Literary Essay
The Time I…
My very first memory of beginning to write comes from when I was in Pre-School. I was four years old and I can remember coming home after my first day of school and telling my mother that I was going to quit school and never go back. Most would assume it was because I thought school was hard, but what is hard in Pre-K? My problem was that my teacher would not allow me to write my own name on my coloring papers. Sure, my hand writing was far from neat but the fact was that I could write on my own and it angered me that my teacher had the nerve to tell me that I couldn’t do it at all without even watching me try. Growing up my mother would read to my sisters and I throughout the day, whether it was from a cereal box or from a book, also we would have to write our numbers and letters twice a day. My mother worked with me, showing me how to shape letters with my pen. I was very proud of myself when I first wrote my whole name on my own, so when I entered pre-k and my teacher didn’t allow me to write my name on my name plate I was pissed as hell. I felt like she thought I was a liar. So the next day my mother came to school with me, only because I was adamant about quitting, and she convinced my teacher to let me write my name. When I did my teacher allowed me to write on my own from then on.
My mother noticed that while my sisters were out playing I was inside writing, so she gave me a journal. Every day, from the time I turned seven or so, I wrote a sentence or two in my journal. I wrote about my life. What toys I wanted for the next big holiday. Why my one of sisters had hurt my feelings. How much it was snowing. How much I enjoyed going to the Sam’s Club because of the free snacks they gave out. The subject matter wasn’t the point, what was important was my connection to it. It wasn’t until I was in the third grade that I encountered grammar styles and learned that I struggled with it.
I loved to write but placing a comma in the correct place was
My very first memory of beginning to write comes from when I was in Pre-School. I was four years old and I can remember coming home after my first day of school and telling my mother that I was going to quit school and never go back. Most would assume it was because I thought school was hard, but what is hard in Pre-K? My problem was that my teacher would not allow me to write my own name on my coloring papers. Sure, my hand writing was far from neat but the fact was that I could write on my own and it angered me that my teacher had the nerve to tell me that I couldn’t do it at all without even watching me try. Growing up my mother would read to my sisters and I throughout the day, whether it was from a cereal box or from a book, also we would have to write our numbers and letters twice a day. My mother worked with me, showing me how to shape letters with my pen. I was very proud of myself when I first wrote my whole name on my own, so when I entered pre-k and my teacher didn’t allow me to write my name on my name plate I was pissed as hell. I felt like she thought I was a liar. So the next day my mother came to school with me, only because I was adamant about quitting, and she convinced my teacher to let me write my name. When I did my teacher allowed me to write on my own from then on.
My mother noticed that while my sisters were out playing I was inside writing, so she gave me a journal. Every day, from the time I turned seven or so, I wrote a sentence or two in my journal. I wrote about my life. What toys I wanted for the next big holiday. Why my one of sisters had hurt my feelings. How much it was snowing. How much I enjoyed going to the Sam’s Club because of the free snacks they gave out. The subject matter wasn’t the point, what was important was my connection to it. It wasn’t until I was in the third grade that I encountered grammar styles and learned that I struggled with it.
I loved to write but placing a comma in the correct place was