Personal Narrative: My Writing

Most kids remember the sounds of rain, or thunder vividly because they are loud. I remember scratching. Rhythmic, repetitive, and right in front of me. The scratching of my blue ballpoint pen against paper. Whenever I'd do well in school, my mother would ask me what I wanted as a reward, even though she already knew. As we shuffled toward her car, I'd pretend to think about it. Maybe I'd surprise her and tell her I wanted toys, or candy like a normal kid. But I didn't. I wanted books, and paper. But even that wasn't my real reward, it was the feeling I got when I wrote, or read what I one day aspired to be. That same feeling drew me to Karen DePaul's classroom door. Journalism One. Freshman year. Wide eyes, and eager to please. I didn’t know all that much about journalism, but the description said it included writing, so I signed up. …show more content…
I remember feeling small, both in stature, and in experience. Everyone else in my class was at least a sophomore, and as it was my school’s first year open, they’d all bared some kind of connection to each other. Whether it was coming from the same school, or just having crossed paths sometime before. “Alright class, I’m here to teach you how to write journalistically. You’ll learn how to write editorials, features, and most importantly how to show not tell.” Karen DePaul isn’t a very big woman, but she’s commanding. I think that’s the first thing I noticed, the first thing I remember about her. She was authoritative. I didn’t think I’d end up spending so much time in the Journalism room. I didn’t think I’d be Academics Editor. And I had no idea, I’d be Copy Editor. Journalism has taught me how to speak, how to listen, and how to tell stories. Before I entered room E-121 I didn’t realize that everyone has a story to tell if you’re just patient enough to