Write for yourself

Russell Baker

Since childhood, when I was still living in belleville, my mind kept turning to the idea of becoming a writer, but it was not until I was in Grade Three that this idea became possible. Before that, I was bored with everything related to English class. I think English grammar is boring and difficult to understand. I hate those long and boring paragraphs. The teacher is tired of reading, and I write about pain.

I was ready to endure another boring year in this most boring class when Mr. fleagle attended our English class in Grade Three. Mr. fleagle is famous among the students because of his dry speech and inspiring students to be incompetent. It is said that his thoughts are rigid and completely out of date. I think he is sixty or seventy years old, and he is very old-fashioned. He wears square and unadorned glasses, and his curly hair is neatly cut and combed. He is wearing an old-fashioned suit, tie and collar button of a white shirt. He has a stiff pointed chin and a stiff straight nose. He speaks seriously, chooses his words carefully and is polite. He is a funny antique.

I'm going to stay in Mr. fleagle's class for a year with nothing. As I expected, many days passed. In the second half of the semester, we learn to write a composition. Mr. fleagle handed out a piece of homework paper and gave us many topics for us to choose from. There are no silly topics such as "two or three things in summer vacation", but most of them are equally boring. I took my composition topic home and didn't write it until the night before I handed in my homework. I was lying on the sofa, finally facing this annoying homework, so I took out the composition list from my notebook and glanced at it. My eyes fell on the topic of "the art of eating spaghetti".

This topic evokes a series of unusual pictures in my mind. Clear memories of belleville night flooded into my mind. At that time, all of us sat around the dining table-Uncle Allen, my mother, Uncle Charlie, Uncle Doris and Uncle Hal-and Aunt Pat cooked spaghetti for dinner. At that time, spaghetti was an exotic product that was rarely heard of. Doris and I have never eaten, and the adults here are inexperienced, and no one can eat. All the humorous scenes of Uncle Allen's house reappear in my mind. I remember that night we had a good laugh and argued about how to get noodles from the plate to our mouths.

Suddenly, I wanted to describe all this and the warm and beautiful atmosphere at that time, but I wrote it down only for my own enjoyment, not for Mr. fleagle. It was a moment that I wanted to recapture and cherish in my heart. I want to relive the happiness of that night. However, writing as I wish will violate the rules of formal composition I learned at school, and Mr. fleagle will certainly fail. It doesn't matter. After I finish writing for myself, I can write something else for Mr. fleagle.

When I finished writing, it was already midnight, so I didn't have time to write a decent article for Mr. fleagle. The next morning, I had no choice but to hand in the belleville Dinner Story I wrote. Two days later, Mr. fleagle sent back the revised composition. He distributed all other people's compositions except mine. I will be scolded by Mr. fleagle as soon as school is over, but I saw him pick up my composition from the table and knock it on the table for everyone's attention.

"All right, children," he said. "I want to read you an article. The title of the article is: "The Art of Eating Spaghetti. "

So he began to read. I wrote it! He read my article aloud to the class. What is even more incredible is that the whole class is listening to his lecture and listening attentively. Someone laughed out loud, and then the whole class laughed, not contemptuously, but happily. Even Mr. fleagle paused two or three times to suppress his stiff smile.

I try not to show my pride, but I am really elated to see that my article can make others laugh. By the eleventh grade, that is, at the last minute, I found what I wanted to do in my life. This is the happiest moment in my whole school career. After reading it, Mr fleagle said, "Look, children, this is the article. You got it? That's-you know-that's the essence of prose, okay? Congratulations, Mr. Baker. " His words immersed me in happiness.