My Writing Hobby

When I was a small child, I didn't like writing unless I was writing something I wanted to. As a result, most of my school work was done half-heartedly, because they were all research projects that we had to do. I didn't have any issues with my writing, and my handwriting was pretty good at my age. My favorite books were the Harry Potter series. I thought I was pretty cool to be able to read such a long book, so I bragged some to my friends. The only topic I liked to write about was fantasy. In second grade, my mom made me start writing every day in a wide ruled journal, so I wrote a story about the Legend of Zelda, a video game I liked. I wrote about it every day for a long time, maybe a year, until I kinda gave up, and wrote the last page

Writing is not just marking letters, words, or symbols on a piece of work. My perspective states that writing is not just expressing yourself through words; in fact, it is mostly one’s expression; your emotions, thoughts, beliefs, etc. Correspondingly, according to myself, writing is extremely artistic and evocative way to reveal one self’s personality. Most important, I am in the creative writing class, because I desired to be in it, due to the fact that it is my passion, it is a way I can express myself thoroughly, and it makes me feel as if I am in a whole different world where I can reveal everything I desire.

Joining the fifth grade that year made me especially nervous. What if on the first day I had to write a story?what would my teacher think of my sub par work? Why was it so difficult and taxing on my mind to come up with the right word for a phrase? I was beginning to think of all of my problems I faced that year and school hadn't even started. I elected to ask the best source of knowledge I knew of, my mother. If she could raise a kid, she could help me write also, or at least that was the thought. Later I would know my mother affirmed my realization that some people weren’t writers and that I definitely wasn't one when she mentioned how she never was a writer as a child. The craziest thing about my dilemma was how it was only writing i never understood, reading and the rest of my school subjects I understood perfectly, and I even had one the

Prior to my development of routine introspection and, consequently, maturation, I wrote not to encapsulate my ever-growing discomfort towards life, but rather to gain praise and acknowledgement for my efforts in writing. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I sat on the floor of my kindergarten classroom criss-cross applesauce-style as my teacher, Mrs. Glickman, asked the class to write a short story and to provide an illustration to accompany it. With smudged and disorderly speckles of graphite sprawled across my paper, I managed to write a story in my signature chicken-scratch handwriting. The story was relatively simple, about a girl who had thought she was a hideous monster until she looked into a river reflection and realized she was beautiful. I even drew (or attempted to draw) a beautiful girl for the second part of the assignment. At the next school assembly, Mrs. Glickman granted me a sky-colored paper, reading “Award of Recognition: Kiana Lucin, for her creative writing and exemplary drawing skills.” From this point on, I prided myself in writing, and excelled

As time went on, I didn’t write for fun as much as I did before. In middle school I had been in many activities and that didn’t give me much time to explore my

From the early beginning of the school year to the current day, my writing skills and knowledge have improved and broadened over time. If not drastic, the change is noticeable nevertheless. For almost an entirety of eighth grade, assignments of varying difficulty challenged me to a degree. To be frank, some seemed as though they were beyond my comprehension and ability. However, determination amalgamated with knowledge obtained in advance helped me to overcome my doubts, for I exceeded my expectations; surprisingly good grades and comments are a delight, owing to the fact of that I don’t tend to think of myself as being proficient at writing. Consequently, the assignments given to me this school year shaped me into who I am as a writer.

I’d always enjoyed writing but I’d never been so vocal about it. For me, it happened quietly. My notebooks lie scattered over my bedroom floor; they had no place at the lunch table. And my writing survived on my acknowledgments alone, I couldn’t even imagine letting some else read it. This was due in part to my own self-doubt: I was embarrassed of my poems that never rhymed and my short action stories that never seemed to have any plot. But I

Writing has been an outlet for me, and has allowed me to express my passions, guided me along a trying time in my life, and has forced me to acknowledge that I can’t let a disease define who I am, and moreover has pushed me to discover that I’m a passionate young man

