Every writing teacher gives the subliminal message, every time

Hear the words of Roger Rosenblatt, who declared: “Every writing teacher gives the subliminal message, every time they teach: ‘Your life counts for something.’ In no other subject that I know of is that message given.” This saying is not a mere observation about classrooms; it is a proclamation of the sacred nature of storytelling, and of the art that reveals the value of every soul. For in the act of teaching others to write, one is not simply shaping grammar or structure, but whispering into the heart: You matter. Your voice matters. Your life has meaning.

The writing teacher is unlike other guides. In mathematics, the lesson is numbers; in history, the lesson is events; in science, the lesson is laws of nature. But in writing, the lesson is the self—the raw, fragile self, poured onto the page. To teach writing is to tell the student that their life is not too small, not too ordinary, not too fleeting to be preserved in words. It is to say: “You, too, are part of the great human story.” That message is not always spoken aloud, but it hums beneath every assignment, every encouragement, every red-marked page returned with hope.

Consider the story of Anne Frank, a child hidden in fear, with nothing but her diary. She was not writing for fame, nor with the training of great masters. Yet her teacher of writing was life itself, whispering, Your story counts. When her words were found, the world was shaken, and her voice, though silenced by war, became eternal. This is what Rosenblatt means: writing affirms that a single life, however small it may appear, is worthy of remembrance, worthy of expression, worthy of meaning.

The ancients knew this truth as well. The poet Homer, whether one man or many, took the deeds of warriors and kings and made them immortal. But even beyond the grandeur of Achilles and Odysseus, the stories of unknown bards, scribes, and chroniclers carried forward the voices of people otherwise forgotten. Writing has always been the vessel that tells humanity: you will not vanish without a trace. The act of teaching it, therefore, is a gift of immortality to the common soul.

Yet there is also a warning in Rosenblatt’s words. If writing affirms that life counts, then to silence writing, or to dismiss it as trivial, is to deny that value. Tyrants know this well, for the first act of oppression is to ban books, to muzzle writers, to forbid people from recording their truth. Why? Because they know the power of the pen to declare: I exist. My life matters. Thus, the task of the writing teacher is not merely academic, but profoundly revolutionary—it arms the soul against erasure.

The lesson for us is clear: embrace the art of writing, whether you are teacher or student, master or beginner. Do not say to yourself, “My story is too small.” For every life is a fragment of the great mosaic, and without your piece, the picture is incomplete. If you are a teacher, remember that your task is not only to polish words, but to affirm being. And if you are a writer, know that with each page you lay down, you echo the eternal truth: my life counts for something.

Practical action flows easily: write. Keep a journal, craft stories, compose letters, record the moments of your days. Share them or keep them, but do not let them vanish into silence. And encourage others—your children, your friends, your students—to write as well. For in so doing, you are telling them the message that Rosenblatt names: their lives matter. This practice is not vanity, but the preservation of humanity itself.

So let Roger Rosenblatt’s words echo in your heart: “Every writing teacher says, in every lesson: Your life counts for something.” Remember this when you doubt your worth, when the world feels indifferent to your story. For the page waits patiently, ready to testify that your existence is not in vain. Write, therefore, and in writing, discover not only your voice but your eternal place in the human chorus.