Personal Narrative: Without The Big Book Of Why

As a child I was incredibly curious. One year, at Christmas time, my grandmother gave me a book called Big Book of Why. At the time I didn’t realize how annoying I must have been, always asking why or how to any random fact my elders told me. However I’m glad I was such a nuisance because without that book I would have not had such an enjoyable introduction to reading. Without the Big Book of Why I would have never fallen in love with words at such an early age.
I fell out of love with reading when I was 12. It was my first year in the high school after being incredibly comfortable at my town’s intermediate school for four years. My teacher was a young woman, she smelled like fruity shampoo and her hair was smooth and silky. This was her

She was the dreaded freshman English teacher. She had long gray curly hair with lines of success around her eyes and mouth. It was common knowledge that she was the toughest of teachers in the entire high school; each incoming freshman heard the horror stories of her vigorous syllabus and firm grading policies. I had heard my share of warnings from experienced upperclassman that remarkably survived her class. Each nervous freshman walked into her brightly lit room with their faces exposing their deep concern for the upcoming year. I entered smiling, not as bewildered as my other classmates. Our first book assigned was Animal Farm, one of my favorite books of all time. I loved how she taught, even though she was quite difficult, she stressed the importance of reading and growing as an

I again fell back in look with books. I was reading whenever I could, in order to de-stress from my other academic stressors. I would go to the school library during lunch and flex hours and confer with the librarians on varies books. I blew through the classics like The Great Gatsby, To Kill a Mockingbird, Of Mice and Men, The Picture of Dorian Gray, and especially The Catcher and The Rye with ease. J.D Salinger’s writing sparked something inside of me. Her seemingly effortless style and her ability to truly capture the angst and alienation that teenagers, like myself at the time, feel. After reading that book I found myself searching for authors that were able to make me feel something more during and after reading their books.
I had a class with Scozzafava again during my senior year. At that point I was much more mature as a reader and person. However, this time she was teaching creative writing instead of English I. Although I was never a strong writer, I was confidant that Scozzafava would be able to help. Unexpectedly, I fell in love with poetry. I was amazed with how an author could convey meaning with such a short amount of words, something I ended up being able to do successfully by the end of the