This not only benefited me as a reader, but it also provided me with a stronger relationship with my parents, as well as a great deal of my favorite childhood memories. Over time, I was able to witness my extra practice pay off. During class, I no longer fell behind my classmates and was able to generate full sentences without assistance. My teacher also took note of how much progress I had made in such a brief amount of time. Although I had improved, I decided to continue with this routine over the next few years because I had faith that my skills possessed the ability to grow even more. By the time I was in third grade, I had built up enough confidence and reached the conclusion that I wanted to enter a submission into the young authors contest. I invested a great amount effort into drafting my book, with the help and support of my family, and was proud of what I had written no matter the outcome. It turns out that my book had not only won for my class, but it was also got chosen over a girl’s who had won every year prior to this one. As an outcome of young authors, I developed a greater appreciation for reading and

“Writers end up writing about their obsessions. Things that haunt them; things they can’t forget; stories they carry in their bodies waiting to be released.” -Natalie Goldberg. As a writer, that’s one of the most relatable quotes I’ve come across. I tell my stories through someone else. My hopes, fears, past, and unrealistic dreams. I adore writing from past experiences and adventures I wish were real. I use to bottle things up. Then I discovered writing as a solution to express what’s rushing through my mind. Being bold with each word I peak onto the page. Writing has even guided me to becoming more outspoken. However I used to be even more timid than I am today.

Due to my excellence in middle school English, I was placed into the Honors English I class. This reawakened the childhood talent I had held onto so dearly. Growing up, I always had a knack for storytelling. Even before my brain knew the alphabet existed, my little hands formed scribbles in which I would tell the daring story of a hero saving the day from certain destruction. The heroes always were my age, and sometimes I even wrote myself as the hero. My imagination only seemed to grow stronger with age, and by the time I had turned fourteen I had come to a decision: I was going to write a book.

Stripped of its texture and creativity, my writing now feels like a contrived jumble of words, forced and boring. This gradual problem first took shape in the form of a 12-year-old’s humiliation. Presenting a poem I had written about taking out the trash, I was crushed to find that my attempt at humor had been met with silence and unamused classmates. Along with realizing that humor was not my forte, I also gained a fear towards writing. When pencil touches paper, a tug-of-war begins. Ideas of what I want to write seep into my brain only to be knocked down by that same fear of failing. I wanted to appear perfect in front of my audience so my pieces careful and

When I was in the first grade there was a state mandated test that all first graders took to determine what skill level we were at with our reading and writing. I was really excited about this test because, I loved reading and writing so I felt I was good at it. However after the test results came back I was put in a reading and writing recovery program. For obvious reasons I was extremely disappointed, and determined to get back into my regular class. As the year progressed I became increasingly better with reading and writing, by the end of that year I was 2 grade levels above what I was supposed to be at. I even had my “Young Authors” book put into to finals, I got to go to a seminar at MSSU about writing. I like to look back on that memory because it reminds me that I can do anything I put my mind to no matter where I start. As years go by my passion for reading and writing keeps growing. My 8th grade year, however, was probably my worst year yet. I really struggled with motivation to do my work, to go anywhere, to see anyone, I really just wanted to stay in my room by myself all the time. Then I kind of rediscovered my love for reading and, would read all the time, it even got to the point where I would read multiple books a week. In reading I was able to find a whole new life, I was able to become the character and put myself in the story, I had their feelings, I experienced the things they experienced, I had their personalities, I was the story. Being able to read, I

High school was a bunch of firsts for me first time falling in love, first time getting kicked out of high school, and my first time experiencing the beauty of writing stories thanks to my freshmen English teacher; whose name escapes me at the moment; who saw my potential (if that’s what you’d call it) and worked with me to write more understandable content, to take my time, never lack on description, and to not be afraid to start over “you cannot rush a work of art” she would tell me whenever she seen my trying to hurriedly jot down information which made the story come out broken and confusing. The only thing that ever frustrated me when it came to writing was the time it took I always knew how I wanted the story to begin and how I wanted it to end but the middle was always up to debate given that I was always changing the story how it played it through the buildup and the climax. Sometimes doing this would make me change the whole story completely and it would turn out a lot better than it initially intended to come out. Writing became more than just a hobby for me every chance I got weather it was study hall or while I was at home I was writing. Sometimes I would write all day just listening to music and letting my pencil glide through the

no matter the subject matter I always stay true to writing with internal purpose. Writing