Someone once told me,

"Being a writer is like being a prostitute, really. At first you're only doing it for yourself, then toi decide to tell a few friends, let them in on the action, then toi decide to let a couple strangers in, pretty soon you're welcoming the entire world."

Such a very accurate quote. When I heard this, I was at a very formal luncheon with a few kids from my journalism class in which we produced the school's newspaper: The Jagged Edge. It was an awards ceremony for individual work as well as our newspaper as a whole to be recognized. Granted, it was a local newspaper that was sponsoring the event, nothing major, but it was a big deal for me - for us.

In our class - Digital Design- I can't explain what it's like. I don't know if any of toi have been in such a class before, but we're like family. There aren't many of us, but I'd say about 80% of us are dedicated to journalism, all aspiring to be journalists. That 80% was there with me, sitting around the table, tableau all dressed up, proud of our lowly funded newspaper. The newspaper without color, without someone sponsoring us, giving us all the money we needed, without gifted artists and a committed school. Just us, teacher included. I'm the only freshman there, many of them are seniors who have been with the paper for several years. This is their last go around the track, their final show, yet they welcome me with open arms, teaching me what they know. They're clearly in charge, but they work with us, asking for our ideas and molding them into the plan.

As evidenced par former students who have moved on to become journalists, the class mimics a real newsroom. We don't go in every jour and do work out of a book,or off the board, nothing like that. We don't even ask our teacher what we need to do; we know. We're out getting quotes, doing interviews, researching what we need for our articles, thinking up ideas to improve the newspaper, designing the layouts, getting the ads for funds, asking our editors when we have a question, taking pictures, looking to our teacher for approval - we do it all. We help each other. We work as a team.

Then, at the end of the year, as we sat at that table, tableau and listened as the awards were called out, we smiled. A few of us collected awards for our articles, our layouts, etc. There were perhaps 20 schools, each with a party of 8-10 students, and we all hollered and cheered as every student went up. Cheering them on for their dreams. Sure, we were especially proud for our awards, but it felt like we were cheering everyone on all at once. toi could see it in the eyes of the winners, the familiar wet glaze over their eyes, the satisfaction that they're pursing what they want to be with all their heart. It's magical, really. We didn't win amazing, but then it was time for the final award. Adviser of the Year. It's an award that goes to the teacher who really put their cœur, coeur into the newspaper and had outstanding effect on the students. I'm sure toi can all imagine the kind of criteria I mean.

Rather than calling the winner's name and then lire off the reasons why they were chosen, the reasons were a dit before the name for this award. Two ou three of the seniors wrote letters, as was asked, highlighting the reasons our teacher should win. Two of them sat par me as the description was read, the other at accueil sick. I glanced back at my teacher (like everyone else at our table), but she was shaking her head as if she knew she wouldn't win, yet as the judge continued to talk I could hear the hushed whispers of the seniors saying 'that sounds like what I wrote, I think I mentioned that in my letter, do you-' but it was cut off as our teacher's name was announced. To be truthful, all of us got a little teary eyed as our teacher stood to get her award. She walked to the seniors beside me, hugging them tightly before moving to the front to accept the prestigious award and get her picture taken. She came back in silent tears, smiling, and we were all so very proud.

It was during this time that I realized again why I l’amour writing. The feeling of being rewarded for your hard work, the people toi work with close at hand, ready to give toi a pat on the back for a job well done, your name plastered over a piece of work that you're proud of, seeing and lire the commentaires of those that enjoyed your work, those that may not have, and the unexplainable feeling toi get when everything is over.

In class now, I stand at the white board with the marker, écriture down ideas for suivant year. The older kids told me to do it - my friends, told me they were passing the marker to the suivant generation with this joking tone and goofy grins, but when I look in their eyes I know they mean it. They're ready to go, sad, but ready, and they know I'll be here suivant an filling their shoes. And they're proud. We're all proud. I know they'll come back suivant year, criticizing the newspaper with a new eye, laughing, hugging me and a few others in a small reunion, spilling their accomplishments to us, and again I'll get that feeling. That inexplainable, wonderful feeling, and I'll remember why it is I write.