Changing leaves, crisper air, pumpkins… and midterms. Mid-October is when everything gets serious: due dates for papers are starting to creep up, and the first serious exams of the semester are upon us. Of course, everyone is working toward that “A” all semester, but I’m here to tell you that if you fall short, it’s not the end of the world. In fact, last year I ended up failing a paper during midterms of my junior year in college. Surprisingly, it ended up being one of the most valuable experiences I’ve ever had as a student. Let me tell you why.

First, and it’s important that you understand this: I have always been an A student, all the way back to elementary school. When I first gave blood, I found out that my blood type was A+ and my family teased me for days, because of course, it was. I have, admittedly, always put too much stock in seeing those four or five little “A”s lined up on my transcript at the end of the semester.

Around midterms, though, is the time of year when it’s easy for even the best students to start to slip. I found myself in this position in fall of 2015, when I was enrolled in a course called Classical and Medieval European Literature. My professor was (and is) a delightful man, who was doing his best to teach our class not only the literature but also new strategies for critical writing. I had just started my job as a writing consultant that semester and was eager to learn as much about writing as I could. I had always been a good writer, but now that I was consulting on it, I wanted to be sure that I was keeping my skills honed.

Every Monday night from 7:10-10:00 PM, I sat in Dr. Wertime’s class and hung on his every word. He handed out dozens of articles explaining critical writing in new ways, which I pored over until my brain hurt. Much of it didn’t make sense to me, even though Dr. Wertime had gone to every length to make it as easy to understand as possible. There were diagrams, drawings, and all kinds of analogies to explain the critical writing process. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why I didn’t get it. I had always approached writing essays the same way: read the work, establish and defend my argument, and conclude with how I had explained the book in The Best Way Possible™. How was I a junior in college and just now hearing that this was actually not the best way to write a paper?

The idea of re-learning what I had always thought was an inherent skill of mine was freaking me out, so for our first assignment, I wrote the way I always had. I read Homer’s Odyssey, wrote something about Telemachus that I knew I didn’t really develop enough and handed it in. I think I got a B+ and chalked it up to stress. Surely, this would click, I thought. Being the A student I always was, I was too proud (and scared) to admit that I didn’t know something.

About four weeks into the semester, we got the assignment sheet for our midterm essay. I wanted to do a character study of Clytemnestra from The Oresteia, and I was trying to grapple with one of the new writing strategies that we had been learning. Dr. Wertime had given us this great article called “Reading as an Act of Initiation” which talked about how your audience might already be familiar with the work you’re writing about, so it’s unnecessary to lead them by the hand through a summary in your essay. I thought this made sense, so I took it a step further and presumed that my audience had not only read my text but had made their minds up about the kind of character Clytemnestra was, too. I basically wrote my paper on this ridiculous parapet, all but saying, “Well, everyone who reads this book thinks Clytemnestra is a bitch for THIS reason, but I think it’s because of this OTHER reason, and I’m here to tell you all why you’re wrong and I’m right.” Dr. Wertime probably took one look at my paper and died a little inside, because it was absolutely riddled with strawman logical fallacies and condescending language toward my reader.

I don’t remember what I was thinking as I wrote that paper, but I do remember how I was feeling. I remember sitting in the library feeling supremely uncomfortable as I scrolled through my paper. I knew that it wasn’t written in my voice and that it felt completely wrong.

It’s not something I’m proud of, but I still didn’t ask for help. Pride was still a bit of an issue, but now that it was mid-October and I still didn’t understand the writing lessons, I was starting to truly panic. I had just started working as a writing consultant! How could I be this clueless? I didn’t want to deal with that question, so I didn’t. I handed in that paper even though I knew deep down it wasn’t my best or even something I was really comfortable with owning as mine.

I had all the usual excuses: midterms were kicking in, stress levels were peaking, and all I could think about was just finishing my assignments. School had become about checking off to-do list items and handing in assignments on time, not actually learning or even really thinking about what I was doing.

