My Long Lost Love for Writing I believe writing is an extraordinary way of expressing feelings. The level of piecing together thoughts and putting them down on paper for others to read is an art in its own. Since I was a young child, I have incessantly journaled. However, my love for journaling came to a screeching halt in middle school. My personal desire to write about what I loved intertwined with the extreme guidelines and requirements that came with school. With this, came my slowed interest in writing. For years, I lost close to all interest in reading as well as writing. I would constantly question the true purpose behind essays and realized I spent more time rebelling than digging deep into literature. However, this all changed between my junior and senior year of high school. English. This was constantly a topic of discussion at the family dinner table. After changing from a small, …show more content…
Not for me. The love I experienced when I was younger was recently brought back by an English teacher who cared. An English teacher who pushed her students to learn to the highest degree. An English teacher who didn’t give an easy “A”. An English teacher whose last year as a teacher at my high school was my Senior year. To this day, I carry this around with me. I had one teacher who pushed her students to achieve to the best of their ability and she gave honest grades. These honest grades didn’t always sit well with parents and the school would rather have less complaints from parents than the idea that their English program was lacking rigor. To me, writing is a gift. There are more people in the world than I realize who haven’t been given the opportunity to education. And without education, there is a struggle between expression. I believe writing is one of the highest degrees of expressing one’s feelings and I will always have a love for writing ingrained in me by an amazing English
The window was cold to the touch. The glass shimmered as the specks of sunlight danced, and Blake stood, peering out. As God put his head to the window, at once, he felt light shining through his soul. Six years old. Age ceased to define him and time ceased to exist. Silence seeped into every crevice of the room, and slowly, as the awe of the vision engulfed him, he felt the gates slowly open. His thoughts grew fluid, unrestrained, and almost chaotic. An untouched imagination had been liberated, and soon, the world around him transformed into one of magnificence and wonder. His childish naivety cloaked the flaws and turbulence of London, and the imagination became, to Blake, the body of God. The darkness lingering in the corners of London slowly became light. Years passed by, slowly fading into wisps of the past, and the blanket of innocence deteriorated as reality blurred the clarity of childhood.
THE PAST :.. In days gone by, the four species managed to live in perfect harmony. Witches, werewolves and vampires lived in secret, blending in with the humans on a daily basis - and the humans remained completely in the dark about their existence. It was after thousands of years of living this way, whilst everything was completely normal, that a small group of vampires decided that they’d had enough. They spent months devising plans.
Thinking about my childhood, I remember many things that influenced me as a person and changed or evolved my perspective of the world, its peoples and its things. One of my most vivid memories that this essay is about, changed the way I represented myself to the world and the way I felt being exposed to it. -- Being lost or forgotten at a young age is a bone-chilling experience that all of us have to go through, at one point or another. So, here I was, at the age of three, left all alone at a carnival in Muscat, Oman.
When trying to think of a positive writing experience I have had in my lifetime, particularly as a small child, I could not think of any. So I began to ask myself why is it that I do not like writing, what happened in my life for me to have such animosity towards the act. I was finally able to think of an event and realized that it had all begun in the 3rd grade. One day, as a punishment for talking during class, I was kept inside during recess and was forced to write Wise Old Owls until my hands began to cramp. For 45 minutes, I was only allowed to write the same old phrase over and over again; “The wise old owl sat on an oak, the more he heard, the less he spoke, the less he spoke the more he heard, why can’t I be like that wise old bird”. To this day I can still remember that little rhyme and to this day I can remember that same feeling I felt as a elementary school student. From that point on I have always had an aversion for writing, it always seemed like a punishment. I still do not understand how people can journal. I don’t see how someone can sit down and write an entry or a novel just for the hell of it. It seems unnatural to me, but I guess that all of these feelings are just because I see writing as a punishment, an
Writing is a way in which a person can express their thoughts and ideas through the use of words. Everybody has their own writing styles. Some may consider theirs as inspirational while others think of it to be bad. Writing requires a lot of patience and time. In my case, writing has never been my favorite thing to do. I am no Shakespeare and I never will be, writing has always made me feel uncomfortable. In the past, I had always considered writing to be one of the most difficult tasks. I often wrote about topics that were not of my interest. I rarely did any writing out of school or for leisure as most people do. I only wrote because the teacher asked us to. Writing has always been forced onto me. Even though my writing isn't that great, I've felt that I've never been given the freedom to express my voice. Academic writing has always made me anxious. And, anxiety had resulted in my procrastination. Even though I consider writing to be one of the toughest tasks, I've felt that giving myself enough time to think allows me to do better. Silence helps me think beyond horizons. However, the fear of impressing someone, the anxiety and frustration is what makes me a developing writer.
