I became a decent writer after 7th grade. The school year had just ended and the neighborhood kids and I were out and about throwing a football around. We weren’t reckless hooligans at the time, however we weren’t particularly careful either. The last football throw I had made that summer had been my longest, tightest spiral to date, but also my least accurate as I watched it soar and smash into the manager’s house window. That was my first and last day of summer vacation that year. My step-dad grounded me for the entirety of summer break, not even granting me freedom for my birthday in the dead middle of summer. Days became weeks as I sat on my bed, not a thing to do. T.v., games and even the other parts of the house became off limits to me. When the boredom became too great, I finally picked up one of the books from my library called “Goosebumps”. From that day forth I became an avid reader. I read for pure enjoyment. As one would expect, as my reading skills improved, so did my writing. I had teachers doubting the authenticity of my work, believing it to be plagiarized or written by others. In the end, I am thankful for that summer, for if not for that period of solitary confinement, I may have never learned of the joys of getting lost in a book.