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 …show more content…
English was my favorite subject every year. I breezed through the assignments each day, and after class studied my textbook intently, absorbing every rule of grammar and memorizing lists of proper verb tenses and commonly misspelled words. My notebook for English became filled with fewer notes and more scraps of poetry and collections of interesting words. I began to see writing as less of a game and more of a way to truly make all my thoughts and ideas tangible and lasting.
My passion for writing continued to grow, and I constantly amassed more cheap composition books and filled them within weeks. I wrote constantly. I went outside and wrote to describe the scenery, I parked in a corner of each room in the house to describe the arrangement of furniture and décor, and I wrote about my family and people I knew.
When I wasn’t writing stories of my own, I was reading and drawing upon the inspiration of other books. I perused the dictionary and our set of encyclopedias and collected words I thought were interesting, obscure, or funny, and memorized them for use in conversation. I read whatever was available, ranging from tattered old insect field guides to Better Homes and Gardens to books on gun collecting. I visited the library frequently and returned home with shopping bags full of astronomy books, ancient copies of classics and horse stories, and Judy Blume
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 …show more content…
English was my favorite subject every year. I breezed through the assignments each day, and after class studied my textbook intently, absorbing every rule of grammar and memorizing lists of proper verb tenses and commonly misspelled words. My notebook for English became filled with fewer notes and more scraps of poetry and collections of interesting words. I began to see writing as less of a game and more of a way to truly make all my thoughts and ideas tangible and lasting.
My passion for writing continued to grow, and I constantly amassed more cheap composition books and filled them within weeks. I wrote constantly. I went outside and wrote to describe the scenery, I parked in a corner of each room in the house to describe the arrangement of furniture and décor, and I wrote about my family and people I knew.
When I wasn’t writing stories of my own, I was reading and drawing upon the inspiration of other books. I perused the dictionary and our set of encyclopedias and collected words I thought were interesting, obscure, or funny, and memorized them for use in conversation. I read whatever was available, ranging from tattered old insect field guides to Better Homes and Gardens to books on gun collecting. I visited the library frequently and returned home with shopping bags full of astronomy books, ancient copies of classics and horse stories, and Judy Blume