I'm writing about a teacher who I shared a really close relationship with. He was like a father/friend figure. He's one of those teachers who make you laugh all the time but means business when it comes to work and gives great advice on life in general (he was pretty old). I have my first paragraph down and I'm currently working on the second, someone tell me what you think!? Am I headed down the right direction? When I get into the mood of "story telling" I often have a hard time stopping and getting to the point, in this case how my teacher taught me how to appreciate writing and literature. What do you think?
What I have so far:
Sometimes, the best teachers that leave a lasting impact on our lives aren't the ones who teach us about a particular subject in school, but the ones we confide our innermost secrets and emotions in. They are the ones we run to for advice when parents don't understand, the ones we laugh with when we need a break from the day to day challenges of youth, and the ones we promise to add on Facebook once we walk the stage. They are the ones we consider friends.
I remember the first day of eighth grade, a look at my schedule that morning had me completely horrified. "Mr. Nalepa? For English, my favorite subject? You've got to be kidding me!" I felt sick, I knew I couldn't handle it, I couldn't handle him. I could feel my heart spawning a ruckus as I entered the classroom. He was just sitting there, motionless. The sudden sound of the bell foreshadowed torture. "Look to your left. To your left you will see a "do now". A "do now" in my classroom does not hold its literal meaning, for it is something you do on your time, not mine. Each day you will copy the prompt in your notebook specifically for my class, and each night you will write fifty lines about the topic. Anything more than fifty, extra credit. Anything less than fifty, zero. Oh but don't you worry, my zeros aren't so bad! They strangely resemble a smiley face." The murmurs, grunts, and gasps that filled the classroom then was anything but a matter of concern to the white haired man.
OH and one more thing (I noticed on the essay guidelines), what does "no longer than 120 eighty-character lines of text" mean!? How much can I actually write?
What I have so far:
Sometimes, the best teachers that leave a lasting impact on our lives aren't the ones who teach us about a particular subject in school, but the ones we confide our innermost secrets and emotions in. They are the ones we run to for advice when parents don't understand, the ones we laugh with when we need a break from the day to day challenges of youth, and the ones we promise to add on Facebook once we walk the stage. They are the ones we consider friends.
I remember the first day of eighth grade, a look at my schedule that morning had me completely horrified. "Mr. Nalepa? For English, my favorite subject? You've got to be kidding me!" I felt sick, I knew I couldn't handle it, I couldn't handle him. I could feel my heart spawning a ruckus as I entered the classroom. He was just sitting there, motionless. The sudden sound of the bell foreshadowed torture. "Look to your left. To your left you will see a "do now". A "do now" in my classroom does not hold its literal meaning, for it is something you do on your time, not mine. Each day you will copy the prompt in your notebook specifically for my class, and each night you will write fifty lines about the topic. Anything more than fifty, extra credit. Anything less than fifty, zero. Oh but don't you worry, my zeros aren't so bad! They strangely resemble a smiley face." The murmurs, grunts, and gasps that filled the classroom then was anything but a matter of concern to the white haired man.
OH and one more thing (I noticed on the essay guidelines), what does "no longer than 120 eighty-character lines of text" mean!? How much can I actually write?
