Essay on a story told by my grandmother

It was a summer day and I was a rising senior. Despite the whipping wind driven by the A Train, the burning atmosphere still rendered me breathless in the underground train platform. I quickly stepped into the train and dropped down in a seat. I closed my eyes and rested my head on the board. Then, I immersed into inevitable sleepiness. But suddenly, my ambition to score a higher score on the SAT flickered in my mind. I rubbed the tightness on my temples and I reluctantly took out a SAT vocabulary cartoon from my school bag. Meanwhile, a group of friends who also had summer school at City College saw me and walked toward me.

I am only at Tip #2 and can already feel my “inner writer” coming back to life. I’ve been torturing myself for so long — many new ideas and perspectives to share and nothing but dread at the thought of the actual writing. I was always such a “good student”, and by the time I finished grad school I no longer enjoyed either reading or writing. Pretty sad statement, even sadder that the ill effects have lasted three decades.
The only writing advice I’ve read so far basically boils down to: it’s work, you just have to do it, set aside a specific time and force yourself…. all about as appealing as my mother’s shoe leather lamb chops. I can’t thank you enough for your approach. I think it’s going to work for me, and just know I am immensely grateful beyond what words can express. Yes!

Essay on a story told by my grandmother

essay on a story told by my grandmother

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