The Author's Chair

Dear Teachers, Your Impressions are Everlasting

The classroom was in a basement. Windows lined two of the four walls, leveled with the sloping ground on one side, overlooking a concrete patio on the other. The walls were buttery yellow. To my nine-year-old eyes, the room looked anything but basement-like. It was cozy.

Tables and chairs dotted the carpeted floor. There were shelves filled with books and every other necessary school accoutrement. And—there was an author’s chair.

It was a wood-framed director’s chair. The kind where a director wearing a newsboy cap might have sat hollering orders into a megaphone. Whenever a student finished a writing piece, they got to sit in the chair and read their work out loud to the class. Sharing their work made them an author.

My third through sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Hall, fostered my love of writing and history. In her class, I learned to follow (much to my dislike) the ENTIRE writing process.

I used to tell Mrs. Hall, “I like it the way I wrote it the first time. I don’t need to change anything.” Ah, I had much to learn.

Mrs. Hall treated all of us as if we were real writers. She used editor’s marks and taught them to us. To this day, the pilcrow symbol (a double backwards-looking P) is the first editor’s mark I teach children. Over multiple summer breaks, Mrs. Hall edited my messy manuscripts. We sat side-by-side on her living room floor. Loose-leaf paper covered with my handwriting (the pages of my “books”) littered her coffee table.

She taught me about run-on sentences, overuse of commas (I loved a good comma, or two, or three) and the art of painting a story with just the right amount of details. I can still hear her sage words of advice: “You don’t have to tell us every time they go to the bathroom.” Not that I ever described nature’s call in my writing—Ew.

Mrs. Tina Wright (née Hall) passed away in July 2021. I saw her a few times after graduating from her class. She knew I was going to school to be a teacher, but she never knew that I picked up my writing again. A friend recently told me that when people are alive, we feel their love externally. When they die, we feel their love from the inside.

With every word I write, I feel Mrs. Hall. I hear her voice when I succeed and when I’m discouraged. I wish I could hand her a copy of Feisty Deeds I & II. Heck, I’d even let her read my messy novel manuscript. Somehow, she’s still right next to me, encouraging, critiquing, and making me think.

Thank you, Mrs. Hall. Because of you, I’m sitting in the author’s chair today.

All My Love,

Beth Anne Hill

The Author’s Chair

Visit my website to enjoy a video read-aloud of the beginning of my contribution to Feisty Deeds II, “A Whispered Miracle.” My author’s chair was a felled tree in the cove that inspired the story’s setting.

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If you’re interested in my library of stories or want to learn more about my writing, please check out my website.