The Creature That Opened My Eyes Sympathy, anger, hate, and empathy, these are just a few of the emotions that came over me while getting to know and trying to understand the creature created by victor frankenstein in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. For the first time I became completely enthralled in a novel and learned to appreciate literature not only for the great stories they tell but also for the affect it could have on someones life as cliché as that might sound, if that weren’t enough it also gave me a greater appreciation and understanding of the idiom “never judge a book by its cover.” As a pimply faced, insecure, loner, and at most times self absorbed sophomore in high school I was never one to put anytime or focus when it came time
Nostalgia. That’s what I’d felt, it was like an overwhelming wave of worry and happiness holding me back and not letting go, and it was. I’d also felt pain, but that was probably from the broken arm. It had been five years since I’d seen V and here we were again, both in the hospital, of our own accord. Again. My heart pumped, and I couldn’t sit still. We’d fought, literally all the time, on purpose. It’s not like we hated each other or anything. It was just our way of having fun. This is a weird way of fun. Said everyone but us.
A thick plume of black smoke and ash hung in the air in a heavy haze, almost completely obscuring the lurid red glow of the waning sun. Below, a cloud of grey plaster dust twisted and writhed amid the sea of debris as intermittent eddies of wind gusted by.
On a cold windy night, the sound of bombs dropping echoed not too far away. Ahmad was laying down thinking about his life. He contemplated his existence by asking himself questions. Is his life worth it? Is staying in the country worth risking his life?
In high school, writing changed dramatically. Getting praised for my good writing in middle school; now my writing was getting criticized and from my teacher's point view my writing skills weren't were they suppose to be. Hardly ever being glad to free write, I was given topics that seemed to get difficult each time I was given one. I now had to give my open on certain topics, analyze articles, provide in an argument telling why I do or don't support a certain topic. I often had difficulties writing down what I had in mind. It's like I wouldn't know how to make everything flow together. After having to write so many essays, writing became my way of coping with life problems. Writing about my problems in my free time made me a better writer, also. Throughout high school, I wrote tons of journals and short stories about things going on in my life. I still wouldn't consider myself a great writer but writing a lot in high school did impact my life in a positive way and improved my
she always used to wish for a way to escape her life. She saw memories
January, 1607: It has to be at least 11:30pm this night of January 9th, and I remain awake. Ever since I discovered my skin caked with red speckles two mornings ago, I realized the awful truth. I have scabies. I sit up in my cold, damp bunk and my mind jumps to my legs, which are pringling immensely.
I have always considered writing to be a work in progress, and it constantly can be improved. I have always been devoted to writing. I loved to write stories as a child because I could use my creativity and create any type of character I desired. But I have struggled with writing as well. English has never been my forte. I have received A’s, B’s, C’s, and D’s on essays. I truly never found my voice in writing. In my high school, English teachers would give me mixed reviews on my writing. For example, in 9th grade my English teacher said I was organized with my thoughts, and my writing process was excellent. While in 10th,11th grade ,12th grade my teachers only said negative things about my essays. Not being a strong writer made me despise writing. Then I started to believe that writing is not important. I came to conclusion that writing is not important ,because I am going to be a Math major. I had the mindset that I am not a writer, and will never be a writer. But, my thoughts about writing changed when I started taking English at CSUN.
Like reading, in the beginning, I saw writing as a chore, something you only must do when you needed to do homework or at school. It was something your teacher made you do in the beginnings of class to “open your mind.” I hated the idea of writing about how my Christmas was or what I did over the weekend. It was all too tedious and boring, because it was never about what I wanted to write about, fiction.
As I stated in my previous reflective essay, I hated writing in grade school. I sucked my teeth and groaned every time my teachers assigned an essay for homework. I don’t actually hate writing. I just disliked it because I never excelled in it. I wrote just to get the job done, but never took the time to pay attention to the writing process and the other aspects of writing. As I grew older and got a career, I realized how important writing was in the real world. From friends revising your status updates on Facebook that were plagued in grammatical errors or writing a professional email to your boss, writing skills are crucial to the real world.