When I was in middle school, my social studies teacher asked me to enter a writing contest, I said no without thinking. I did not love writing. My family came from Brazil, so English was only my second language. Writing was so difficult and painful for me that my teacher had allowed me to present my paper on the sinking of the Titanic by acting out a play, where I played all the parts. No one laughed harder than he did.
So, why did he suddenly force me to do something at which I was sure to fail? His reply: "Because I love your stories. If you're willing to apply yourself, I think you have a good shot at this." Encouraged by his words, I agreed to give it a try.
I chose Paul Revere's horse as my subject. Paul Revere was a silversmith in Boston who rode a horse at night on April 18, 1775 to Lexington to warn people that British soldiers were coming. My story would come straight from the horse's mouth. Not a brilliant idea, but funny, and unlikely to be anyone else's choice.
What did the horse think, as he sped through the night? Did he get tired? Have doubts? Did he want to quit? I sympathized immediately. I got tired. I had doubts. I wanted to quit. But, like Revere's horse, I kept going. I worked hard. I checked my spelling. I asked my older sister to correct my grammar. I checked out a half-dozen books on Paul Revere from the library. I even read a few of them.
When I handed in the essay to my teacher, he read it, laughed out loud and said, "Great. Now, write it again." I wrote it again, and again and again. When I finally finished it, the thought of winning had given way to the enjoyment of writing. If I didn't win, I wouldn't care.
✍️ 续写要求 · 两个段首句
🧭 段首句① A few weeks later, when I almost forgot the contest, there came the news.
🧭 段首句② I went to my teacher's office after the award presentation. ＋ 正能量升华