think any different about my creative work, but the vulnerability of exposing that side of myself gnawed at me to the point where it made me sick. That fear of showing my work to anybody else was so terrifying that it made me even question if I had what it took to go to school for this. But, nonetheless, I had no choice. So, at the beginning of class one day, while he was talking to one of my classmates across the room, I plopped the draft on his desk. Quick and easy, no confrontation. Before he could notice the lump of paper on his desk, the bell rung and we hopped right into dissecting Gawain. I lost myself in the discussion so much so that I had forgotten all the stress that was eating at me not even twenty minutes before. It wasn’t until I was trying to leave the classroom that my anxieties resurfaced.
“Pullino!” Kucker called from behind me. There was no aggression or even authority in the address, but I still felt my stomach drop to my feet. I turned around and walked back to his desk, and all he had to say was, “I’ll get this back to you by the end of the week, I’m looking forward to it.”
The entire week leading up to my paper being returned was nauseating. I couldn’t wait to have the paper out of his hands, but I also could’ve waited 10 more years before reading his critiques. So, when that Friday came where he was meant to give me back the paper, I almost skipped class. I was so worried that reading my work would make him realize what he had gotten himself into and what he would be stuck with for the rest of the year. I felt like if he didn’t like what I had given him that it would ruin our relationship and the mutual respect we had developed in just a couple of months. It feels almost laughable, looking back at how afraid I was to see what this teacher, who clearly respected my work, would say about a single chapter of my novel. But, as laughable as it is now, it still took everything in me and then some for me to walk into his classroom that day. I sat down, still earlier than most of the class, and he plopped the papers on my desk.
“Stay after class and we can talk a bit, but overall, it’s a great start, Pullino.” I had to process those words for a couple of moments, despite having answered with a quick thank you because it took a moment to sink in that I had done well. My anxieties had dissipated with 16 words, and it made me realize that they must’ve been smaller than a slightly complex sentence for them to go away so quickly.
While people were still filing in, I took the opportunity to scan through his red ink notes and the worry returned. At this point, I will still so sensitive to his criticisms of my personal work. There were a lot of scribbles and cursive annotations that I assumed would be harsh critiques that I was scared of receiving. But then I flipped to the last page and saw a note, unrelated to any sentence or phrase in the chapter. It read: “This is some solid work. Your writing is authentic and uniquely you, and while there are some technical corrections and coherency notes, it’s a great start. Wes is a very personal character, and I am really interested in his relationship with Kara-Quinn. I look forward to continuing reading drafts and seeing you
improve.”
Reading those words, even now, fills my heart with a sense of what I can only identify as pride. I felt proud that he liked what I had written that much; I felt proud that I hadn’t severed our relationship with an amateur chapter from my book; and most of all, I was proud that something I had created was authentic and uniquely me. It was the first time, in my then 17 years of life, that I had felt like studying English was not only right for me but also plausible. That becoming an author, an editor, or even a teacher, was something that I not only wanted to do but was fully capable of. It was the first time that I had felt like I was doing exactly what I was meant to be doing and that my future would take care of itself. To be frank, I honestly don’t remember much of the conversation after class. It was mostly technical errors that I had made and some loose suggestions on where to take the story and how to clarify some sections. But, all of those notes feel overshadowed by the sheer pride that carried me throughout the rest of that day. I was still sensitive to my criticisms, but I knew at the very least that my errors would not be held against me and would not make me any less of a writer.
Cody Kucker was the first person to ever make me believe that being an author was something I was more than capable of. He was the first person to also make me feel safe enough in pursuing an English degree by helping me build the confidence to accept failures and criticism as I would praise. There are so many paths I know I could follow with an English degree, but Mr. Kucker was the first person to make me feel like my dream was within reach. So, that red ink and its marks stay somewhere in a folder in my room. It reminds me of why I am doing what I’m doing, and why I should remain confident in the path I’ve chosen. It is also a physical representation of the first time that this path felt viable to me and a reminder of
the person who brought me to this point. I never in my life would have guessed that a couple of pieces of paper and some red ink would put me on my career path, but then again, I also wanted to be a princess growing up.
For a while after applying to colleges, the fear of choosing English as my major was something that weighed heavily on me. But, having worked with Mr. Kucker for the entire year, and still having that first note, I feel surer than ever that I am doing what is right for me. And for that, I thank him.