Even today, many people find reading and writing easy or perhaps even fun. On the other hand, I find writing more challenging than reading. It's never been as easy as math. I would walk into my math class, sit down, and literally learn everything in seconds, but English was a completely different story. Every time I entered English class, I had this strange feeling, like I was heading straight for failure. For me, I always imagined the classroom covered in my previous essays with a huge F on it, the walls dark red, the fog flowing a few meters from the ground and my chair distanced from everyone else as if I didn't adapt. Over the years I learned that it's not English that I hate, it's the fact that I never took the time and spent hours reading and writing for fun, but it never caught my attention. My family also tried to help me improve my skills. I remember all the deals and bets my family made to help. It was that time my dad offered my family “for every 30 minutes you read, I will give you a dollar.” I was about 8 years old at the time. Getting paid just to read? Who wouldn't want to take advantage of it. The memory of lying on the living room floor, with the alarm set for 30 minutes, and my brothers and sisters spread out on the floor with me. I always wrapped myself in a blanket like a burrito, under the living room table, on the old green carpet that had a strange floral design: that was how I spent my time reading. Focusing more on the clock instead of what I was reading was how it always ended. Not knowing or understanding what I was reading made that reading pointless, but getting that dollar made me want to read a little more. My sister usually got mad because after we finished reading she would ask me "what did you read?" Never understanding what I read, I always lied and used my imagination to make something up. Knowing that he would massacre my paper with his red pen for all the mistakes, misspelled words and incorrect sentences. Sometimes I feel like my teacher hates me for all the red marks after reviewing my paper. After seeing all the red marks I gave up. My teacher offered me help after school but being busy with sports and homework it was almost impossible to take advantage of the opportunity. The regret of not taking advantage of the opportunities I was given and not taking reading and writing more seriously really hit me. Even today the thought of the word essay reminds me of lying in my room on the black carpet, with my computer open and my office open and a puzzled look plastered on my face not knowing where or how to start. Read the agenda over and over trying to better understand what it needs to be