Personal essay

If my high school creative writing teacher did not sleep with one of his students, I would not be writing this essay right now. I know what you are probably thinking right now, reader. You are thinking something along the lines of, “Another essay about how a horny teacher and how said teachers inability to keep it in his pants turned you on to writing (see what I did there, kids? ) Boring! ” Before you give up on both this essay and myself, let me assure you that this essay is both based in truth and unique. While there are a million “teacher unzips pants and in doing so changes a ids opinion of writing” stories out there (or maybe not… Just always assumed that my story was a common one) this story simply must be told because I want you all to know how I became fascinated with writing. So without further add, let’s get this thing started, shall we? When I was a child, I never enjoyed writing eve much. To be honest, as a kid in elementary school there was nothing I hated more than writing in an academic setting, and who could really blame me? As a kid, while I was busy reading Stephen King novels and Dave Barry columns, I was being asked to write on-creative, boring essays in class.

I wanted to write essays and stories that were creative and fun to write, but did I ever get a chance to write such things? Of course not! While I was reading works that I thought were genius and fun, I was literally being asked to write compare and contrast essays in which I was asked to compare and contrast such bland things as darkness and light and apples and oranges. It was more than frittering for me, it was torture. It was akin to be told to use mono-syllabic words, and mono-syllabic words only, in a oral communications class.

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In an attempt o put this barbaric torture to an end, one day after class in the fourth grade I stayed after class to speak with the teacher. My plan was simple: I would simply make the teacher archaize that what I was attempting to do was not only beneficial for me (for it allowed me to express myself creatively), but also beneficial for her because instead of reading yet another boring essay, she would be be given a break from the monotony of grading boring essays by be given the chance to read something completely different and unique. But Kenny,”, she told me with a devilish smirk on re face (the devilish smirk on her face was due to the fact she had a huge mole on her nose that gave her the appearance of a witch from a children’s story, or perhaps she really was the devil.. Looking back, I am leaning toward the latter explanation), “l do not want creativity from you. What makes you think that you even know what creativity is? ” Yes, she really said that to me. Needless to say, my conversation with her made me hate English classes even more. If I could not write what I wanted- something that I would actually want to read myself-what was the point of writing at el?

She wanted me to write essays comparing and contrasting apples and oranges, while I wanted to write essays comparing and contrasting conservatives with blood sucking vampires. Clearly, I was not meant to be a writer, for my ideas were Just too “out there” (or so I was consistently told). I told myself that my writing days were over, for I did not want to be another sheep in the herd that was my classroom, writing essays that-let’s be honest-were so boring that they could put a cocaine addict to sleep. Things were not looking good for our hero (that would be me, kids) at this mint, but do not fret, reader.. Hinges were about to get a whole lot better for our hero, all thanks to my first creative writing teacher in high school, who went by the name of Mr.. Norman. As I have stated earlier, I hated writing by the time I entered high school and was not looking forward to any more English courses. I can vividly recall the events of my first English class with Mr.. Norman, the pervert who would go on to completely change the way I felt about writing. I had intentionally put myself in a first period English class to get the “boring” class out of the way, with my logic being that I could work on my homework that I had for other classes during this time.

I remember walking into Mr.. Normal’s classroom and being completely repulsed by the conditions of the room. I had seen some subpart classrooms in my day up to that point, but his classroom took the cake when it came to run down classrooms. Half of the fluorescent lights did not work, which was actually a bit of a blessing considering that with the lighting so bad, I could potentially sleep in class without being detected, which was also a huge plus (our hero-again, the hero in this tale is me, kids) loud have much rather slept during a boring class than be awake and be the victim of more torture.

There were also huge, gaping holes in the walls, which reminded me of hobbit holes for some reason. I am not kidding here, kids. There were holes in the walls the size of bowling balls, and I remember thinking that if the class became too boring (as I was sure it would-apteral, all of my English classes up to that point had been complete snooze fests) I could always crawl into one the many holes and search for a possible escape route. The paint on the walls was peeling and appeared to have en painted on by a group of enthusiastic kindergarten students, and the room was extremely cold.

I found this fitting, for a class that was surely going to suck may as well take place in a rats nest of a classroom. I took a seat in the back of the class, and why wouldn’t I have? It is a known fact that it is far easier to daydream (or even better, fall asleep and have a real dream) while sitting in the back row of a classroom- the teacher has a less chance of seeing a sleeping student through a sea of students, apteral. To make my first class with Mr.. Norman even more odd, Mr..

