Personal essay

Topics: Creativity, Writing, Creative writing Pages: 5 (2258 words) Published: October 2, 2014
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 somthing 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 kids opinion of writing" stories out there (or maybe not...I 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 adu, let's get this thing started, shall we? When I was a child, I never enjoyed writing vey 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 non-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 frustering 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. In an attempt to put this barbaic 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 reazlize 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 devlish smirk on her face (the devilsh smirk on her face was due to the fact she had a huge mole on her nose that gave her the appearence of a witch from a children's story, or perhaps she really was the devil..looking back, I am leaning toward the latter explanation), "I 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 all? 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 consistintly 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 point, but do not fret, reader..things 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...
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