从懂事起,我就读爸爸妈妈给我买的书,书给我带来了乐趣。那时的我,幼小的心灵便有了一个愿望:我也要写书,让小朋友们读了我写的书也和我—样快乐。怀着这个美丽的愿望,我爱上了写作文。我读啊写啊,可总没长进,总像一艘找不到航标的船,像一匹迷途的马,看不到航路,觅不到草场。我没有方向,没有办法,只是凭着自己的野性涂抹着,却抹不出一幅动人的画——我的作文始终踏步不前。我曾经彷徨过,这个愿望难道真的只是愿望而已? From the sensible point of view, I read a book that my father and mother bought for me. The book brought me fun. At that time, I had a desire for a young mind: I also wanted to write a book so that the children would read my book and be happy with me. With this beautiful wish, I fell in love with writing. When I read and write, I can’t grow up. It always looks like a ship that can’t find a buoy. Like a lost horse, I can’t see the route and can’t reach the grassland. I have no direction, no way, only with my own wildness, but I cannot draw a moving picture - my composition has always been stagnant. I once ran through it. Is this wish really just a wish?