Norman was about fifteen minutes late. At the time I was disgusted with his tardiness, but in retrospect, Mr.. Norman knew exactly what he was doing. What exactly was he doing, you may ask? What he was doing was making class fun. There was a method to his madness, which I was about to find out firsthand. Mr.. Norman did not waste any time- he blew my mind right off the bat, by immediately telling the class that he wanted us to forget everything that we had ever learned about writing.

He went on to say that many of us were probably not big fans of writing, and he did not blame us because up until this point, we had only been asked to write cookie- utter essays. He told the class that his class was going to be different, as he wanted us to write whatever it was that we felt like writing as long as it was creative and was the polar opposite of the writing that we had done in the past. Writing, he told us, was supposed to be a creative process, and students would be graded on things like originality, creativity, and straying as far from the “norm” as possible.

Needless to say, I could not believe my teenage ears… It was as if this man had been sent from God, or possibly he was God himself. I raised my hand and told him that I was not impolitely buying his spell-did he really want me to turn in essays and stories in weird style that I enjoyed writing in? I explained that although my essays were entertaining, they were also very different from “normal” essays, and due to this fact most of my previous instructors found them to be very hard to swallow. Could he even stomach such essays?

His answer sticks with me to this day: “Kevin, I will be disappointed if you do not shock me. I want to be shocked. I want to be entertained. But most of all, I want you to be you and write whatever you wish. ” As soon as he poke those words to me, something magical happened (not Sigmund and Roy magical, more like Harry Potter magical). The walls of the classroom no longer appeared to be rundown at all, they appeared to be perfect Just the way they were. The holes-which I had at first glance looked upon with a bit of disgust-now appeared beautiful to me.

The holes in the walls were like works of art in an art museum, and the bad lighting that I first found a bit odd now seemed to cast a light that seemed to represent freedom and individuality. This class was going to be much different than NY writing class I had ever had, so why shouldn’t the room that said class was going to take place in appear physically different from any other classroom I had ever seen? The class turned out to be great, as I had expected it would after hearing Mr.. Normal’s spell about how different this class was going to be.

I turned in my essays and, for the first time in my academic career, Mr.. Norman loved them. He told me that he respected my creativeness and that he loved to read my essays and stories. Everything was going perfectly: I was acing his course, I was finally enjoying the art of writing, and I respected my teacher. What could possibly go wrong? Well, Mr.. Norman slept with a fellow classmate of mine, that is what went wrong. I am not exactly sure how the details of their affair came to light, but does it really matter? The end result was that Mr..

Norman was fired from the school with the quickness, and because he was let go on such short notice there was no time to find another teacher to teach his creative writing course. To my absolute horror, I found myself not only out of the class which had turned me on to writing, but into a study hall to take the place of his class. You heard me correctly… A study hall. Oh, the humanity! I did not find another English class similar to Mr.. Normal’s again until college, when I met an English instructor named Leslie Lewis. Much like Mr..

Norman, she was a free spirit who appreciated creativity and out-of-the-box thinking. Her classes consisted of having her students read aloud their essays, poems and short stories, and it was common for the entire class to snap their fingers after each student read their work aloud (l must admit that I am quite proud of the fact that I initiated said finger snapping (You are welcome, Leslie! ) Due to my horrible experiences in every writing class I had oaken up to this point (with the exception of Mr.. Normal’s class, that is), I would often ask Dry.

Lewis if I was being a bit of a pain in the ass by encouraging my classmates to go all out with their creativity. Dry. Lewis would tell me that, if anything, she wanted me to encourage my classmates even more than I already was. I had finally found an instructor who not only understood me, but had no intention of bedding her students. Good day, sunshine! I was happy beyond words, and since I I enjoyed her creative writing class so much I took three of her classes in a row, in which I received very high marks in.

Due to the fact that I had only met two English instructors that I respected, I was very weary of taking writing courses with any other instructor in college aside from Leslie Gillis. While ranting about how fun her classes were in an online class of hers one day, I was informed that there was another instructor who valued creativity… This instructors name was Divine Wood. Since I am a fan of new experiences and meeting new people, I told myself that I would sign up for one of her classes the very next semester. Sign up for her non-fiction writing class I did, in hopes of landing myself in another fun, creative class.

Once in her online class and having read the course syllabus, it was apparent that I had made a wise decision. Any thoughts I had harbored of dropping her class and returning to the familiar and comfortable courses that Leslie provided quickly vanished, and I was excited to start Kevin Wood’s class. I had a feeling it was going to be every bit enjoyable as Mr.. Normal’s class had been, for the class sounded perfect- I would be able to write in a creative environment with a cool (cool as in like-minded) professor, and that is why I am taking the Creative Non-fiction writing course this semester.



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