Star-struck by a giant of literature

MY short acquaintance with Dame Christine Cole Catley means I don't even feel fit to write her name. She is of the golden generation; the Camelot of New Zealand literature.

I started to pick up on her name in Wikipedia. Then I googled her, because I was curious - who was this woman with the ever-present hand guiding New Zealand's hub of creativity?

It turns out she was the revolutionary force that blazed the way for female journalists. When I heard how she ensured half of her students in the country's first journalism school were women, I blinked. It had never occurred to me that people frowned on female journalists. I do not live in the sexist 60s, but only because she made sure I didn't.

So when I met her at the Michael King Young Writers course, I was struck speechless. This is no easy feat for someone who suffers verbal diarrhoea. I was so busy trying to think of something clever to say that I lost all power of thought. I panicked and ran away to another "social engagement" instead of hanging around afterwards to introduce myself. I was star-struck.

I finally screwed up the courage and emailed her a few months ago. I blessed the fact that I was writing it. Text hides the blush and defiant tongue that twisted everything I wanted to tell her into mawkish nonsense.

I could delete the sentences that were like those of glittery birthday cards. I have never pored more painstakingly over an email. And for someone who is normally blessed with a multitude of words unhampered by tact, or a cool head, it was amazing how little I could put down.

How would you tell one of these literary giants everything they've done for you? How can you say how they've shaped your future? How can you say that they wrestled the prestige of being a "rebel" back from Hollywood and acne-stricken boys in your year. How can you convey that just their existence gave you hope that you could be more than what you were?

If you said this, they'd probably think you were lying. Or you wanted money. Honesty is elusive. It sounds awfully like false flattery. It's like poetry; you think you've done a great job then you come back 10 minutes later and realise it sounds awful.

But I managed to twist a few of my feelings into sentences expressing my admiration, aspirations and hope for advice, and sent it off. I expected a polite reply by a PA in a month or so saying Dear Sir/Madam thank you for your letter.

I underestimated her. I got a response the very next day, from the Dame herself. I didn't bank on her unprompted generosity, warmth, kindness and willingness to help.

So when she told me to send her some work I was shocked. I danced around the kitchen in my pyjamas. I was even more shocked when she gave me feedback. I almost bounced off the wall when she gave me, and now has organised the continuation of, mentorship. She did this for me. A student with little more than aspirations and a talent for agitation.

But this generosity is not confined to myself. Dame Christine inspires countless other young writers who dream of being journalists and authors. They sit in English classrooms across the country, pens scratching into paper, keeping a silent promise to her. A promise that they feel bound to make.

They promise her that they will get there. They will become the new generation of New Zealand writers. They will stand on the shoulders of giants like her, and keep her work going. And one day, it'll be our turn to inspire others, as she would have wanted us to.

Dame Christine died last month in Auckland. She was 88.

Verity Johnson, Year 12, Kristin School