Sunday, February 3, 2019

Emotive Response to Essays -- Emotion Essay

In tenth grade, everyone in Mrs. Ds English var. had to write an essay on an American author. No one was genuinely given a choice in the matter, nor was anyone allowed the survival of choosing their author. That kind of option wouldnt have meant much to me anyway, seeing as I, like numerous sophomores in high school, had no interest in anything even remotely intellectual. Fates ubiquitous hand dealt me Sherwood Anderson, a man I had never heard of (nor did I frankly care to know about). disdain the clich one might expect at this point, research did nothing to deepen my apathy towards this essay. I wrote down the standard encyclopedic style living that defined the efforts of most of my fellow socio-economic classmates. After all of us were through and through embarrassing ourselves by reading said biographies in front of the class in the usual self-conscious manner that defines high school presentations, I felt no different. It was clear that Anderson cared deeply about the wo rk that he did in his lifetime, but I certainly didnt. The self-imposed mediocrity go along uninterrupted by tenth grade English, as I expected. curtly after this assignment, Mrs. D continued her Tenth grade English curriculum with a Unit on Appreciating Poetry which was equally if not slight exciting than the essay I had completed on Sherwood Anderson. The wizened and mayhap wigged (or so the rumors went) Mrs. D saw to it that our first assignment in appreciating the art of poetry was that we were all to write poems of our own and once once more embarrass ourselves in front of the class through recitation. Enter the sure protagonal change. My poem was quite short and completely free verse, of course. But as I wrote it, I started to care how it sounded in my head and when I re... ...g, I probably would not have listened. This was most certainly something that I had to serve to on my own. The only method to reach this plateau was piece of writing on my own, and as much as I co uld. The key realization existence that language was not some queenful structure that I could entirely tap into every now and again, but instead it was a repose of signs that were in my complete control and jurisdiction to manipulate in a way that would reach readers, and more importantly myself, in an emotional way. The power lay not within the words, but in my ability to employment them. In essence, these experiences with writing teachers did not affect me in and of themselves. The combined lessons on writing from all of my teachers, coupled with my own fascination with the power and potency of words and language, brought me to the point I am at now with writing as an integral part of my life.

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