My Favorite Thing

It would be a story that was passed down from the family, one she made up, or a book that she got off of the bookshelf. Dr. Seuss, Clifford The Big Red Dog any children’s book we had. Looking back on it there was all ways a moral to a story that she read to me. There was never a time that you couldn’t take a good value away from one of the stories. As I moved up in grade level the books started to become deeper and deeper. Throughout school there was always something to read. There was “Dr. Seuss” in elementary school, “The Diary of Anne Frank” in middle school, and “Romeo and Juliet” in high school, Literacy was all ways present in my school life. Throughout all the book reports, and the note taking and analyzing of Shakespeare literature there is without a doubt that my literacy knowledge has grown thanks to learning I have done in school. I feel that we learn to read and write because we have that desire inside to want to succeed and we know that it all starts here with learning to read and write. With all of that being said I say the way in which my literacy skills have developed to this point all started with bedtime stories. I think that this was the first start in most kids life and this is where we learn the basics. A book full of words in which we thought were just pictures and symbols with no meaning to them at all. Soon we learned that words did have meanings and that

I feel like the topic that was written in this short story was good to write about because even through I am not the best of a writing either and don’t really like to write as much. That doesn’t mean you have to give up or hand in any kind of paper. Its always best to get better at

Some of the oldest and fondest memories I have from my childhood are those of my mother reading to me. Before I even began Kindergarten, I remember my mom reading stories to me from children’s books, or making up stories as she went along. I enjoyed listening to the stories and still remember some to this day. She also taught me how to write my name, count, and recite the alphabet. I loved the time I spent reading with my mom because she made it fun, so much so that I didn’t realize I was learning.

Beth and I took turns writing. I remember only being able to write about a half of a page before my hand would begin to hurt. We must have worked on it for about four hours, and then we were done with our masterpiece. Beth and I both thought that our book was by far the best we had ever read. We were sure we were the most ingenious children alive. The end result of our story was not so pleasant, however. We decided to read our story to my younger sister Kari, to gain her opinion on our brilliance. Kari hated the story. She became bored very quickly and found something else to do. Beth and I were crushed. However, we were determined to try again some day, and we did. We wrote countless stories

Not only as a kid did I like reading but I also liked writing! And well I still do. As a kid, I kept a journal of everything I did. I stopped when I was around nine but I still find it hilarious to go back and read what I was thinking. This just makes good memories to look back at and now I wish I would’ve kept writing so I could enjoy reliving these moments of my

Today, I’m writing about growing up. I recently moved in to my grandparents’ house. I spent summer vacation here, every year, so a lot of my old toys are here. Just a few weeks ago, my grandmother wanted me to go through two boxes of stuffed animals. She was originally just going to put them all in storage, but most of my things were in boxes and she thought it might help me cope with the move to keep some with me.

I have always loved to tell stories. When I was six, I would gather all my stuffed animals and recite lavish stories to them. Tales of warrior princesses, ferocious dragons, and handsome knights would pour from my lips as I talked for hours on end. As I grew, I began to write my stories down on the backs of old coloring book pages. Though my penmanship, grammar, and spelling made the stories illegible, there was still something magnetic about manifesting the words onto the page. I wanted to turn the ideas in my head into something tangible. Throughout middle school, I filled dozens of notebooks. My mother was constantly running to the store to grab me yet another set of marble notebooks. Everything from plot outlines to poems were crammed into those lined pages. Though I eventually switched from paper to a keyboard and computer screen, my writing did not stop. As I transitioned into high school, writing became my solstice. I could pour every ounce of stress, happiness, sadness, and exhaustion into a blank word document. The highlight of my day came when I could just sit down and type until my fingers began to protest.

Most of what I can remember from my childhood is being read to by my mom and her teaching me how to read, alongside my older sister. During the day all that I wanted to do was have my mom read to me, so she would. And every night before I went to bed she would let me pick one book for her to read to me. It was my favorite part of everyday. It wasn’t just at home that people would read to me, my grandma would too whenever we went to her house. She had this book full of short stories that always had a good lesson at the end. I loved hearing my grandma’s soothing voice right before I fell asleep. My favorite book was “One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish” by Dr. Seuss. Since my mom read it to me at least once everyday, I began to memorize it. I wasn’t actually reading the words on the page, I just knew the story so well that I could recite it.

After hearing about how we got to write about our story I got kinda nervous, I feel like the story I have is kinda personal but I feel good knowing that I get to express it with someone else or something else other than my mind. I feel like I can relate with The Glass Castle and even though it won't be the exact story Jeanette Wells told it will still have meaning and similarities in the hardship of the story. I’m going to write about my childhood and how i grew up hard with my mom and how the experience made me better.

One time she decided she was going to write a kind of book. It is going to be a small book, but it was still going to be a book. Most days after school, and when she wasn’t playing with the yellow monkey, she would sit out in her playhouse. She had a nice playhouse in the backyard with a window seat and plenty of light in there. It was warm in the spring

Three sentences. That was all that my kindergarten teacher required me to write. “Class, your homework is to write at least three sentences about something that you enjoy,” she said, as she handed each of us a writing journal. Every night, the writing topic she assigned would change. Later on in the school year, my classmates and I would make up our own topics. We would use our imaginations to write whatever pleased us. I fell deeper and deeper in love with writing. Throughout elementary school, I read many different books. Each book had a different author with a different writing style for me to enjoy. I, too, developed my own writing style. By junior high, I had won a few writing awards, and I had written some short stories that I shared with my friends. Even as a freshman in high school, I still enjoy writing.

Family tragedies began affecting my life since seventh grade, and it had not seemed to be getting any better. As such, I used writing as a healthy escape from my life. I could vent and create imaginary characters that experienced similar misfortunes as I had, and as the writer, I had the choice of giving each character a happy ending. By my sophomore year, my desire to write was slowly dwindling, but luckily, my high school offered a creative writing class.

I looked down at the cream-colored paper while my mind raced with ideas. The benchmark writing prompt read something like, “Describe your perfect bedroom” with specific detail and such, and I instantly thought of an episode on Extreme Home Makeover, where they designed a candy themed room. As I dabbed down my thoughts on the wide ruled paper about a Hershey’s chocolate bar headboard, I had the most confident and excited smile on my face; I had just known I would make an amazing grade. I was right, I did great considering I was only in fifth grade at the time. This was the time where I loved my English class, the brightly lit room with twenty other children, the floral scent, my amazing teacher and when I thought

I was in second grade and we were at the library. I had some extra time because my sister was playing in the ship that I thought I was too good for. I wandering in the nonfiction section and I found the shelves filled with books about countries. I was excited and decided to check out thirteen. We were in the car driving to Vermont and I was reading one of them. I was “really bored” because I had accidentally checked out a book from the “wrong publisher.” (Now I realize it was probably just the different names for the same company over time.) I finished about an hour before we arrived and so I was excited that I could read something else.

I abruptly turned off the shower and opened my eyes, I was going to be late. Hurriedly I got dressed, which shoes to wear, I had so many. My black M & S shoes were six months old, a bit lagging in the fashion trend for myself. After work today I would go purchase those new Overland shoes I