Personal Narrative: The Adventures Of Tintin
Don’t look back. Don’t look back. A pair of feet pounded down only a few inches behind my own, but I continued to push forward. Faster, faster! I knew it was coming up just around the corner, so with a final burst of energy, I made the leap...
Onto my bed.
Outstretched above my head, I held the book--tonight it was The Tale of Despereaux again--like a trophy, taunting my brother as he breathlessly skidded to a halt just inside the doorway to my bedroom. The smirk spreading across my face was well justified because tonight my dad would be reading to us in the comfort of my own bed rather than my brother’s tiny bunk beds.
Maybe it was the sound of my dad’s voice, or maybe it was the feeling of being squished together in one bed, or maybe it was the funny shadows cast by the bedside lamp that morphed into characters acting out the plot, but something about those bedtime stories shifted my view on books.
At the time, my reading level consisted of fat cats that sat on hats, but my dad took it upon himself to introduce me to other books--novels, comics, Vietnamese stories--and reading became an entirely different experience. When Despereaux got thrown into the ominous dungeon beneath the castle, my covers were tugged up to my chin; when The Adventures of Tintin detailed his close escape from a band of gangsters, my toes curled into the sheets; when …show more content…
I have come to appreciate not only the incredible experience I have had reading those words, but also the technique and the skill that the authors utilize to create it all. But even now, when I come across that perfect combination of words, it doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing, the familiar feelings still creep up: shoulders tense with fear, toes curling up, nose itching with the telltale sign of oncoming
Onto my bed.
Outstretched above my head, I held the book--tonight it was The Tale of Despereaux again--like a trophy, taunting my brother as he breathlessly skidded to a halt just inside the doorway to my bedroom. The smirk spreading across my face was well justified because tonight my dad would be reading to us in the comfort of my own bed rather than my brother’s tiny bunk beds.
Maybe it was the sound of my dad’s voice, or maybe it was the feeling of being squished together in one bed, or maybe it was the funny shadows cast by the bedside lamp that morphed into characters acting out the plot, but something about those bedtime stories shifted my view on books.
At the time, my reading level consisted of fat cats that sat on hats, but my dad took it upon himself to introduce me to other books--novels, comics, Vietnamese stories--and reading became an entirely different experience. When Despereaux got thrown into the ominous dungeon beneath the castle, my covers were tugged up to my chin; when The Adventures of Tintin detailed his close escape from a band of gangsters, my toes curled into the sheets; when …show more content…
I have come to appreciate not only the incredible experience I have had reading those words, but also the technique and the skill that the authors utilize to create it all. But even now, when I come across that perfect combination of words, it doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing, the familiar feelings still creep up: shoulders tense with fear, toes curling up, nose itching with the telltale sign of oncoming