I love my English class, I love reading and love writing so a class where we analyze classical thinkers and then write our own conclusions drawn from them is pretty awesome to me. It is somehow still foreboding however.
Today we had essays do, a dialectic essay involving two out of a handful of readings we were assigned. It was a rather simple assignment, I personally wrote on the interaction of reason and character from Emmerson to Durkheim and their relation to the individual. Not exactly exciting but, I found it so. I'm rather odd like that.
We then broke up into small workshops, each workshop was of about three students. mine had five in it, only three had written essays. We reviewed our three quickly as the other two students had only written two or so pages each. This wasn't a bad thing but immediately after-wards I started rallying the group together and discussing next steps.
I started guiding their ideas, and helping them editing the structure of what they had or just improving upon what they had. I was acting like a teacher, didn't notice it until the professor walked up and kinda whistled as if she were impressed. I stopped, I was embarrassed.
I wan to be a writer, a writer with a degree in anthropology as I find both immensely interesting and passionate. However as my mom told me, and all my teachers in high school...and quite a few of my friends. I have these quintessential teacher-esque moments. My mother said I was doomed to become a teacher. i don't want to be though, she was a teacher and that reminds me of her.
On top of that...I would really, really, really like to be able to live comfortably. One of the most attractive aspects fo being a writer is the lifestyle for me. I don't want the teaching job. Well....what will be, will be. Hopefully things will work out and I'll be happy with them.
Anyways, that's how my day begins. Fore bodingly...and rather well actually. It's going great so far!
- An English Class...Why is it Foreboding?