I’ve had a love-hate relationship with writing since I was a little kid. My love for writing officially began in the sixth grade when I had the most wonderful teacher in the world, Mrs. Khader.

I refer to her as Mrs. Khader because she had the prestigious position of being a Catholic grade school teacher and the release of a teacher’s first name was strictly forbidden.

She was new to the school and, as I am of most everything new, I was quite intrigued by her.

One day during class, I could hardly pay attention because I was fighting myself in my head, and the debate was: Do I have enough courage to show her my poem? To my benefit, the brave side of me won.

The poem I had written was titled (back in the day when I used titles) “Inside, Not Out.” The poem was basically a description of how dried flowers can be just as beautiful as fresh flowers. I had intended the description to be a metaphor for how there is just as much to be appreciated of a person on the inside.

The poem wasn’t of such great significance, I realize now, as the praise I received from my teacher. She adorned me with positive comments and I lapped them up like a panting dog.

And I remember her saying, “Katie, this has a lot of insight for a person your age.”

Not only did she give me one of the most rewarding comments a writer can receive, that she found greater meaning in the poem that I had even realized, but she had validated me as a person.

No longer was I a kid, or a little girl or just some sixth grader: I was a person.

Mrs. Khader had lit a torch under my mind and put fire into my fingers, and I had vowed to myself that I would one day become a writer.

This affirmation led to spending late nights scribbling away at a notebook, using a flashlight so my mom would think I was sleeping. And even though I kept my notebook under my bed, I had suspicions that my mom mysteriously knew where every single one of my belongings were.

A few newspapers, short stories, poems, yearbooks and literary magazines later, I’m forced to make the challenge again.

Do I stick with what I’ve been dreaming of and working for, or do I wimp out and look for a career that isn’t so demanding or rewarding for me?

I constantly am reminded of how difficult writing can be, and for someone like myself who has always found writing such a natural and enjoying hobby, I find it challenging to turn it into a career. But it also is a slap in the face when I have setbacks.

At the beginning of this semester, I wanted a break from writing entirely, but that was impossible. Because of the classes I’m taking, I have been forced to produce tons of words and as many metaphors that I can muster up; in doing so, I have attempted to be eloquent.

While I was whining my way through my first few weeks of classes, the passion in me for writing began to return.

I’ve been interested in consuming as much information as possible and then churning it back into something worthwhile, something I pray people will want to read because I was so excited to have been able to write it.

I’ve been fascinated with creating new ways of expressing universal ideas in poems and short stories.

And in my excitement, I had forgotten what it was like to receive a criticism and one that was so integral to being a writer, one that was elemental to the kind of writer that I thought I was: natural.

For a long time, I have believed there are two basic categories in which writers fall: one of having the trade come naturally and one of having the trade become a learned skill.

And even though I have been learning all along, I had always believed I was a natural writer.

Because of a comment from a writer I admire greatly, I’ve recently been forced to consider the alternative, and I’ve decided to follow the example I set for myself in the sixth grade — to be brave and to be the writer that I am.

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Kathleen Carlson is a senior in journalism and mass communication and international studies from Cedar Rapids.