How I Write I What
In first grade, I wrote in pen. Second, in verse. In third grade, I wrote like my parents. Throughout my life, the way I wrote has always reflected who I am. Throughout writing about my history as a writer, I’ve realized that sometimes how I write says just as much as what it is I’m saying.
What better place to start an essay about myself as a writer than when I first became one? First grade. I loved to write. We did vocabulary, and journals, and free writing. Whenever I did any of these things, it was always with my pen that switched colors. Depending on what button I clicked, I would write in pink, green, purple, or (my favorite color) aqua. When a boy in my class stole it (and lost it) I cried. Because that pen, the thing I wrote with, was colorful, just like how my imagination was back then.
In second grade, I wrote poetry.
My favorite always was rhythm and rhyme
I would write pages and pages of things
As for my teacher, praises she’d sing
When I showed her the poems of mine.
What better place to start an essay about myself as a writer than when I first became one? First grade. I loved to write. We did vocabulary, and journals, and free writing. Whenever I did any of these things, it was always with my pen that switched colors. Depending on what button I clicked, I would write in pink, green, purple, or (my favorite color) aqua. When a boy in my class stole it (and lost it) I cried. Because that pen, the thing I wrote with, was colorful, just like how my imagination was back then.
In second grade, I wrote poetry.
My favorite always was rhythm and rhyme
I would write pages and pages of things
As for my teacher, praises she’d sing
When I showed her the poems of mine.
I loved poetry because I could express all of the silly little thoughts going through my head and make them sound more grown up, and because it always impressed my favorite teacher.
In third grade, I idolized my parents. Every day I wore black and white, usually dresses. I wanted to look how fancy my mom looked when she went to work. To be more like both of my parents, I changed my handwriting. My mom and dad both wrote in all caps, and any time that it was allowed, so did I. My parents were the best people I knew, so of course I would try to write like them.
Fourth grade, I wore sweatpants (usually backward) almost every day. Except for the days when I wore sweaters. I was pretty back and forth on just about everything. But I knew I loved to draw. Pictures with captions, little comic books, cartoon characters. I even drew a picture of Olaf from Disney’s Frozen every single day and put it in my best friends locker. “An Olaf a day keeps the sadness away!”, they were always captioned. Being able to add visuals to the stories I made just seemed to add a whole new level to writing.
Fifth grade. I'll be honest, I was pretty bored. Even the advanced groups were easy for me. I began to find ways to entertain myself. And so, at some point, I had learned how to change my handwriting. I could copy the handwriting of almost everyone in my class, and even some who were in different ones. I had to keep myself occupied somehow, and that worked. And hey, if I’m gonna have extra time I might as well learn something useful. You never know when you have to forge your classmate's handwriting. (Cough cough complaint box cough).
In sixth grade, I was scarred for life. I went to the open house before school started, and on the way to my Prime Time (located in the library), I saw a book that looked really interesting. “I’m going to check that out as soon as I can on the first day of school,” I told my parents, and I did. It was Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli. I read through it in about a week. Then, it disappeared. I could’ve sworn I left it in history, but it wasn’t there. In Prime Time, I would get slips, “You have an overdue book” over and over. I would cover my face with my hand when walking through the library to Prime Time, positive that the librarians had a picture of me so they could identify the person who stole Stargirl.
After a month or two, the slips stopped coming. I thought maybe someone had found the book and turned it in for me. It was safe for me to check out books again. I found one I liked and went up to the desk. “Name?” I was asked. “Weiche,” I replied. “W, E, I, C, H, E.” The librarian said “Okay Izabella. Looks like you have an overdue book.” Sirens went off in my head. “Do you know where it is?” Red lights were flashing and I panicked. “Yes.” I managed to squeak out. “Okay, where is it?” “Umm my room,” I answered as quickly as I could. “Oh okay, your classroom or at home?” she asked. “ItsatmyhouseinmyroomsomewhereIthinkitsonmybookshelf,” I lied, trying to keep it cool. “Well here’s what we’re going to do. I can tell you’re going to get that book back so you can check this one out and then just make sure to bring back the other one, okay?” “Okay,” I said, though I didn't want to check it out anymore. She gave me the book and told me to have a nice day. At the end of the day, I turned the new book into the return slot as fast as I could. I never even opened the cover.
After that, I wrote. I had gained a crazy fear of librarians (though I'm sure someone found Stargirl and turned it in for me) and because I had that fear I began to write my own stories. My mom always asked why I didn't check out books anymore. I never told her why.
