Personal Narrative

In elementary school I used to enjoy projects where we had to write our own stories and complete the pages with pictures or drawings. I would make up all kinds of stories of all sorts like an All-Star basketball player who couldn’t be stopped, magical worlds, to even an evil Tooth Fairy. Short Fiction is kind of the only writing that I like to do. Going into Middle and High School I was introduced to formal, structured type of writing that was way different from what I liked to write when I was younger. As I got more and more formal writing prompts I began to stop like writing. It because a struggle for me to transition from fun, fictional writing to formal types of

My first memory of a writing I was proud of was in the fourth grade with my teacher Mrs. McCoy. It was a short story on a personal experience in my life and I talked very passionately about a time where my dog ran away when I went on a trip at Pismo Beach in California. After that not many classes developed me quite like my classes in high school did. My first exposure to an English that engaged me was in freshman year of high school, and every class after that developed me as a writer even further.

My memoir, “Terror in Target”, was one of my favorite writing assignments from this year. My writing voice in the story sounds like the words came through a cable hooked up to my brain. I held nothing back, making every thought funny and brutally honest. I believe that was the best part of my writing overall. I included thoughts that I’m sure I had when I was seven years old and took the reader and myself back to 2008 Target. However, I also noted many errors that could have been easily been fixed. At the time of birth, I don’t think I really cared about the grammar or flow of the story; I just cared about getting the story out in a fun and enjoyable way. As I reread my story, I changed things and fixed errors, revealing that I had grown into the mind of an editor of my own work. I found that my writing was strong in

I have always loved to write, and it became even more evident when I entered elementary school. I quickly befriended a girl named Beth, who lived just down the road from me. One afternoon that I remember in particular was in the middle of the summer. She and I were set to write a book. We had read countless storybooks on our own, and we could not see why we could not write one too. We sat down with a notebook and two pencils, and we were set to go.

My earliest experience with writing was my learning period that formed not only my style of writing but how I studied and the ability to apply words and concepts into a structured format. The process at first was difficult because it was my first time being exposed to structured writing which caused me to put it off until the last minute or lose interest in the topic I was writing about. The rowdy classroom was eager to release near the end of the day, but we knew we had to face one of the more uninteresting subjects of the day: middle school English.The teacher thoroughly explained our assignment which made each one of us cringe. The class finally initiated work mode and I was clueless. I would start to make progress but would be constantly

Avatar inspired me to begin writing fan fiction and the writing bug just took hold. The bug continued all throughout my two senior years of high school (that’s years 11 and 12 in Australia). I still write fanfiction from time to time. However, I haven’t published anything in ages.

My first literary experience started before I even enter preschool. When I was younger, I was diagnosed with a speech impediment. This forced me to attend a specialized preschool, which led to speech classes in my early years in elementary school. I couldn't talk without stuttering. I remember being at school and getting pulled out of the lesson. I remember the faces of my other classmates staring then asking why I got to get out of our class assignment. I remember being questioned by my peers as to why I couldn't pronounce certain words or speak more smoothly. I was always asked to slow down and repeat myself. Sadly, the school I attended was underfunded, so as soon as I could speak at more of an understandable level I was essentially removed from my speech class, despite the fact that my speech was terrible and I still couldn't pronounce certain words and syllables. The hope of me improving was diminishing. Luckily, I moved schools a year later; nonetheless, it was too late. My new school wouldn't realize what learning setbacks I still had.

It was the last day of school and I was so excited for summer. I was going to do all kinds of stuff and go out of the state. In reality I was going for one of my worst summer ever. All I was going to do is travel most of the time. It was going to be the most boring summer ever.

Since elementary school I have exhibited a talent for writing. What started out as mere ten page stories about cats hunting mice or Greek Gods turning people into blob fish expanded into publishing a four hundred page long summer camp murder mystery as an eBook with my friend Henry in eighth grade. Over the years I have become more passionate about my writing, and over the years my grammar and writing style have grown tremendously. Looking back at the book I helped write in eighth grade I can’t help but cringe at the mistakes we missed and dull language we used. If I had written the eBook at the level I am now it would have been much longer, extremely detailed, and correct grammar wise. I realize the story could be leagues better, so I’m currently

When I was younger I had always been described as mature. Although I wasn’t anywhere near being “mature”, it was a word always used to describe me, well-mannered and mature. While my brother was goofy and social, I was shy and serious. We were twins yet total opposites. As a child, because that was the word almost always associated with me, it crae unusual, almost toxic idea about myself. I had to be mature to be what people liked about me. So, it never occurred to me to be able to not take myself seriously and say something like “Oops that was dumb” and laugh it off. For some reason that didn’t make sense to me to say silly things like that.

My day starts out like most of a dollar’s day starts. As I rest in my owners wallet. He grabs his wallet and slides it in his back right-hand pocket, with me included. This is how my journey begins.

Two years after we had signed the gas lease my father stopped farming. The cows and the pigs were sold to the Baker’s farm on the other side of Iberdeen. So were his two tractors along with most of the other equipment that had taken up real estate on our land. Now our house sat on almost three hundred acres of dirt, grass, hay, fieldstone, history.

I am very disappointed in my writing thus far. I look at stories I wrote in my previous CRW class and wonder where all my imagination has gone. I feel my work has been very stagnant. I think the biggest problem is that I took an old story

I was only thirteen when I first began to ask “who am i?” My parents would tell me stories of where I’m from, and how Sudan is like. My little brain couldn’t grasp the idea of having family, people that look like me, in the other side of the world. Going there was a dream for me, I had this vision in my head, this adventure I thought waiting for me, and so, I began to nag! “Can we go this summer daddy?” became one of my favorite things to say. I asked and asked, until I got what I wanted.

The first time I tried to write a story I was in grade school. It was for a seventh or eighth grade assignment. It was about a puppy who got lost and was stranded. He was found by a police dog who brought him back to his home and made sure he stayed safe. I still have the story at my house. I wrote a different short story in my eighth grade year that was very dramatic. I wrote about a girl who was extremely young that got pregnant, and ran away from home so she could keep the baby. It told about how she didn’t believe she got pregnant and how she felt. It was SUPER dramatic in how the girl reacted and the punishment she received from her mother at the end was really slack and unrealistic. I didn’t understand what I was writing about at the time and didn’t understand the seriousness involved. If I wrote the same story now, you wouldn’t be able to tell it was the same one, besides the basic outline. The punishment would be more severe and the way the girl reacted would be different. I would also change her age so she was in the upper grades of high school, not the lower.(I think I made the girl thirteen to fifteen years old.)