The Writing Girls

A week or two ago I was telling my best friend about her dream man. He's quite a catch, you see. This man loves poetry, only drinks non-alcoholic beer, and is up-to-date on world and national affairs. This is essential because she dislikes reading about the news; she'd rather have him explain it to her.

I don't know these things about Caitlin because we've been friends since sixth grade. I know them because in sixth grade, the best teacher I've ever had pulled a handful of girls aside and told us there was something special about our writing. We became a club of sorts: The Writing Girls (abbreviated to TWGs, or twigs.) We bonded over our stories. Our stories and the friendships that grew from them made us branch out to the magical, cozy land of coffee shops and giant pillows.

I don't remember all of the meetings, nor the stories. But some tidbits, like Caitlin's poem, are rediscovered on occasion.

One girl wrote about giving her dog a bath.
One girl always related her pieces to horses. ALWAYS.
One, while writing about some kind of orange bread (I think), mentioned acne scars on the narrator's back.

Some poetry was light and cute. Some of it was a little heavier. When I think of how easy we had it as sixth-graders, I remind myself of the harder stuff. We weren't entirely oblivious, but thank heaven we weren't as grown-up as we thought we were.

This post is mainly for our teacher. She took time and energy out of her life to help us create something special. I think it's funny that she said I might have forgotten her.

I didn't.

So, if you read this blog, and I'm hoping you will, let me know. I think the TWGs have all wanted to get together over coffee and hot cocoa again, but that's a little hard. If there's any other way we can catch up, let me know.
And thank you.