Seventh grade, I wrote for school. I usually attempted to be funny, and my blog for English was written from the point of view of Dora. Let's not talk about that.
Eighth and ninth grade, my thoughts got kind of crazy. But first- some background information. Naturally, I’m a messy person. I try to keep my room clean because my schedule is a mess. I have an artistic kind of a brain, but also a mathematical one. What goes on inside of my mind is usually out of order, but I try to keep the external things organized. So, when my thoughts became a giant bundle of confusion, in order to compensate, I’ve tried to neaten up my handwriting. Writing in a neat way or typing up my assignments add an orderliness to my crazy thoughts.
Through my life, my style of writing has always been evolving. From a rainbow pen to typing on a computer, how I write has always represented a part of me. I just can’t wait to see how I write next.
In third grade, I idolized my parents. Every day I wore black and white, usually dresses. I wanted to look how fancy my mom looked when she went to work. To be more like both of my parents, I changed my handwriting. My mom and dad both wrote in all caps, and any time that it was allowed, so did I. My parents were the best people I knew, so of course I would try to write like them.
Fourth grade, I wore sweatpants (usually backward) almost every day. Except for the days when I wore sweaters. I was pretty back and forth on just about everything. But I knew I loved to draw. Pictures with captions, little comic books, cartoon characters. I even drew a picture of Olaf from Disney’s Frozen every single day and put it in my best friends locker. “An Olaf a day keeps the sadness away!”, they were always captioned. Being able to add visuals to the stories I made just seemed to add a whole new level to writing.
Fifth grade. I'll be honest, I was pretty bored. Even the advanced groups were easy for me. I began to find ways to entertain myself. And so, at some point, I had learned how to change my handwriting. I could copy the handwriting of almost everyone in my class, and even some who were in different ones. I had to keep myself occupied somehow, and that worked. And hey, if I’m gonna have extra time I might as well learn something useful. You never know when you have to forge your classmate's handwriting. (Cough cough complaint box cough).
In sixth grade, I was scarred for life. I went to the open house before school started, and on the way to my Prime Time (located in the library), I saw a book that looked really interesting. “I’m going to check that out as soon as I can on the first day of school,” I told my parents, and I did. It was Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli. I read through it in about a week. Then, it disappeared. I could’ve sworn I left it in history, but it wasn’t there. In Prime Time, I would get slips, “You have an overdue book” over and over. I would cover my face with my hand when walking through the library to Prime Time, positive that the librarians had a picture of me so they could identify the person who stole Stargirl.
After a month or two, the slips stopped coming. I thought maybe someone had found the book and turned it in for me. It was safe for me to check out books again. I found one I liked and went up to the desk. “Name?” I was asked. “Weiche,” I replied. “W, E, I, C, H, E.” The librarian said “Okay Izabella. Looks like you have an overdue book.” Sirens went off in my head. “Do you know where it is?” Red lights were flashing and I panicked. “Yes.” I managed to squeak out. “Okay, where is it?” “Umm my room,” I answered as quickly as I could. “Oh okay, your classroom or at home?” she asked. “ItsatmyhouseinmyroomsomewhereIthinkitsonmybookshelf,” I lied, trying to keep it cool. “Well here’s what we’re going to do. I can tell you’re going to get that book back so you can check this one out and then just make sure to bring back the other one, okay?” “Okay,” I said, though I didn't want to check it out anymore. She gave me the book and told me to have a nice day. At the end of the day, I turned the new book into the return slot as fast as I could. I never even opened the cover.
After that, I wrote. I had gained a crazy fear of librarians (though I'm sure someone found Stargirl and turned it in for me) and because I had that fear I began to write my own stories. My mom always asked why I didn't check out books anymore. I never told her why.
Seventh grade, I wrote for school. I usually attempted to be funny, and my blog for English was written from the point of view of Dora. Let's not talk about that.
Eighth and ninth grade, my thoughts got kind of crazy. But first- some background information. Naturally, I’m a messy person. I try to keep my room clean because my schedule is a mess. I have an artistic kind of a brain, but also a mathematical one. What goes on inside of my mind is usually out of order, but I try to keep the external things organized. So, when my thoughts became a giant bundle of confusion, in order to compensate, I’ve tried to neaten up my handwriting. Writing in a neat way or typing up my assignments add an orderliness to my crazy thoughts.
Through my life, my style of writing has always been evolving. From a rainbow pen to typing on a computer, how I write has always represented a part of me. I just can’t wait to see how I write next.
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