My Love Of Writing

2089 Words 9 Pages
Some may say in an unbearable voice, “Writing is so boring! I don 't want to write, be creative, or write essays about any historical event.” I was not surrounded by many lovers of writing growing up. That is why I appreciate writing as much as I do. It is the sense of being unique and not following the crowd of literacy haters that gave me my gratitude. It is a way to transform my inner thoughts into something worthy of pen and paper. From little jots about cats and dogs from my youthful days to full essays explaining my political opinions in my pre-adult phase, it has always been enjoyable for me to construct some form of writing. However, my love for writing was not always apparent. At the age of seven, my view on writing was quickly altered …show more content…
We have to be willing to at least try things that can help us recover. I know it is hard for you to write but you can do it. You use to love writing. Remember that story about cats and dogs you wrote me? I enjoy your stories very much. Now you 're going to let your broken arm get in the way of me getting stories? I know you are still young and naïve at the moment but let me tell you something about writing. Writing is essential for everything that we do. It is how we communicate, express ideas and beliefs. You can also show your personality through writing. We learn it at a young age and it sticks with us forever. It is something that we take for granted, something you are doing right …show more content…
I was given a writing prompt on how it feels to have something be difficult for you. There was no doubt that this prompt was created with me in mind. I think my teacher was making sure I understood that even as a second grader, gratitude towards writing is a necessity. Using my injury as my topic, all you could hear from my side of the room was the pitter patter of my fingers pressing down on the keys. I was approaching a full page and I had never felt more proud of myself. Along with being proud came realization in a little second grader.

After three weeks of agony from a cast, I was liberated. My mother bought me new pencils. I opened the case and the smell of wood and lead was upon me. The pencil I picked felt cold and stiff in my hand as I positioned it perfectly. I was nervous to start writing again, but once I had started, words and words came together on one paper. Hand-operating writing was no longer foreign. Although, typing was fun, nothing beats the smooth sailing of a pencil on paper as soon as you come up with new ideas.

Now looking back to the past, I was a victim of taking writing for granted, even if I was absent from writing for a short while. This injury was the stepping-stone to how I feel towards writing today. My words are a steady flow of blood that runs through my veins into my heart and onto paper. Writing is apart of who I am as an individual. I am lucky that

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