I never liked English. It seemed a totally worthless class to me. Why would I care why someone wrote a book? What do all these themes really mean? Do they even matter? My greatest wish has always been for one of these so-called ‘acclaimed’ and ‘amazing’ authors (I will never know why John Steinbeck is considered great… horrible writing) to come up to an English teacher and say, “You really think all that’s in my book? I was just bored and wrote a story.”
But this year is different. Sure it has only been two days, but I love my English class. So far our days have been read, talk, write, listen to music, talk, write, read, write, talk, more music, more writing. It’s really laid back, I love to read, write and listen to music and the teacher is amazing. He’s quite a personality and definitely loves what he does, which really makes a lot of difference. I’m sure there will be more serious moments throughout the year and some more structured essays, but I really like English. I will never know why outgoing Seniors urged me to avoid this class at all costs. I’m stubborn.
