Fourth grade. Mrs.. Brownie’s writing class. 8:34 A. M. I can recount the exact time in which the joy of writing died for me.

I had Just been informed that due to my procrastination on our latest story assignment, I was to report to her classroom for lunch detention. But lunch was my time to relax and unwind and get all my pent up elementary school energy out on the soccer field. This brought up the issue that I had with the punishment. Recess was the one thing that I woke up for in the morning besides Bugs Bunny cartoons and Lucky Charms cereal. Now, recess was being taken away from me because of a paperI had to write.

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Detention that day was terrible. I chose to not write and Just sit In the cold classroom by myself. As a result, my punishment was extended to another day In detention or until I could write the paper.

The next day, lunch rolled around and with it came the call for all of the blacklisted delinquents to report to detention. I started trudging towards the caller of the marching orders, but instead something inside of me;maybe the little angel on my shoulder said “Hey Eric, you hate writing. Why are you going to skip recess to write? ” I never answered back, but right after thatI turned around, defying my Jimmie Cricket, and went outside to play soccer, leaving detention life behind for the time being I was Just another brick in the wall to my teacher, so it took a few days of my truancy from delinquency to garner any notice. Once my teacher did find out, however, all hell broke loose. I was sought after and found on the soccer field during recess by another student promising some award from the office and inconsiderateness’s to the detention room. Standing Outside the room was Mrs..

Browne, arms crossed, her genealogists all too evident and her Alice Cooper haircut resting on her linebacker-queue shoulders.I had been betrayed by one of my own platoon and I was terrified. Seeing her there made me realize the magnitude of what skipping detention had meant. I turned back to my friend, but the fink had already disappeared down the hallway. I was alone. I eyed the exits.

Blocked, locked and stocked with teachers standing guard. It was time to throw in the towel, wave the white flag, surrender, unless..

. The one trick I had up my sleeve. I had been saving it for awhile so it was bound to be a big one.

I instantly dropped to my knees and cried. I cried like I had never cried before.I was initially pleased with my performance, but apparently that didn’t cut it with Mrs.. Browne, and I was ordered to get up. When I got my wits about me, she sat me down and told me what was going to happen.

What was to happen was that I was going to get an Infraction which would lead to a suspension, and If that wasn’t harsh enough, with my parents inevitable reaction, I was also required to write that godforsaken paper. My parents came to PICK me up Ana Ana a long talk Walt teacher. What I learned later was that they discussed my blatant hatred for writing and how they were going to combat that.I think that if I hadn’t been punished for not writing that maybe I would still enjoy the practice. Later in the year, we had our annual TASKS English test which included an essay. It was recommended that the essay be close to two pages in length which seemed like a novel to my anti-literature mindset. I breezed through the fifty multiple choice questions by about 11 o’clock.

Then, it was Just me and the essay. We were fighting out. It was Me versus the pen and paper. Our duel resembled a Rocky movie in which I took abuse for 14 rounds, but fought back and scored an improbable turnaround knockout.The 15th round Just happened to be at about 5:30 p. M.

When I started to piece together my session a time in my life when I accomplished something. I wrote a made up story about how I won the Super Bowl with the Dallas Cowboys, since apparently they let 9 year olds on their team. When I was done I could not even remember the previous 6 and a half hours, but I finally got the paper done at approximately 6 o’clock, three hours after school had been let out. It’s a story that I like to tell people to demonstrate my stubbornness when it comes to writing but is not something I would ever volunteer to o through again or wish upon an enemy.After all that, I was promoted to the next grade with a cheap diploma, a hatred for writing and not much else. In high school, I barely squeezed by my English classes because I would choose to not do a majority of my essays and would end up at my deconsecrates the last days of the semester pleading for a passing grade or a chance at any extra credit. Then, my Junior year I inexplicably signed up for the school newspaper against the recommendations of my English teacher.

I am not sure what my thought process was when I was picking lasses, but if only I could go back in time… Swapper was my least favorite class for two years. The teacher would make us write article after article and I became disillusioned with the whole process and began to blow off the articles till about 30 minutes before we would go to press. What was strange was that I started to receive positive comments for my “down to the wire” articles. It turns out that I write better when I am under a time limit and am close to a due date.

My teacher, even with the positive comments, ordered me to write ahead of time to avoid mistakes and to stop undermining the process.I eventually told her why I hate writing, that it was a teacher like her that made it that way, and I quit the staff. English and newspaper teachers have come and gone and expressed their desire for me to move on and forget about something that happened in fourth grade and to correct my poor writing habits, but I Just won’t be able to, as writing took away the three things that I loved most, which were recess, time out of school after school, and comfortable wrists. I am just not sure if I will be able to recover from the emotional trauma that writing hastened me in time for me to pass my first writing assignment.