Needless to say, it didn’t go well. The next week, my stomach flipped as I waited for the paper to hit my desk. I think some naive part of me still expected a decent grade because I've never seen a C or D on an assignment in my life. So when I got the paper in my hands and immediately flipped to the back page, you can imagine how shocked I was when there wasn’t a grade written for me at all.

At the end of class, Dr. Wertime asked to see me, and I was in full-blown panic mode. He had written “STRAWMAN” all over my paper, underlining areas that were particularly horrendous. As anyone who knows me well will tell you, I’m an easy crier, so my heart was in my throat and I was already on the verge of tears before I even got to his office. I finally broke down and learned some humility that night. With my face burning, I told Dr. Wertime that I felt like I had no clue what I was doing. God bless him, he didn’t judge me or think I was stupid. Instead, he gave me a tissue and told me that of course, I wasn’t the first student to feel this way. I walked to my car after meeting with him, put my hands on the steering wheel, and cried for a long time, totally embarrassed and furious with myself for letting my confusion and pride get this far.

The next few weeks were rough. I met with Dr. Wertime several times to talk about my struggles with critical writing. It felt so good to purge all the insecurity and doubt that I had been quashing. I think the carpet in his office is probably still damp from my tears, but I eventually got past that thanks to his endless support. I discovered that students of his had struggled with the same writing issues that I was having, and he showed me examples of their work. Together we talked about ways I could change and improve my writing. We only had three or four one-on-one sessions, but in that time I learned more about myself and my writing than I had ever even tried to understand in the past.

When it was time for our final paper, I felt like a switch had been flipped. I ended up writing about three books we had discussed throughout the semester, and I buried myself in them for over a week. One night as I was banging out my rough draft, I sat at my desk and zoned out for over four hours while writing. I finally understood what critical writing really was, and I felt like I was actually doing it — and doing it well.

That night, it was like a vast new world had opened up. I was understanding writing in a completely different way for the first time. It sounds corny, but it’s true. I remember that final paper being a moment when I really felt like I had learned something that had changed me.

When I handed in that final 14-page paper, it was with a completely different attitude. My old idea of writing was all but destroyed, and I felt so much freer (and smarter) after I finally opened myself to more challenging ideas. For once in my life, I didn’t feel like a slave to the letter A. I was more concerned that my ideas made sense and that my paper contributed something intelligent to the world.

I was actually in New York City on the day that our final grades were posted, and I vividly remember waiting in line at the Museum of Modern Art when my phone buzzed with an email from Dr. Wertime. It’s so silly, but my hands were shaking as I read it. My experience with his class had really put me through the wringer (in a good way), and I was a little worried that I wasn’t as smart as I always thought I was. Fortunately, it was good news. Here’s a line from the email:

“I can tell, just from reading this draft as it is, how liberated you felt writing this — you must have said to yourself, as your thinking unspooled so freely onto the page, ‘Well, now, dammit, Wertime's gonna finally get to see that I really AM smart!’ … Which is the outcome for you that I have wanted ALL ALONG!”

In the end, I did get that A in Dr. Wertime’s class, but it was one of the first times that I actually felt like I had done something to earn it.

After that class, I was never too afraid or proud to speak up about not understanding something. Being confused doesn’t mean you’re stupid, and taking a real interest in your education instead of just trying to skate by is always a good thing. Now, I ask candid questions much more frequently in class. This has had boundless rewards, not the least of which is often the gratitude of my classmates who later tell me they were too afraid to ask for clarity themselves.

So this has been quite a long story, but I’ve been thinking about Dr. Wertime’s class a lot lately, as it’s been a year now since failing my paper. I’ve told this story a few times in the semesters since, usually to first-years I’ve had the pleasure of mentoring as an upperclassman.

It’s sometimes strange to think about, but looking back, I’m really grateful that I failed so miserably. The feeling of failure is hard, but it taught me how to get up, brush myself off, and try again harder. It gave me the tools and the push I needed to truly succeed, far more than getting an A on a paper ever did.