So, I'm sitting here, finally opening the AP Language and Composition book that I got at the beginning of the year (it's the day before the exam, people), and one of the first examples I stumble upon read:
People who knew American novelist Thomas Wolfe recall that he habitually roamed down the long aisles of the library stacks, grabbing one book after the other from the shelves and devouring its contents as if he were a starving man suddenly let loose in an immense storehouse of food. He wrote with abandon, turning out incredible quantities of manuscript, filling whole packing cases with the product of his frenzied pen.
This may just be my thoughts being used to procrastinating, but I thought I'd write a blog post about this little diddy of an example.
I hope some day -- decades, even centuries from now -- when people stumble upon my name in a book store, they are enthralled to the point that they want to know what kind of person could have written such a thing. I hope my imagination and my heart don't die with me, but live and thrive through my passion -- writing.
I hope I am remembered as the girl who reprimanded when someone said they had not read a certain book she loved. I hope I am remembered as the girl who had a sparkle in her eyes when she spoke of those books and the many others that held a place on her shelf, her dresser, scattered all along her desk. I hope I am remembered for the days I spent -- not wasted -- just reading or writing. I hope I am remembered for my ability to go beyond this world, into one my mind created. I hope I am remembered for my ability to make others see that same world and be affected by it in the same way I was. I hope that once my last breath is taken from this world, those worlds in my heart and soul will not be taken with it.
I hope people remember me as the girl who was not only devoted to her faith, but devoted to imagining.
This is what I aspire to be remembered for, reader.
People who knew American novelist Thomas Wolfe recall that he habitually roamed down the long aisles of the library stacks, grabbing one book after the other from the shelves and devouring its contents as if he were a starving man suddenly let loose in an immense storehouse of food. He wrote with abandon, turning out incredible quantities of manuscript, filling whole packing cases with the product of his frenzied pen.
This may just be my thoughts being used to procrastinating, but I thought I'd write a blog post about this little diddy of an example.
I hope some day -- decades, even centuries from now -- when people stumble upon my name in a book store, they are enthralled to the point that they want to know what kind of person could have written such a thing. I hope my imagination and my heart don't die with me, but live and thrive through my passion -- writing.
I hope I am remembered as the girl who reprimanded when someone said they had not read a certain book she loved. I hope I am remembered as the girl who had a sparkle in her eyes when she spoke of those books and the many others that held a place on her shelf, her dresser, scattered all along her desk. I hope I am remembered for the days I spent -- not wasted -- just reading or writing. I hope I am remembered for my ability to go beyond this world, into one my mind created. I hope I am remembered for my ability to make others see that same world and be affected by it in the same way I was. I hope that once my last breath is taken from this world, those worlds in my heart and soul will not be taken with it.
I hope people remember me as the girl who was not only devoted to her faith, but devoted to imagining.
This is what I aspire to be remembered for, reader.
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