Personal Narrative Of My Writing

I sat there in the hard seat of my desk and waited patiently. The scent of bleach was overwhelming in the room, but I knew by the second week it would be covered up by the smell of musty children and chalk dust. I could not wait for my new teacher to stroll up to me, eyes full of amazement, and give me my paper. I had worked hard on it for nearly a month during the summer prior to this new school year. My writing skills were top-notch, of course. Looking around the room at my new classmates, it was easy to tell who had done the summer assignments, and those who were scrounging around in the back of their minds for a believable excuse as to why they had not produced anything after three months. My patience was wearing thin by this point. I
The moment I found myself sitting at my desk, confused and shocked at the grade I had been given. Being the egotistical brat I was at the time, my first thoughts were “This has to be a mistake, an obvious mistake.” I waited for the end of class, fidgeting in my seat every second, all the while reassuring myself that I could sort everything out. Finally, the bell rang loudly and after the rest of the students had shot out of their seat and headed for the door, I stood and walked over to her desk and politely inquired about my essay. She quickly looked over the first two pages then handed me back the essay with little enthusiasm. “Your writing skills need some work. You were going off subject quite a bit”, she informed me. With an ego my size, even the smallest of criticism hit me hard. I nodded and realized that I still had so much to work on, but I was oddly confident this teacher could help me. Mrs. Hoer was her name, and I began to respect her more than any English teacher I had prior. She showed me how writing is far more than just sitting down at home and trying to think of something profound that will impress a teacher. I learned that language can have endless meaning and give so much enjoyment for readers who take the time to analyze literature. Questioning an author’s credibility and their reason for writing a particular piece were things I had never been asked to do until her English class. Throughout my senior year in high school I learned more than I ever had in the class with her. The concept I had of how easy English was became shattered, and I found myself being far more open to new ideas and styles or writing. If I had not been transferred into AP English that year, I may have never gotten over myself, and would have never progressed as far as I