blog 4
No one taught me to write. I just write. Funny thing is, I realized I don't really like writing, which is one of the reasons I'm no longer an English major. I'm good at it, but that's just not enough. It comes in handy in the rest of my classes. Since most of my teachers aren't writing teachers, they're easy to impress.
I've known how to read since I was four years old--my brother taught me. That was way back in the olden days when kindergarteners weren't taught to read. We just hung out and finger-painted for half a day so our mothers could relax for a minute. I think all that reading just naturally spawned writing. I can remember writing stories when I was eight. I don't know how good they were, and unfortunately, being a navy brat isn't conducive to collecting childhood memories, so I can't go back and look.
I'm going to whine for a moment. I understand that no one cares.
Am I the only one who tries to read these analyses and has them pass right through my head and fall on the floor? I understand them once we start discussing them in class, but I'm having an awful time focusing on them. I don't speak academese! (I just looked back on this blog, and there are 13 contractions...who knew?) I am trying. I am telling me that even though I may be convinced of my own perfection as a writer, I still need to read and somewhat understand these theories, since I am supposed to be helping other people improve their writing. If I sit all alone in a quiet room with a concentration subliminal in the tape player and read them out loud to myself, I might manage it. That's what I had to do with math.
Okay, all done whining!
I am more comfortable in my position as a tutor now that it has been a few weeks and no one has come in and thrown a tomato at me because they got a bad grade on my advice. I still help too much. I am practicing leaving my pen on the table. It comes more easily than I expected. I get absorbed in it, and then the tutee and I are just working on a paper together. I enjoy it.
Time to sign off and do my job.
I've known how to read since I was four years old--my brother taught me. That was way back in the olden days when kindergarteners weren't taught to read. We just hung out and finger-painted for half a day so our mothers could relax for a minute. I think all that reading just naturally spawned writing. I can remember writing stories when I was eight. I don't know how good they were, and unfortunately, being a navy brat isn't conducive to collecting childhood memories, so I can't go back and look.
I'm going to whine for a moment. I understand that no one cares.
Am I the only one who tries to read these analyses and has them pass right through my head and fall on the floor? I understand them once we start discussing them in class, but I'm having an awful time focusing on them. I don't speak academese! (I just looked back on this blog, and there are 13 contractions...who knew?) I am trying. I am telling me that even though I may be convinced of my own perfection as a writer, I still need to read and somewhat understand these theories, since I am supposed to be helping other people improve their writing. If I sit all alone in a quiet room with a concentration subliminal in the tape player and read them out loud to myself, I might manage it. That's what I had to do with math.
Okay, all done whining!
I am more comfortable in my position as a tutor now that it has been a few weeks and no one has come in and thrown a tomato at me because they got a bad grade on my advice. I still help too much. I am practicing leaving my pen on the table. It comes more easily than I expected. I get absorbed in it, and then the tutee and I are just working on a paper together. I enjoy it.
Time to sign off and do my job.
posted by Anonymous at 12:29 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home