My name is Alex Ponte and I want to be a writer.  

I have wanted to be a writer for a whole year now. But I have two problems: 1.) I am twelve and 2.) I do not understand English grammar.  

When I decided to be a writer, I looked on the back of all my mom’s books. She has fifty-four books. Twenty-seven have the picture of the author on the back cover. All writers are old.   

My mom says I think everyone over the age of twelve is old. I do not think that is true. My sister is sixteen and I do not think she is old.   

My sister says I am stupid. She thinks my idea of being a writer is stupid.   

I am not very worried about what my sister says. She thinks the entire world is stupid. She discovered the word “stupid” a couple of years ago when we moved to Canada. Today, she used it seven times during breakfast and fifteen times during dinner. I know because I counted.  

                                                             * * * 

We moved to Canada two years ago. Only my mom, my sister, and I moved here. My father stayed in the “old country.” He left us long before we moved.   

My mom said he left us because babies interfered with his writing. She told that to one of her new friends here in Canada. That is how I found out my father is a writer.   

I did not know what the word “interfered” meant. My mother said it like it was a bad word. I did not want to ask my sister what it meant. I did not want to hear the word “stupid” again.  

* * * 

Last year, I wrote my first story.   

I was very proud of it. It was a story with birds, dogs, ponies, dragons, and cats. I also added a talking snake for good measure.   

I think it was the talking snake that ruined the story.  

Mrs. Skoll, my English teacher, gave me an insufficient. She said my grammar was atrocious. It sounded really bad, so I looked up that word in the dictionary. It meant “really bad.” Go figure.

When she gave me the paper back, I asked her if she liked the story.  

“I will like a story that I can read,” she said. 

For a couple of days after that, I was sad.                                     

My mom had to take the driver test. She is a good driver, and she has never had an accident.  

She failed the test.  

I was there. When the driver instructor gave her the paper, my mother thanked him very politely.   

We went home by bus, in silence. At home, I asked my mom if she was mad at the instructor for failing her.  

“Why would I be mad?” she asked. “He is there to make sure that people who drive know what they are doing.”  

“But you are a good driver!”  

“I will learn to be a better driver and next time I will pass the test.”  

She failed two more times. In the end, she passed the test. We had ice cream to celebrate. I asked her if she was happy.  

“I am happy I passed the test.” She gave me our secret wink. “I am happier that I can keep you safer now.”  

                                                             * * * 

My mom is a good driver. After studying for her exam, she is even better. Even if I got an insufficient grade on my story, it does not mean I am a bad writer. It just means I can be better.   

This past summer, I asked everybody to teach me grammar, except for my sister. I don’t think she even knows that grammar exists. She just writes texts on her iPhone with lots of hearts and exclamation marks.   

My mom tried to help me. She took my textbooks and learned at night. She showed me what she learned the next day. I was more confused.  

In the end, my mom asked our neighbor’s daughter, Amanda, to help me. My mom cleaned their house for four hours on Saturdays.  

Amanda taught me grammar twice a week. Amanda was a beautiful girl. I spent the first two weeks blushing and stammering. I had no idea what she was teaching me.  

My mom asked if I found the lessons helpful. I did not want to disappoint her. I told her I learned a lot.  

“He is in love with Amanda,” my sister said. “I bet he does not remember anything he learned. He is that stupid.”  

My mom told my sister to stop calling me names. After that, she turned to me.   

“I don’t think you should let your interest in Amanda interfere with your learning.”  

This is how I found out that “interfere” was not a bad word. I promised my mom that I would try to focus more.  

The next time I went for a lesson with Amanda, I focused on what I did not like about her. She talked too loudly, and she always had food around her mouth. I don’t like people that don’t wipe their mouths.   

I stopped blushing and stammering, and I started learning. By the end of the summer, I knew all the parts of a sentence. I started to understand verbs. I even practiced spelling on my own with a spelling bee app.  

I was getting closer to becoming a writer. 

We moved to this neighborhood because my sister skipped school to be with a boy. My mom decided it was time for us to move to a better place.  

My mom said my sister will skip school again for a boy. She hopes that next time the boy will not be a criminal. She told that to her friend. I heard it by accident, when my ear was stuck to the vent that went from the basement to the living room.  

I do not mind that we moved. I got to move all my books. I don’t have many real friends, but I have many imaginary friends from my books. I can read for hours. I have books I have read a hundred times. I like sitting there and imagining my heroes’ great adventures.  

                                                                * * * 

I started at a new school in September. That is how I met Mr. Owen. He is my new English teacher.   

On the first week, Mr. Owen asked us to write a story.   

I was confident this time, but I left out the talking snake. Even though I knew better grammar, I really wanted to impress Mr. Owen.  

The next week, he brought back our stories. He was not impressed. He also gave me an insufficient.   

I was very sad. For the rest of the class, I struggled to hide my tears.  

I will never be a writer.  

                                                           * * * 

Mr. Owen stopped me after class.  

“I see my grade made you very upset. I am sorry. I think you have great potential and by the end of the year I am certain you will improve your grade.”  

“I want to be a writer” I said.   

“That is a very impressive goal for your life.”   

“No, you don’t understand. I don’t want to be a writer when I am old. I want to be a writer now.”  

Mr. Owen took my paper and looked at it again.  

“I gave you an insufficient because I had a hard time following your story. I think I know what the problem is.”  

I tried not to look at him. I did not want him to know how much I wanted his help.  

“I think you should start writing about things you know. You should start keeping a journal.”  

Just like that, I lost my hope.  

“I don’t want to keep a journal like a girl.”  

Mr. Owen nodded. “I understand,” he told me. “But most great writers kept journals. Some of them were later published.”  

He went to a bookshelf and took out a book. “This is a journal kept by a very famous writer when he was a little older than you.”  

He gave me the book. He told me to come back in a couple of weeks and talk to him about it.