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Essay by   •  December 13, 2017  •  Creative Writing  •  691 Words (3 Pages)  •  632 Views

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It's hard to specifically choose who or what inspired me. I know I can’t name one single person and award only them for being the reason as to why I write. I can’t list all the books I’ve read in my life that gave me a reason to turn the page.

Who or what becomes my muse is hard to explain, even if I have time to write down the words and have someone edit it over and over again. If I think about it, do I thank the book for giving me inspiration or thank the teacher or person who assigned me the book as homework? Do I thank the season for making me feel how kind nature can be? How can someone choose one thing as their muse?

Spring and Summer are seasons in my life that probably start making me feel all poetic and compassionate.

Spring instantly makes me think of love, and as much as it sucks to go through these feelings, I love writing about love and heartbreaks.

Summer in New Jersey can get really hot and dry, so I like staying indoors where there’s air conditioning. The best part of staying indoors during Summer is reading a great book and having the sun shine through the blinds while you lie down on your bed. Is it just me?

I remember as a kid, I read a lot of books, and although I never chose those books myself, I don't regret reading any of them. A lot of books I read in the early stages of my life were those that were assigned for summer reading or for class.

In elementary school, we all took turns reading out loud. I’ll sound like a nerd, but there’s no point in hiding it--I loved being chosen to read. Everyone had to shush and listen to me read, and I would be praised for reading well.

In middle school, students started to compete against each other on who is going to read first. I remember I started to like reading quietly at this point because slow readers slowed down the class. I understood not everyone could read quickly and clearly, but I still didn’t like how I had to slow down my pace when I could be on the next page already.

I remember reading high school books that were about learning difficult topics. They were controversial and debatable. This was a period of reading to yourself, because my classmates dreaded having a slow class. I remember feeling that if I can’t catch up to the other students, I would fall so far behind and I’ll disappoint myself and my family.

Even though my English class didn’t read traditional pieces of literature out loud, my theatre class would still read plays out loud. Because I went to a performing arts high school, it was expected for us to act out the plays we read.

Honestly reading all those plays paid off, because in university, a lot of my English literature classes talked about plays. Even now, plays are an important part of history and



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