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Demarcus Neeley
MWA One
ENG 1101/ Warner
September 14, 2015

How Not To Kill A Mockingbird


There was a time when I loved reading and writing. However, there was a point where I
lost interest and enthusiasm. Multiple works inspired me to my own creative works. I started
my writing foundation in the second grade. It did not matter what genre or perspective any work
used. All I cared about was what great adventure was being told, what new philosophy sprung
about, or the creative imagination flowing into my mind. In my young age, I planned to become
a writer. Ironically, I knew exactly what I wanted to write. I knew what I wanted to do, and I
dedicated all my effort to that career path. Now, English writing is nothing but a nuisance.
Once I reached middle school, I prepared myself to take on any challenges in writing.
English class in sixth and seventh grade was not so bad, but it was no walk in the park. I
developed a vast vocabulary and new cunning ways to writing any category of English literature.
After the first two years, eight grade disappointed my expectations. My eighth grade English
experience was concentrated on reading comprehension and reviewing the basics of English
structure. This included subject verb agreement, prepositional phrases, and reading the most
terrible books ever created.
In eighth grade, we only wrote three essays throughout the whole year. I remember my
English teacher teaching me something that I will never forget. She said, Do not fill your
essays with fluff! Fluff was a term she used to describe unnecessary or unrelated details. She

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told us to apply this to reading books, writing essays, and in our daily communication. I was
rebellious in life and was an advocate for simplicity. I was the lets-cut-to-the-chase type of
male. Being that person, I thought this would make my writing easier. Unfortunately, it got ten
times harder. Each essay I failed because I lacked detail, enthusiasm or expression. Also,
they were a major part my overall grade. I still maintained an A by passing the quizzes and tests.
Later, the time for final exams were upon the students. The English final exam was not
like others where you had to take a test on collective knowledge. My class had to read a book in
class and the test over the book would be considered twenty percent of our grade. I, honestly,
tried to forget every book I read and writings I wrote. I wiped most of them out of memory, but
To Kill a Mockingbird remained as an agonizing scorn to my interest. This book was not
chosen to be the worst I have read. It just so happened to be the worst I have read. This book
consisted of fluff, unrelatable symbolism, and a title that has nothing to do with the plot. The
final exam was not a multiple choice test nor was it free response. It was an essay on the
symbolic meaning of the mockingbird in the book. Me, being the arrogant genius during that
time, I gave my honest answer. I failed it; it did not concern me. I had a 96 in the class. I got a
zero and a phone call to my mother, but I still passed with a 88.
Four years ago, my high school career began, and my writing perspective was tarnished.
I will say that there were some perks along the way. However, my experience with English
worsened. The books were not the exact problem. Some books made me enjoy reading and
others made me truly sick. In my freshman year, the contradictory fluff lied in everything I
saw. This was the same problem I faced in middle school. Everything I read had fluff. Every
textbook, literature, and even my favorite films just seemed unnecessarily filled with fluff.

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Throughout my second and third year, I did not try to attempt writing my essays.
Everything I wrote seemed pointless. I was willing to sacrifice my grade just to prove how much
I hate it. Yes, I was failing on purpose. My third year English teacher noticed my refusal to
writing. One day, in a heated argument, she made a deal with me. She claimed that if I could
get an 100 on my last essay of that year she would replace all my lowest test grades with 100.
Easily, I won that bet. She had three other teachers grade my work, I still received the same
grade. However, this victory was not satisfying. I still felt empty with writing.
In my senior year, things changed my style of writing. My psychology teacher asked
me why my writing was so terrible. I told him, I hate writing. I told him my past of writing as
I did in this paper. He said, I see the problem and I also heard about the whole debacle last
year. He claimed that when I was younger I was a happy writer He defined it as a writer is
always optimistic or an advocate of a politically correct side. The teacher said, Try writing for
the dark side". You are rebellious. Show it in your writing style, too Since that talk, I have
started looking forward to writing assignments. I see them as test to tempt my nature.
Now, as a writer, I will never want a career in my English. Writing standards all have a
oxymoron. For example, I hear Nobodys perfect, and, then, hear practice make perfect. To
sum this up, I hate writing... to an extent. I was once a boy with aspirations to be the next big
author. Now, I am a college student just hoping that I get an A on every essay turn in. There is
something about opposing others that fuels my commitment to writing. Nothing really makes
sense, but I am happy that I can get a kick out writing again.