In my first year of high school, I was SO excited. I couldn't wait for english lessons because at my primary school I'd been pretty clever and got all the stars for writing tasks. And I was sure that I'd do just as well here too, plus we'd be looking at (then) "grown up" books and it would mean I was really clever.
Our teacher was called (for reasons of I don't want her recognised all over the world :p) Mrs P. And she was one harsh marker. We wrote homework every week and it was marked out of twenty. So I was altogether eager about this, sure I was going to get a nineteen on my first piece because I had put loads of effort into it.
I got a fourteen. Which (for some reason) equalled "inadequate" in Mrs P's books.
I was understandably upset, and vowed to do better each time, but never really advanced past sixteen (which meant "just about alright"). I dreaded english lessons, those which only months ago had been my sole reason for coming to school. It seemed like I could never impress Mrs P.
And then I realised-I didn't have to impress Mrs P. She wasn't going to make all the decisions in my life-I was.
So that is why I write. Because Mrs P didn't think it wasn't that great. But I thought it was perfectly fine with me, thank you very much. And that is all that matters. :D
So why do YOU write, oh fellow writer person?
Tatty bye, Paperbackmartha