It all started with a very cooky woman. I remember her so vividly. She had brown hair that she died burgundy much too often, and bright blue glasses that concealed her beautiful green eyes. When she looked upon you, you got a feeling of tenderness. There was a mole on her cheek and when the light was just right you were able to catch a small glimpse of the peach fuzz above her upper lip. There was something about the way she walked; it was like nothing could harm her. Mrs. Limbert was her name and she was my middle school art teacher, born a writer at heart. I had enrolled into art class every year of middle school. I liked the feeling of being in her clustered, art filled classroom. Some days it felt like art class, but most days it felt like home.
I remember the day as if it were yesterday, the day I became a writer. I had finished my gargoyle sculpture much earlier than the rest of the class, and I had nothing to do, so I pulled out some of my English homework. All I had to do was write a simple autobiography, but I just couldn't get into it. Mrs. Limbert saw me struggling and came to my rescue. As she floated over to me, I caught a whiff of her sweet perfume. She asked me how my day had been and I replied joyously, “My day has been fantastic, except, I’m having a really hard time writing my English paper.” Not one second passed before she offered her help and some intuitive advice. I told her that I was required to write a one page autobiography but I had no idea where to start. After staring about the room, her eyes came back to mine and she offered me some unforgettable advice. “Keep it short and sweet, but as detailed as possible”, she stated in a motherly tone. My mind was reeling, trying to decode what had just been said to me. She then told me to start from the beginning and let the words flow from my brain down to my hand. I swiftly began to write. I got through half of my paper and then the bell rang; it was time to go home.
The next day at school I revealed what I had written to Mrs. Limbert. I stared at her face, gauging each and every expression as she read. After reading my paper, she looked up and smiled, complimented me on my writing skills, and then showed me a few minute things to change. Most of my mistakes were comma issues and not enough detail, minute problems. She taught me how to use a comma correctly and how to create the perfect image. I hastily fixed the issues and requested that she read it one more time. Mrs. Limbert looked at me with kind eyes and told me my paper was lovely and had great imagery. She claimed that she felt as if she were there with me throughout every event I mentioned in the paper.
You would think it to be weird that an art teacher educated me in writing skills, but I think that she couldn’t have been a more perfect teacher. Mrs. Limbert told me that writing is simply art in words. She helped shape me into the person I am today. By teaching me how to write correctly, she enabled me to write better papers and always create the perfect images. I’m constantly reminded of how important it is to write well and create art for others. If it weren't for Mrs. Limbert I think I’d still be writing bland papers with much too many comma splices.