The Gift

It was a murder. Stocky with a strikingly black appearance, their attributes were typically glossy and slightly iridescent, sometimes showing hints of purple or green in the bright light. Their eyes, a series of pale irises with a subtle blue eye-ring, stared down at them.

“I sense they are watching me,” she said, her youthful features downcast, her fine long blond hair tucked behind her ear.

“What’s the logic in calling a collection of crows a murder?” I asked.

“Because as a collective they appear ill-omened?”

Her choice of words.

“Crows are omnivorous and scavengers by nature,” I explained. “They are often spotted scavenging around carrion. Historically, battlefields, cemeteries, hospitals—locations of demise—were their usual haunts. I guess it is because these places evoked death and darkness that these birds developed a negative reputation. The myths grew regarding them.”

My student did not comment, so I continued, “I read that one of the superstitions states that crows form parliaments and tribunals to come to a verdict about whether to punish a fellow member of their assembly for any bad behaviour or wrongdoing. A guilty bird’s fate, they warned, was death - or murder - by its flock. A type of anthropomorphism.”

“I feel like they are forming a tribunal now.” She looked up and met my gaze before asking, “Why did you do it?”

At last, we were confronting the subject. “Because it was good,” I replied.

“It seems to me that everyone is watching, seeing me.”

She lowered her eyes and stared at her sandaled feet swinging under her.

“It was good and deserved to be read,” I reiterated.

“But I gave it to you to read, not them. They will sit and judge me, like these crows. What did you call it? A tribunal waiting to pass judgement?”

“The act of writing commonly comes from an emotional compulsion to create,” I sought to explain. “It typically stems from several complex personal drives. Even at your young age, your prose shows a depth, and I assume a passionate drive to explore the human experience and moral ambiguities in your life. In your writing, I see a quest for meaning, an intellectual exploration, but also the desire to engage with others through storytelling. You have a gift. For someone to read your work as I have, don’t you think that the connection you offer, that knowingness, will help to provide a heartfelt release? Adolescence is often a difficult time. Through your writing, you are able to connect with readers who share your interests, fulfilling a longing for understanding. You want to be read, don’t you?”

“Maybe. Maybe, but what if it is not good enough? What if people laugh at me?”

“One of the hardest parts of being a writer is being honest.” The statement sounded flat. I tried again. “Being vulnerable, being open, is difficult, but vulnerability is crucial for building empathy. True rapport with readers necessitates authentic self-expression. We must learn to share. And share honestly. When we achieve that rapport, all feelings of shame and isolation dissipate.”

Her legs swung under the bench; her gaze remained downward.

I continued, “In expressing difficult sentiments or truths about oneself, being open about personal struggles encourages readers – especially those facing similar challenges – you assist them and yourself to sense being acknowledged and comprehended. This connection helps people validate their inner world. Writers contribute to that, don’t you think? Haven’t you perceived a connection when reading some of the novels you have read?”

“I guess so.”

“Vulnerability is a strength,” I added. “Openness allows you to connect deeply with readers and create compelling stories and characters. I am not suggesting that you share everything, but exploring your own fears and anxieties can be therapeutic and help you access genuine emotion. Many people will never achieve that.”

A short burst of companion calls and squabbles from the crows. She quickly glanced up at the murder, her audience, unwilling to stare, aware of herself, of those observing, of those judging. Her concern is so much about social acceptance and rejection and the amplification of self-consciousness. The black-feathered family group fidgeted, danced across the high tree branch, rattled and continued to look down. She continued to look down.

“You have a gift,” I repeated. “You are young, and already you shape your experiences and emotions into a narrative form. That’s not easy, and very difficult to teach. Your characters seemed genuine. I could identify with them. There is empathy in your writing. You must relate to your characters, don’t you?”

She did not reply, and the crows shuffled and cawed.

I proceeded. “Part of the process of writing is accepting that not everyone will interpret your work as you intended. Vulnerability is natural. It can be emotionally taxing. We experience it daily in the classroom, for example. What about tripping over teacher-directed questions? Maths test results being read out.”

The hint of a smile.

“Reflect on why you write and what you hope to attain. Employ this motivation to help you push through discomfort and dread of exposure. While the act of writing is an isolated activity, the connection you are able to achieve through your work is a truer connection. I am not saying that it is not terrifying. In exposing your deepest self to unknown feedback, the apprehension of judgment and rejection is unfortunately part of the process. And there will be judgment. True rapport, however, gazumps all that I reckon. We must not let trepidation prevent us from exchanging ideas and seeking personal growth. Think about it. Most of what gives life meaning are the things that leave humankind exposed – love, belonging, and sharing. Transforming inner thoughts and inner feelings into art is not only therapeutic; it also provides a catharsis for the writer and their readers – especially those who don’t have the gift of artistic expression. Creativity might foster a feeling of common humanity.”

The legs had stopped their swinging. The birds were quiet.

“Last term,” I added, “we studied To Kill a Mockingbird. Do you know what Harper Lee reportedly remarked about publishing her book? It was asserted, she said I was hoping for a quick and merciful death at the hands of the reviewers. Imagine that. Harper Lee also went on to say at the same time, I sort of hoped someone would like it enough to give me encouragement.”

My student looked up and said, “I hope one of the judges on the panel likes my work.”

“Well,” I replied, “I liked it amply enough to enter your manuscript, so I am quietly confident someone else will like it.”

The crows soared into the sky. Nosily. There was a distinctive rushing sound as their broad wings cut through the air. A steady brisk whooshing of wingbeat regularity alongside their harsh respective raspy caw calling. In flight, the crows called out in a series, a mixture of cawing and rattling of social interaction and group cohesion.