I used to hate English class.
It was the one subject I couldn’t “naturally” get an A in without doing extra credit. By the end of each semester from grades 7–9, I would always end up earning around anywhere from 87–89, and 89 was worse. It was closest to an A, and yet it felt the furthest.
But then in grade 11, after our class was assigned to write a personal narrative and I wrote a fictional story, my relationship with English changed. I showed what I wrote to my friends, a story about a party crasher who almost gets lucky with his crush until an unfortunate climax (or rather a lack of one), and they laughed at every page. I felt like a stand-up comedian who just killed a set.
Having seen what effect writing could have on others, I started reading differently. I read each new essay, short story, and book with the intent to deconstruct the mechanics and craft of other authors. I wanted to figure out how the magic worked.
I also approached writing differently. I no longer tried to write in a way style that “sounded smart” (overly complicated syntax and vocabulary), but just focused on what it was I was actually trying to say. I was writing to express myself, to convey a point of view, to explain a belief. I understood that those are the aims and objectives of writing — not earning an A.
Wanting to learn how to improve at the craft of writing, I chose to major in English. I tried to read everything we were assigned and I took every writing class I could whether creative or screen.
And I used to be the kid who hated English.
