Authorship is exhibitionism, and readers a species of voyeur.

I have never been a good writer. I overuse words, insert useless punctuation, and lengthen paragraphs to excessive lengths. Yet for all my numerous faults, I love writing. It's a therapeutic outlet, so calming it's almost meditative. Before Non-Fiction Writing, I have never had much of a chance to experiment with writing. My voice had always been restricted to an objective, droning monologue perfect for scientific reports and historical analysis. I had to sound professional and mature in order to appease my teachers, but the writer they graded wasn't me.

I am a pestering and sarcastic prat. To those who tolerate and understand me, I can be occasionally humorous, but to those who frown at my quirkiness, I can be extremely vexing. (To the latter, I sincerely apologize.) This class has given me a chance to breathe and encouraged me to be myself despite the consequences. I can write whatever I want within reason. When it comes to creating blog posts, I enjoy myself immensely. The essays too have become a way to challenge myself to do something more. I have never been more honest and personal than I was in this class, and I hope the real me wasn't too much trouble to handle.

Lastly but not least, what's a good writing class without good reading choices? I'll admit that Mountains Beyond Mountains was a bit too righteous for my tastes, but The Botany of Desire quickly became a pleasant favorite of mine. It's unexpected yet refreshing, well researched yet effortless to read. If there was a writer I tried to emulate in this class, it would be Michael Pollan. Although essays are not my cup of tea (I prefer short posts and epic novels), The Art of the Personal Essay was strangely bewitching. It has become a book I can refer to time and time again, always finding something new to enjoy.

I thank you, Ms. Majerus, for giving me this opportunity to explore and expand. Even though I may never be a great writer, you have taught me to treat writing as a delight rather than as a skill, and that lesson has been invaluable.

P.S. Quote from Carrie Latet.

Zany Botany.

Nature has a strange way of lurking. It hides from the most ardent observers and flaunts itself shamelessly before others. It's so confident in its own beauty that the most casual of passerbys will find themselves enchanted by its boldness. I was such a spectator, one of the usual bunch of strutting teenagers who fancied themselves more adapted to the Internet and Super Smash Mario Bros than to the sunny and leafy Meijer greenhouse. My father, an avid recently-turned gardener, had dragged me unceremoniously to the flowering, buzzing, dripping, smelling, stifling, and sweltering plant-house. As I stood in a muddy puddle, silently cursing the lack of air conditioning, I clenched my hand around the book I had brought to comfort my foul-tempered soul. Oh look, it's The Botany of Desire, the irony.

I sulked down the aisles of blooming greens, swatting bugs left and right with my book. Pollan should be proud; his book might just "guide" an unsuspecting insect to une fleur provocatrice and kick off the next new flurry of botanical revolutions. You're welcome world, Annie's Tulip has just arrived, and bidding will start at $500. When I finally found a dried and semi-cleaned flat surface, I promptly flopped myself down and began my reading assignment. It was then when my eyes landed on the most gorgeous, extraordinary, and striking pot of plant named poa pratensis, or, as it is more commonly known, Kentucky Bluegrass.

Despite being the plainest and most modest plant in the greenhouse, the Bluegrass beckoned to me like a siren's song. Its unvaryingly green shoots barely swayed in the occasional breeze, and, if a plant could seem content, the Bluegrass would be positively humming as it basked in the sunlight. It was still relatively young judging by the shortness and tenderness of its shoots. I was overcame by a desire to run my hand over its sprouts. Would it be as smooth as I imagined, or would it be pleasantly bristly? My latter expectation turned out true. The grass was prickly, almost shyly so. The morning dew still lingered; when I pulled my hand away, a residue of soil and water clung to my fingers. Strangely enough, I didn't mind.

When I asked my father to let me plant some Kentucky Bluegrass seeds in an unclaimed corner of the lawn, he hesitantly agreed. I had never expressed much of an interest in gardening before, so he was justifiably concerned. I went ahead anyways, using the conventional shovel-and-seed method enshrined by novice gardeners around the world. Whether my seeds will ever poke their verdant heads through the dirt remains to be seen, but I can't help but feel a little giddy at the prospect of being partners with Nature. This little botanical patch of mine may not yield any vegetables or flowers, but that doesn't make it any less valuable to me.