As summer draws to a close,I enter my dream school successfullly.Being a new arrival,I like the subtle longing for my high school life,time.For the first time,I cannot get used get used to dorm life and often find it has been changde,We may be interruped by others and are required to comply with lost of rules. without my parents' watching over l,I begin to gain more time but still can't study well.Now I feel much stressed,I stop what i am doing and just sit and breathe.A sudden breeze comes in throught the window,which reminds me of a story about a realistic writer, Honoré de Balzac.
? Once upon a time,there was a boy called Honoré.The boy initially stidied in a grammar school,after having trouble adapting to the teaching style of that school,he finished school and was determinde to become a writer.He attempted to win a perents and insisted on going his own way
? However,the fruits of pursuit tasted bitter.Even living had proved to be a millstone aroud his neck,he didn't back down.At one time,his work was considered as rubbish His mother was required to go so far as to pay off his debts,but he ignored.He had only one thought on his mind:I have already got mothing to lose except my dream.
? Then,he got a job near the docks.His schedule of writing was from midnight to noon.That is to say,he was obliged to sit in his armchair for more than 12 hours,ceaselessly thinking and rewriting. After that,he would proofread from noon to 4 o'clock,afterwards went to bed at half past 5. usually he went to bed when he was exhausted by day only to awake and follow the same routine again the next day.
? Finally,the boy become a gread and reapectable man of letters,and kept on writing until his death.
? Here the story ends,but i am gravely occupirled with the memory of him.Assutedly,the story,the story of Balzac offers me some really gread life lessons.As for me, faced with difficlties,I will try hard to overcome them,adjust to the ups and downs of a new situation,briming with independence and strength.I firmly believe that i will start over like a blank slate, same as Balzac used to be.
