The Obsession Not Found in Children

Zoya Burney                                                                                                    

Mrs.Mckinnon

RLA C/D                                                                                                         

23 September 2016

Word Count 533                                

               Heaps of papers lay scattered around the room all brimming with lines and lines of writing that were gibberish to all but a twelve year old girl. This twelve year old that was completely immersed in her writing just so happened to me.

              

Based on anyone’s standards, I was a writing addict. I would jump at any change to write, whether it be some ideas I had for my next big attempt at writing a novel, or simply listing items for a grocery list... My love of pen or pencil on paper came from the fact that I didn’t own a phone at then and I needed something to occupy myself with most of the time. I also used to receive letters from my grandparents once in awhile and you couldn’t reply to a letter with a phone call.

              

So I wrote and wrote and wrote, pouring my overflowing imagination onto hundreds of papers that ended up lying around my room. Some papers were sealed in envelopes and sent off to my grandparents, some were secret, and some were given to friends to read and comment on. Lines upon lines became journals upon journals.

           

Writing became, to an extent, part of my personality. If you got to know me, you learned that I loved to write. While sitting in class, I’d be writing a short story in the margins of my paper. While bored at a party, I would pull out a journal and pen from the depths of my large, striped bag and write an in-depth synopsis on what I wanted my next story to be about.  

           

As a person and a student, this helped me become more eloquent than most of the other kids my age, giving me an edge over them in English class. I could easily speak to adults and converse well in an objective manner, making me sound intelligent, whether I was correct or not.

         

Having grandparents that understood the importance of the written word inspired me to try out different hobbies. My passion leaked, beyond writing, into collecting pens and trying out calligraphy. I would send them all the copies of my work whether they were good or not. I once even sent them my attempt at using a sponge and paint to write about my tenth birthday. This was an attempt my now stained desk did not appreciate.          

            

Although communication has become faster, easier, and ‘better’, I still try sometimes to stick with the old, conventional methods; the excitement of receiving a letter is uncomparable to anything else. My grandparents taught me the significance of being able to write to someone and how much it can help you grow and shape yourself into a much greater person and to be perfectly honest, I have to agree with them.    

         

  So lo and behold, that twelve year old girl that was writing away like a fruitcake; has become a fourteen year old who still loves to scribble away and still loves to collect pens and compose letters. Although time has taken it’s toll, and I no longer have as many grandparents to write to anymore, nothing can take away the love of writing they’ve woven into my soul.