When we write, we are often told to keep readers in mind and adjust our content according to their tastes and interests. But one reader in particular should not be forgotten. Can you guess who it is? When Russell Baker found the answer, he and others were surprised.
When writing, we are often warned that we should have readers in our minds, and what the author says must meet the tastes and interests of the readers. But there is one reader in particular who should not forget. Can you guess who it is? When Russell Baker found the answer to this question, he and others were very surprised.
Write for yourself
Russell Baker
Since I spent my childhood in belleville, the idea of becoming a writer has appeared in my mind intermittently, but it was not until my third year of high school that this possibility was realized. Before that, I was bored with everything related to English courses. I find English grammar both boring and difficult to understand. I hate it when my homework turns into long, lifeless paragraphs, which makes it painful for the teacher to read and painful for me to write.
Write for yourself
Russell Baker
Since childhood, when I was still living in belleville, my mind kept turning to the idea of becoming a writer, but it was not until I was in Grade Three that this idea became possible. Before that, I was bored with everything related to English class. I think English grammar is boring and difficult to understand. I hate those long and boring paragraphs. The teacher is tired of reading, and I write about pain.
When the third grade English class in our class was assigned to Mr. fleagle, I expected another unhappy year in this most boring subject. Mr. flegel is famous among his students for being slow and unable to inspire. It is said that he is very formal, rigid and completely out of date. In my opinion, he looks sixty or seventy years old, and he is too formal. He wears a pair of very serious glasses, and his curly hair is neatly cut and combed. He was dressed in a neat suit and tie hung stiffly over the collar button of his white shirt. He has a pointed chin, a straight nose, serious and correct speech, very gentlemanly, and looks like a funny antique.
I was ready to endure another boring year in this most boring class when Mr. fleagle attended our English class in Grade Three. Mr. fleagle is famous among the students because of his dry speech and inspiring students to be incompetent. It is said that his thoughts are rigid and completely out of date. I think he is sixty or seventy years old, and he is very old-fashioned. He wears square and unadorned glasses, and his curly hair is neatly cut and combed. He is wearing an old-fashioned suit, tie and collar button of a white shirt. He has a stiff pointed chin and a stiff straight nose. He speaks seriously, chooses his words carefully and is polite. He is a funny antique.
I'm going to spend a fruitless year with Mr. fleagle, and I haven't been disappointed for a long time. At the end of the year, we set about writing informal papers. Mr. fleagle handed out a piece of homework paper and asked us to choose a topic. Nothing is simpler than "what did I do in summer vacation", but most of them seem to be just as boring. I took the list home and did nothing until the night before the paper was due. Lying on the sofa, I finally faced up to this unpopular task, took out the list from my notebook and scanned it. The theme of my eyes is "the art of eating spaghetti"
I'm going to stay in Mr. fleagle's class for a year with nothing. As I expected, many days passed. In the second half of the semester, we learn to write a composition. Mr. fleagle handed out a piece of homework paper and gave us many topics for us to choose from. There are no silly topics such as "two or three things in summer vacation", but most of them are equally boring. I took my composition topic home and didn't write it until the night before I handed in my homework. I was lying on the sofa, finally facing this annoying homework, so I took out the composition list from my notebook and glanced at it. My eyes fell on the topic of "the art of eating spaghetti".
This title produced a series of unusual psychological images. One night in belleville, all of us sat around the dining table-Uncle Allen, my mother, Uncle Charlie, Doris, Uncle Hal-and Aunt Pat made spaghetti for dinner, and clear memories flooded in. At that time, spaghetti was a little-known foreign dish. Doris and I have never eaten spaghetti, and no adult has enough experience to cook it well. When I recall our laughing argument about the social etiquette of moving spaghetti from one plate to another that night, all the humor of Uncle Allen's family comes back to my mind.
This topic evokes a series of unusual pictures in my mind. Clear memories of belleville night flooded into my mind. At that time, all of us sat around the dining table-Uncle Allen, my mother, Uncle Charlie, Uncle Doris and Uncle Hal-and Aunt Pat cooked spaghetti for dinner. At that time, spaghetti was an exotic product that was rarely heard of. Doris and I have never eaten, and the adults here are inexperienced, and no one can eat. All the humorous scenes of Uncle Allen's house reappear in my mind. I remember that night we had a good laugh and argued about how to get noodles from the plate to our mouths.
Suddenly, I want to write down all this, and write down the warmth and beautiful feeling, but I want to write it down only for my own happiness, not for Mr. fleagle. This is a moment I want to recapture and keep for myself. I want to relive the happiness of that night. However, writing according to my requirements violates all the rules of formal composition I learned in school, and Mr. fleagle is sure to fail it. It doesn't matter. After I finish writing this book for myself, I will write something else for Mr fleagle. Suddenly I wanted to describe all this and the warm and beautiful atmosphere at that time, but I wrote it down just for my own enjoyment, not for Mr. fleagle. It was a moment that I wanted to recapture and cherish in my heart. I want to relive the happiness of that night. However, writing as I wish will violate the rules of formal composition I learned at school, and Mr. fleagle will certainly fail. It doesn't matter. After I finish writing for myself, I can write something else for Mr. fleagle.
When I finished writing, it was already midnight, and I had no time to write a decent article for Mr. fleagle. The next morning, I had no choice but to hand in my belleville Dinner Story. Two days later, Mr. fleagle handed back the corrected papers. He handed out all the papers except mine. I was about to accept the order to report to Mr. fleagle immediately after school and accept the disciplinary action. At this moment, I saw him pick up my paper from the desk and knock on the door to draw the attention of the whole class.
When I finished writing, it was already midnight, so I didn't have time to write a decent article for Mr. fleagle. The next morning, I had no choice but to hand in the belleville Dinner Story I wrote. Two days later, Mr. fleagle sent back the revised composition. He distributed all other people's compositions except mine. I will be scolded by Mr. fleagle as soon as school is over, but I saw him pick up my composition from the table and knock it on the table for everyone's attention.
"Now, children," he said. "I want to read you an article. This book is called "The Art of Eating Spaghetti"
"All right, children," he said. "I want to read you an article. The title of the article is: "The Art of Eating Spaghetti. "
He began to read. My words! He is reading my words aloud to the class. More importantly, the whole class is listening. Listen attentively. Then someone laughed, and then the whole class laughed, not scorn and ridicule, but heartfelt happiness. Even Mr fleagle stopped for two or three times, holding back a stiff smile.
So he began to read. I wrote it! He read my article aloud to the class. What is even more incredible is that the whole class is listening to his lecture and listening attentively. Someone laughed out loud, and then the whole class laughed, not contemptuously, but happily. Even Mr. fleagle paused two or three times to suppress his stiff smile.
I try my best to avoid showing happiness, but what I feel is pure joy, because it proves that my words have the ability to make people laugh. In the eleventh grade, at the last minute, I found a mission. This is the happiest moment in my whole school career. When Mr. fleagle finished writing, he said, "Children, this is a paper. Don't you understand? This is-don't you understand-this is the essence of this article, don't you understand? Congratulations, Mr. Baker. "
I try not to show my pride, but I am really elated to see that my article can make others laugh. By the eleventh grade, that is, at the last minute, I found what I wanted to do in my life. This is the happiest moment in my whole school career. After reading it, Mr fleagle said, "Look, children, this is the article. You got it? That's-you know-that's the essence of prose, okay? Congratulations, Mr. Baker. " His words immersed me in happiness.