ABSTRACT
I feverishly wrote for Mrs. Comfort fi rst using a notebook, then an old Mac that printed on dot matrix paper (the kind with a series of small holes used for grasping the edges as it printed onto a roll of mint green and white paper). She encouraged my stories and often spattered my pages with brief comments like, “Words cannot express the power of this story” and “I cannot wait to see where you end.” That was journalism class my sophomore year and creative writing class my junior year. She not only created a safe place for me to write about unwavering high school love and my crappy home life, but she fostered a passion for the written word that ultimately led me to become editor of the school newspaper my senior year and an English teacher years later. I wanted to be just like her.
