The Importance Of Personal Writing

As the last words escaped my lips, a burst of applause echoed through the room. The bright smiles of my audience, be it family, friends, teachers, or colleagues, never failed to keep me writing. Being able to pique someone's interest enough to show them even just a small piece of the world of imagination inside my head was the very concept that drew me to writing. Creative writing was one of the key factors in developing my literacy skills because I learned to communicate ideas to my audience efficiently and effectively, expand my vocabulary, and broaden my scope of interpretation to discern themes.

While my love for reading sprouted, I soon became obsessed with writing. My passion for reading only helped my writing skills to prosper. In fifth grade, I had a teacher who very well understood that reading and writing were important. Every day, we had a half an hour to write about whatever we wanted. Boy, my imagination ran wild. I often wrote fiction stories. My favorite part was when the teacher allowed us to share our stories with the whole class at the end of the week. This one activity really sparked the beginning of my love for writing.

Writing may be an enthralling experience for one and a clever way to decompress for another. In general, however, writing has different purposes for a variety of people. “Why I Write,” written in the late 20th century by Terry Tempest Williams, describes various reasons for writing narrated from a female’s perspective. The short essay begins in the middle of the night with a woman engulfed in her own thoughts. She abruptly goes forth by reciting the multiple reasons why she continues to write in her life. Through a variety of rhetorical devices such as repetition, imagery, analogies, and symbolism, Terry Tempest Williams produces an elegant piece of writing that offers the audience insight into the narrator’s life and forces the audience to have empathy for the narrator with the situation she is incurring.

Writing is often considered mundane and banal to some students. In fact, people have even written things down since the beginning of time. I dreaded writing until I had Mrs. Dunlap for 4th block English during my 8th grade year at Mount Juliet Middle. This is the story about how she made me the writer I am today with what I like to call ‘Write’speration.

In grade school, my teacher scribbled on my paper in bold red ink, “Great story! You should be an author. Do you know what that is?” My dream to write a Memoir was born.

The only way you can become better at doing something is simply by continuing to work on your craft. Whether it is a hobby, an interest, or a profession, if you don't keep working, then you will remain complacent. A year ago, I thought writing was one of those things where I would just be complacent in. Not because I didn’t wanted to work harder at it, but because I thought of writing as one of those skills that came natural to you, or you did not have it at all. I always wanted my writing to improve but never knew how.

In “Why I Write” by Terry Tempest Williams, she deliberates the development and affect of writing from the mind. Through the internal destruction of emotions, the reconstructing of the words, and the influence writing has in this world, Terry Williams causes us to reevaluate the meaning of writing and how people write for different reasons. In the introduction of the story, we are given an image of the setting, and an indication of where the story will lead. “It is just after 4:00 a.m. I was dreaming about Moab, Brooke and I walking around the block just before dawn.

As Vickie Karp once said, “When we read, we start at the beginning and continue until we reach the end. When we write, we start in the middle and fight our way out.” At an early age, writing gave solace. My first exposure to writing was through journaling. In my elementary years, my parents separated, leaving my brother and me in the eye of the storm. At the age of ten, I only understood so much, but I did know how much my mother and father detested each other on a regular basis. Objects and harsh words established the darkness and fear in the corner of my mind. Once father left home, before I even had a chance to say goodbye, I felt abandoned and alone. The anxiety of my mother leaving me and struck with depression of already been abandoned

The comforting sound of the click-clack of the keys, the smell of freshly printed words, the crisp feeling of having finished writing a master piece. For some, the art of writing is a frightening feat that has the equivalent appeal of being water-boarded. If you would have told me five years ago that I would be forced to write a five-paged essay with the use of scholarly books as well as peer-reviewed articles, I would have silently wept tears of fear. My writing is something that has taken me years to evolve and continues to be a learning process. From a young age I had always done everything in my power to escape having to write.

Before I even knew how to read, my mother would often lecture me about the importance of writing. She would incessantly tell me about the power of writing. To further prove her claims about the significance of writing, she would say things such as “An entire person’s life can be change by a single phrase” or “Being able to write makes you different from the average person.” At first, I was honestly not interested in what she was telling me, but today, especially as I am at the doorstep of college, I fully understand why she emphasized the value of good writing to me. My mother is the reason why I have become a good writer.

Therefore, my brother would buy a box of white chalks each week from a shop on the way to our schools. We would walk 30 minutes each school day to reach our schools. In the meantime, he would say vocabulary words; “barn”, “goat”, or “elephant,” to practice my spelling skills as we walked with white shirt and blue pants uniforms with red knitted backpacks. Our mother knitted us backpacks when the old ones torn apart, and made the new uniforms when they became unusable. She supported us every day on our literary journeys. Her hard work encouraged and inspired my brother’s ambition to succeed in literature to become stronger. His determination and dedication to succeed in literature became so vast that it dragged me into literature even more. I began to finish the boxes of white chalks by writing on the mini-chalkboard as children would finish boxes of candy each week. The mini-chalkboard soon became my essential writing tool in which I learned to write and practice my vocabulary with my older brother. These practice sessions became an everyday routine like the reading was. I began to read and write in decent form. They became familiar everyday. But soon the dream, which my brother and I saw while reading books, was turning into

John Holt is an English teacher for elementary students. Most of students struggled with writing and reading. One day he went into class and told them they had to write whatever they wanted on their paper and whoever has the most words wins a prize “they were to start writing something. It could be anything they wanted” “it was a success in many ways and for many reasons”

Whenever I felt a portion of my self was inaccessible and I desperately needed access to it, writing made my inner life come alive as a concrete manifestation. Writing has always been the crucial first stage in imparting all my favorite research discoveries and revelations, and over the years, I have realized that neglecting this step causes nothing but grief. I am going to traverse abandoned memories detailing how my craving for the written medium came to be. Throughout my life, writing has persistently remained my instinctual means for self-understanding and expression.

Writing has always played a huge role in my life. I’ve been reading writing for as long as I can remember as I have an immense love of reading. This love would grow into a love for writing as well; I still stumble upon journals and writings from my five-year-old self about the happenings in my kindergarten class. As time would go on I would discover academic writing, and how to convey my thoughts on what was the topic of student that particular year or semester in my schooling. Later, writing would become a constant for me, and a comfort; I was known to my friends as always having a journal, and a pen on my person. I learned to write down my feelings and my thoughts, song lyrics that were in my head, reflections for the day. I learned how

On September 5th, FIU sent an External Relations email. I have a bad habit of missing important information because I skim emails too quickly, but the main point was hard to miss this time: “Classes canceled.” I let a sigh of relief. I welcomed the fact that I didn’t have to wake up at six o’clock again. Too bad that would be quickly overshadowed in a matter of twelve hours.