From a very young age, I wanted to be a writer. I had no idea what I wanted to write, but I knew I wanted to. My grandpa would take me to the library on a weekly basis, allowing me to check out books on wolves and other animals that I thought were "cool" as a six year old. I would make my parents read me Kipling's Jungle Book in order to fall asleep, and then dream about being raised by wolves. To this day I'm not quite sure why I was so interested with wolves; it was kind of a weird obsession actually. For whatever reason, though, this interest inclined me to read more complex novels at an inappropriate age, such as Jack London's White Fang and Call of the Wild. Of course, I had no idea what I was reading. The words were entering my brain but nothing was truly registering. The only reason I even attempted to read these books was because of my dad's raving about them. After all, he named his first German Shepherd "Buck" after the heroic dog from Call of the Wild.
Once I hit middle school, my wolf obsession had been long gone. By this time I was reading novels by Ned Vizzini, and other authors that my English teacher, Ms. Emerson, suggested. Each book that she shoved in my face turned out to be impossible to put down. I read and wrote more throughout middle school than I have at any other point in my life because of that woman. In fact, it was because of Ms. Emerson that I was introduced to poetry.
Before Ms. Emerson's classes, I imagined poetry as a few rhymes on a piece of paper that some old man or woman became famous for. Then I was introduced to Robert Frost, who did in fact fulfill my stereotype for a poet, but was also much more than that. It may have just been my love for The Outsiders, but for some reason I fell in love Frost.
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