Tuesday, 13 November 2012

The Kangaroo

When I was seven, I wrote this story:
Once upon a time, there was a kangaroo. One day the kangaroo walked into town. The end.
And I drew a picture of a kangaroo to accompany it. The story, although I didn't know the word for it at the time, was meant to be ironic. Who ever heard of a kangaroo walking? Kangaroos hop! Needless to say, the irony was lost on my teacher, who, although she liked the picture, thought the story wasn't long enough.

There have been two other instances of teachers not understanding my stories. In Year 6 (aged 11) I spelt some words wrong on purpose to reflect how the characters were pronouncing them (which I now know to be called eye dialect). The teacher went through and corrected my spelling. In Year 7 (now at secondary school), I wrote a piece in the first person about someone who had been forgotten in detention and was bored and worried about being on a boring documentary or news programme. The student teacher who marked it said it was well written but it was a shame I found so many things boring. I wanted to tell her that it wasn't necessarily me who found those things boring but the character.

Apparently, my early attempts at writing were too sophisticated.

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