Essay on My Thoughts On My Childhood

1007 Words Sep 4th, 2016 null Page
My parents can attest to the fact that, even before I could properly spell, I was a writer. Reflecting on my childhood, I find that nearly all my memories have some connection to writing. Because I lived on the skirt of a minuscule town and was homeschooled, I had no interaction with any children and quite happily spent my time alone. That time was largely passed with writing.
When I played with my collection of stuffed animals, it was always with intention of telling a story. They were my props, and the minute I finished with them, I barreled for my room to retrieve a notebook from my stash. I wrote the stories I had thought of in careful penmanship, and garnished the margins of the paper with my own illustrations. My purpose was to preserve the story for the next time I played, so I would never leave the toys on a permanent cliffhanger in their important adventures through dollhouses and pantries. I wrote “book” after “book,” penning my ideas on folded sheets of notebook paper and stapling them together. When I grew a bit older, I thought of my playtime as my “first draft” session. After acting out the plot through the toys, I plopped in front of Dad’s clunky Windows 95 computer and painstakingly typed pages and pages of the stories. One of my favorite parts was choosing from curly fonts and page borders.
As I progressed through school, my interest in writing increased by factors of twenty. English was my favorite subject every year. I breezed through the assignments each…

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