Running Head: I am a Writer
I am a Writer Desirae Alcorn University of Kentucky
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Faced with a life full of uncertainties and unknowns, I had an extremely hard time coping
with the emotions and thoughts that these times faced me with. One day, I was introduced to something so simple, but so life changing by my third grade teacher, writing. By allowing me to think and reflect on my emotions, instead of screaming them out to the world, writing changed me into a better person, even when certain, heart dropping events in my life tried to do otherwise. Writing allowed me to be a functional person, and prevented me from shutting myself out from the world.
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As a child I was almost out of control. I was loud, rambunctious, over opinionated, and too hard to handle. I did what I wanted, and said what I wanted with little to no regard to how it made me look, how it made others feel, and who it made me as a person. Up until the age of twelve, I was sure to have no promising future, for no one could see how such a wild, loud, disrespectful child could make anything big of herself. It was then I was introduced to writing by my third grade language teacher. I was amazed by how just simple words painted pictures, and expressed complex emotions, MY words painted these pictures, MY words expressed these emotions. It was then that such a small thing changed my life, and began to teach me to be a new person. Though I had many discipline issues as a young kid, I was never challenged academically. As I grew up I excelled in my classes, had awe and respect for my teachers, and even achieved awards for multiple subjects growing up. The first day of school excited me, as seen in my smile on the photo on the left. I found joy in packing my First day of school, and very excited.
Picture by: Sherry Butler
backpack with the day’s essentials, preparing myself to march off to school, like the one pictured to the right. I strove to learn why things happened, and why they were
important, but nothing gave me the comfort, and calm serenity like writing did. At the age of twelve I made the decision to be on my school’s academic team, and was part of the “composition group.” It was a small group that, given a prompt, reflected on the issue and responded to it while analyzing
My favorite backpack, a Scooby Doo one I packed around for many years until it fell apart.
Picture by: Sherry Butler
their own opinions, and ideas. After many practices, and putting my new skill to the test, it was then I discovered my love for writing.
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I never knew how to properly express myself. When I was angry, I would yell. When I was sad, I would shut myself out from the world, and yell some more. The day my small, clumsy hands picked up the long, unsteady pencil, and began crafting what was soon to be my first masterpiece of barely legible, childish, scratch of handwriting on the canvas of lined paper, was also the day I began my journey to learning how to be a better person. The first step in my journey was learning the essentials, and exploring styles. Through being shown the extensive grammar, poems, and stories, I began experimenting with my own feelings, and started putting them down on paper. My insane emotion turned into words, my words turned into jumbled messes. My messes into phrases, my phrases into my own thoughts of the world surrounding me, beliefs as to who I could be in this life, and aspirations as to who I knew I would be. I had discovered a new best friend. This best friend was one that didn’t judge, and always had time to listen. This friend was always there, and always seemed to help me understand the situation I was in, and a good way to go about it. Somehow this small, thin, flimsy piece of paper accompanied with a pink, plastic mechanical pencil encouraged me to examine my feelings, and find who I truly was as a person, instead of shouting them out to world in the uncalled for ways I had been before. Because of this, I began to express myself in a much more dignified, mannered way. Writing seemed to open my mind, and show me who I truly was, and challenged my beliefs about myself. It helps me clarify the messes in my head, and makes my ideas more tangible. It allowed me to see the mess I was making of myself, and because of this, my future slowly began to change.
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I remember the day all my preparations and studying were to be put to the test. I found myself in a huge room, full of other scholarly children ready to put their writing in the hands of the judges, to be critiqued, scored, and place. We all sat, reviewing our skills and knowledge that we knew would be necessary, wearing the same bland t-shirts stating what school we had come from, and jeans, waiting for our time to compete. After entering a small, bland white- washed classroom, and sitting in the most uncomfortable desks for what seemed like an eternity, the most nerve-wracking statement was made. “You can now begin.” This was the middle school academic team regional competition, held at one of the three middle schools in my small town. Given a prompt, I was asked to read, analyze, and thoroughly respond to it in a very limited amount of time. At first glance, I wasn’t sure what I was going to say in response to show the judges I was worthy of being scored above the other writers surrounding me, but I then did what writing had taught me to do; Stop, put my thoughts down on the paper in front of me, develop those ideas, and go from there. After finishing, I had many doubts about the work that I had turned in, and wasn’t sure if it would meet the judge’s approval. Despite the doubt, I placed second at that competition, and advanced to state, where I placed twenty-ninth overall. My shaky confidence then boosted, and it was then I realized I had found something I not only had a passion for, but also a skill for. Since that day, I put the fate of my life in my writing, and it became something I found myself doing multiple times a day. When I needed to plan something, I’d write it down. When I was bored, I would scribble down anything that came to me in my notebook, and those scribbles would sometimes evolve into something more, like short stories, or poetry. But, then came a time
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of my life when I almost became dependent on writing. A time when thoughts came from a time much deeper than that of my young innocent thirteen year old mind; A time when my life was turned upside down. Being a daughter of divorced parents, I had always been a Daddy’s girl though I lived with my mom. I was always told I was a spitting image of him, and we got along much better than I did with my mom. I always counted on my dad to prepare me for the worst case scenarios, but I grew to love his pessimistic attitude as much as I loved him, and the majority of the time found it humorous. To me he was my dad, and saw no fault in the things that he did, and admired him to the fullest extent. I was then at an age where I understood the world, but didn’t fully understand everything. I remember the day still, as clear as anything, sitting with my sister and my mom, after she had come to us and said there was something serious we needed to have a talk about. My mom was always the type to have a smile on her face, but I could tell by the somber look that what she was about to tell her daughters saddened her, and it was at that point I was terrified. I stared into her face for a long time, and she finally took a deep breath, and in a slow, soft voice, told us something to this day I will never forget. “Girls, your dad has a serious problem. One you may not understand, and it’s not your fault. There’s nothing you could’ve done to prevent it, and definitely cause it. Girls, your dad is an addict.” I was fourteen years old, and though I didn’t know the hard facts of addiction, I did know enough to realize that my dad wasn’t who I thought he was. So many things made more sense, like the abrupt divorce my dad went through, and why my step-mom had taken my little brother
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so far away, and why my dad all of a sudden wasn’t his same, quirky self, and didn’t have time for things he used to do with us anymore. There was may people telling me they were there if I needed anything, but I found no better comfort than the open pages of the small, spiral bound notebook, the design of which agreed with the estranged, confused and sad thoughts of a young fourteen year old girl like the one pictured on the left. Though I know the pages couldn’t answer, I would write every thought of anger and hurt I would have, every question of why, and every feeling down without judgment, and there was no better feeling then than knowing I wouldn’t have to go a day without having this friend there that would always listen. Writing at that time kept me sane, and made me One of the many notebooks I scribbled my many thoughts into.
Picture by: Sherry Butler
realize there was a light at the end of what seemed to be an endless tunnel. As I look back now at those times in my life, many good, and some bad where writing has made an considerable impact, I couldn’t imagine
doing anything else but thank my third grade teacher, for introducing me to such a small thing, that completely changed my life, and something that I’m sure, will continue to keep me level headed as I continue to grow, and face challenges and things in life that I may not understand. In the future, I hope to convey to not only my kids, but because I’m an early education major, my students the art of which I’ve learned to rely on, with hopes that they’ll find the same relief in it that I did. Maybe, writing could save someone else’s life, just like it saved mine.