High School

Ninth Grade:
Big academic push this year. Gotta go for that college gold. As my dad keeps reminding me, “now it counts”. I try to focus, but everything is a shiny object. Interesting as geometry might be, my imagination has much more captivating scenarios. What if my friends and I went downtown to Chicago, only to get mugged upon arriving? Well, naturally I would use the element of surprise to punch the gun out of his (or her) hand, tie him (or her) to one of the seats on the El, and we would all go for celebratory Dunkin Donuts. Suddenly: “and if you multiply the convex angle by twelve degrees, you would get your total of one hundred-eighty”. So goes my learning process.

English is the one class I find I can stay out of my own head in. I believe that was the weirdest sentence ever created right there. But it’s true. From Odysseus’s perilous journey across the world to Gene Forrester’s confusing journey of perspective, it all had value to me. Real meaning.
Freshman year felt like the beginning of my journey.

What makes someone a great writer?
A passion for words? Creative ingenuity? Enough free time? A unique voice? The ability to express life’s situations? A sense of humor? A sense of humility?

Word I can’t stop thinking or enjoying:
Artistic.

Tenth Grade:

Imagine a train wreck. Let’s not talk about tenth grade.

Junior Year:

It’s difficult to articulate my Junior year in more than phrases, so here it goes. A year of reflection and revision. Improving that GPA. Wearing sunglasses. Increased organization. ACT, not bad. Losing some bad friends. Discovering my interests. Didn’t come out on top, but doing okay.

English class is a separate timeline. My papers vary in their quality, and by default in their grades, but it has little to do with outside influences. It’s much more of an internal thing. But what that is exactly, I can’t say. Does it matter how well I understand the writing prompt? Or should I just keep writing my own understanding?