Who's your hero?

Today contained a bit of a shock, actually.


I decided to email one of my old university lecturers – my creative and intellectual hero, actually – because I need an academic reference. It has been a long time since I’ve studied, but I felt confident that he’d remember me because that’s just how he made his students feel – as though the hard work they did was memorable. He terrified me in my first year; tore me to pieces and then taught me how to write all over again, without all the arrogant pretence and b.s. that came from excelling at English in high school. I still remember the heartache of being told that my gingerbread house analogy in a story about suburban wicca was a contrived waste of words, a disappointment I wasn’t sure I could recover from. And yet I did, and in the process of growing as an artist he made me feel amazing about my ability to write. Perhaps more memorably, for me, he inspired a confidence that allowed me feel as though my opinions were as valid as anybody else’s – a position this timid girl struggled with amongst the highly critical, assured students of the university Arts world. And I looked forward to hopefully meeting up for a coffee to discuss my latest writing proposal.

So it was a great shock, when I googled for his alumna email address, to stumble across his obituary instead.

You actually died some time ago, Peter, and somehow in not noticing I feel as though I’ve not paid you the respect that you deserve. Even worse, though I teach to inspire students just as you did, I write drivel – and this is not your legacy at all, but my laziness.

I will do better.

R.I.P. Dr Peter Davis.