did, and made me understand that writing was as much discipline as delight. She was the one who walked us through the classics, who challenged us to read beyond our years. But the toughest lesson I learned from her took place outside the classroom. I became editor of the school paper pretty early, in my sopho- more year, and so might have been forgiven for a little cockiness. Mrs. Vea was also our paper adviser, and so she looked over my shoulder to see how I and the paper were doing. There was
The most valuable thing these teachers
taught me was discernment—the fact
that I had choices to make, and that
it was up to me to make the best one.
this one time when we were faced with a deadline, but I was feeling out of sorts, too lazy to write an editorial there and then, and told her so. “I’m not in the mood,” I declared with all the insouciance of my 14 years. “Well, you’d better be!” Mrs. Vea said, with an edge to her voice I’d never heard before. That was all it took to snap me out of my stupor. I haven’t forgotten since that a professional writer—or anyone who aspires to be one— can’t have the luxury of moods, and that we have to produce words on demand. This helped years later when I joined Today as—what else—an editorial writer who had to turn something in by 2 pm, several times a week.
If Mrs. Vea taught me discipline, another teacher reminded me that the world was much larger than our school, and that,
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