My Teacher is my Muse Essay -- narrative, descriptive

So I took the class because there was nothing else offered that semester that seemed even remotely interesting. My choices were slim. I mean it was Advanced Latin for Geeks, Bowling for Advanced Dorks, or this: The Creative Self. Even though I had always looked upon poetry as a non-serious art, a flaky girly thing to do, I had done my fair share of writing, mostly put into teenage angst ridden song lyrics, but still, how different could this be--I could probably just use my old songs and hand them in as new poetry. It was senior year in High School, and frankly, I was sick of being part of this innovative new humanities based school where everyone was almost too bright for me. I just wanted at least on easy class, and this sounded like the key to a class where I wouldn’t have to think too much. Instead, it turned me into one of those creative writing whores I had always made fun of. It was solely her doing, Ms. R, the orange headed teacher that became my mentor, my muse, my su bject. From the second she walked in, she began to inspire me. She shuffled with her papers in a way that made us all wonder whether it was pure disorganization or classical genius. Her hair aflame spirals of pure citrus fruit, her long flowery skirt welcoming every bored teen aged eye; she woke me up. The woman woke me up from the longest sleep I had ever had. R, R, Ms. R. I remember her icy blue eyes and how she almost flew up at times when she got really excited about some poem or character sketch. She walked in and immediately asked us what we thought about poetry, about fiction, about the world, about ourselves, about love and sex and how we wanted to express that to the world. And so for a first assignment, she asked us to write about something we lo... ...ld not write. And this has been the case since high school. When I have an stimulating teacher, one who praises me, who lets me be open, I excel. When I not taking writing classes, my writing is poor, stagnant, void of any originality. And let’s take this past year while I was working on Wall Street (can you say the coldest place on earth when it comes to the arts or even real human compassion, let alone inspiration?)--I wrote about 3 pages all year, all consisting of complete crap. But this past week alone, first week of grad classes, I’ve written more, and maybe not better yet, but at least more, than I have this entire past year. Now does this make me a dependent writer. A writer that cannot function without a muse? That will be my next exploration..... Can I survive as a writer without a Ms. R by my side, breathing literary genius into my otherwise ordinary words?