A young boy named William Moore took his composition notebook and a standard HB pencil to his backyard. He sat down on the grass with his legs crossed under the shade of a large oak tree; he opened his notebook in his lap and held his pencil in his left hand, ready to write.
William was in seventh grade. He had been assigned to write a report for his botany class, but he hated writing reports. However, he figured he might get some inspiration if he wrote his report outside.
William spent a long time in front of the blank notebook pages. He had tons of research floating around in his mind, but he couldn’t put it to paper in a way that fascinated him. His mind became distracted and his eyes began to wander around the yard. He began to think about the baseball game he had later that night, the camping trip his family was going on next week, the birthday present he had hiding in the closet for his little sister. Happy vivid thoughts filled his mind. Suddenly he was reminded again of his botany report and was jerked out of his reverie. He glanced down at his blank notebook, and when he looked up again, he saw a rose.
There was an entire rose bush, of course, but he only saw the rose. It was a pink rose. Its petals floated out from the center like a silky cloud. They twirled around each other and leaned outward as if they were dancing where there was no gravity. The tips on the outer petals flipped up as if the rose were trying to lift off the branch, trying to reach for the sky.
William suddenly wanted to know what the rose might be thinking. He tried to place himself in the mind of the rose, forgetting that it had neither thoughts nor a mind. But for William it did – and he began to write about it.
He wrote about the rose, that it was fairer than any of the others. He gave it dreams, desires, regrets; he brought it to life. And without knowing it, he became a writer – right there as he wrote about the rose.
He wrote an entire story about the rose and simply entitled it: “The Rose”. With satisfaction, he added under it: by William Moore.
He then heard someone calling his name – it was his sister. It was time to get ready for his baseball game.
William frowned. There was still no botany report; it was due tomorrow; there was no other time to complete it. But he figured he had learned plenty about a rose. He was aware that his logic was erred, but he decided to turn in his story as his botany report nonetheless.
Of course, he didn’t receive a very high grade on the paper. In fact, he failed, but in the end it didn’t matter – because he became an author, not a scientist. And under the titles of many more stories was written: by William Moore.
Thanks to my wonderful friend, Katelyn, for the beautiful photo!