Logically
or illogically, there is always some reason or a particular event that may
contribute to the forming of a hobby. According to this seemingly reasonable
theory, my preference for English writing has a long story to tell. In the
first place, I do believe that God may play a part in shaping a human being. Some
people were born with a unique ability or skill that assists him to outperform
others in certain tasks. Perhaps I belong to those few lucky ones who are
bestowed with more gift and wisdom. I have displayed amazing writing skills
even when I was a first grader in my primary school. While marking my diary, my
Chinese teacher was amazed at my choice of words and complex sentence patterns,
insisting that parts of my article was lifting from somewhere else, which made
me both frustrated and flattered. That’s when I first discovered my special
gift in writing.
Strictly speaking, it’s my father who guides me to embark onto the road
of reading and writing. I was born into a scholarly family. In our old house,
besides books, newspapers, and pictorials within my easy reach, what impressed
me most were bundles of old books neatly arranged on the beams of our rooftop. It’s
said that part of those books were passed down from older generations. On sunny
days, I would pick up a book at my convenience and seat myself on a comfortable
chair, assuming the posture of my father, thumbing through pages of colorful
pictures. What a crazy little reader! As I attended school, I found that I had
little interest in science. My poor logic thinking and reasoning ability
convinced me that my brain is not programmed for science. Thereby, I dismissed
my dream of being an engineer but concentrated all my attention on subjects of
arts, determined that I would make a good arts student in the future. Throughout
all my school years, I have been reading widely and profusely, assimilating and
making notes about beautiful paragraphs and enlightening thoughts and ideas,
all of which laid a solid foundation for my later writing. Meanwhile, I had
tried to put down my thoughts and feelings, but not very frequently. It’s not
until I took my first job in my hometown that I began to take my magical pen to
fulfill my fervent passion for English writing. As I repeatedly stated above,
my extensive reading with its depth and width, opens a door to a more magical
world where I can weave whatever story I like without any limitation of time
and space.
First, writing is a powerful way of dealing
creatively and usefully with my mood. It helps me sort out my thoughts and
makes my life more beautiful. Whenever I am upset or in a bad mood, I would sit
down in front of my desk, staring at a pad of blank paper, thinking long and
hard. After moments of adjustment, I would take up my pen and then thoughts and
ideas gushed out naturally from my mind, spilling over onto my notebook as my
pen moved elegantly across the paper. I put down whatever pours out of my mind
and meantime by contemplating and judging the day’s happenings, I gained a
better perception of people and things. At the end of the article, I always
feel as if I got totally enlightened by my own persuasion.
Second, writing, like its twin sister
reading brings me endless pleasure. Whenever novel ideas strike, I would take
out my notebook and make a preliminary sketch. I am a person of fewer words,
but whenever I sit down with my notebook, words and sentences would come
naturally from my finger tips. Compared with Chinese writing, I experience a quite
different feeling to record my life in this beautiful language, which gives me
much pleasure in capturing ideas, choosing words and expression and organizing
paragraphs logically and appropriately. It also gives me a great sense of
fulfillment after my elaborately-conceived article is completed and posted
online for sharing. Over the years, it has gradually become part of my daily
routine. When I am in the right mood, ideas and inspirations will spill out, welling
up like fountain. I will spend the whole day writing and perfecting until I am
satisfied. Addiction sometimes is not a bad thing.
Third, writing provides me with
something to focus on when I am confronted with tough challenges or unpleasant
happenings. Helpless or powerless, I would retreat myself to my den, spending
several hours on end in my small space, reading and writing, tracing back to
the simplicity and tranquility of my soul that had long lost into the clamorous
society. Pushing all troubles and stress away, my brain plays more actively and
merrily, as if regaining my babyhood calm and peace. As a result, my spiritual
journey prepares me well for my work and life.
English
writing has become my soul mate. For years, it has accompanied me through all
my turns and twists with its powerful healing effects. When I am happy, I
write; when I am sad, I write. When I am not writing, I would be reading; when I
am not reading, I would be contemplating life and its philosophy. In spite of
my efforts, I am still not much pleased with my writing skills. There is still
a long way ahead before I reach the rim of my dreamland. Half way on the road, I
will keep up my good work and charge all the way forward until I hit the final
success.
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