Back up and running
I'm in not one, but two creative writing classes this semester. I've been taking a break from writing since I beat NaNoWriMo in November, so apologies for the lack of life. I've been doing more rping than anything else. It's fun writing out stuff with friends, don't judge me.
Anyway, this is once again in use for my professor, so you'll be seeing a lot of nonfiction pieces. And, if there's any poetry I write that I don't absolutely hate, I'll put it up here too. And of course, anything else, if I write it. Anyway.
Below you'll find a couple instances of beginnings, a list of endings, and a short piece about a body part (in this case, my neck). I also make notes to myself.
In high school, I’d look at everyone around me, envious of their strengths. I had friends that were good at science, others at math or history. English had always clicked, for me, and I usually dominated a discussion in the classroom. But I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I’d just sort of idly answer, “Write,” when I was asked. Fake confidence. About my junior year, however, sitting in an English class, writing a speech about the different types of fiction - I realized how passionate I actually was about this topic. That yes, I did want to spend the rest of my life putting words on a page for people to read. I finally had my own strength, but it was in such an odd branch. The school didn’t know how to handle it. There were no creative writing classes. It usually prepared students to go to a prestigious school with all honors. Many graduates went to an Ivy League school, or went on to follow in their parents’ footsteps to become doctors, lawyers, and politicians. It was terrifying, at first, to be the only one I knew to answer “writing.” To explain to my family that I’d like to write books - a field that looked both simultaneously easy and impossible to break into. But at the same time, something about it appealed to me - the struggle of forever being dissatisfied with your work, always wanting to improve. Sitting, staring at the screen, thinking for literally ten minutes or more about the proper word choice, just one word I could use to properly describe what was going on. The plan for the rest of my life started with a simple, convenient response.
This experience happened to me quite recently: Last week, in fact. But, to backtrack: As I’ve focused on pretty much every final writing assignment for a class (much to my reluctance - I try for something else, but it always ends out turning into this), my dad died suddenly and unexpectedly around 2:30 AM on December 24, 2009. I used to think my journey into adulthood began there - without a parent to rely on, I’d have to start pulling more weight around the house. And I did. (stopped)
Endings in my Life
- Sitting in free period, losing one of my best friends. She confronted me, and it was incredibly anticlimactic.
- Dad dying - the end of some part of me. The real ending was when we spread his ashes - that man couldn’t fit in that little bag.
- The end of high school (worst period of my life). I thought it was sophomore year, and in a way, it was, but it didn’t really happen until Dad died.
- End of my need to help everyone - sophomore year in college. Ties into my slow change into a more reserved, introverted person.
History of a certain part of your body (either my neck or my ankles. If there’s time, try both).
Direct, immersive. No long intro.
When I was two, three years old, I stepped on a hive of water wasps at our cabin. I have no idea what I was doing - probably hopping around with stick swordfights, as I was prone to. I’d opened my mouth to scream, and. Well.
To top it all off, I was allergic to stings from any sort of bee - wasps, hornets, yellow jackets, you name it. Our cabin sits in the Middle of Nowhere, and the nearest hospital was an hour away. Apparently, my Dad was going ninety down the dirt roads, making sure I always had a popsicle in my mouth to ease the swelling. Like most people, I did have a gag reflex, so I couldn’t get the most affected area. My father had to battle both not crashing into anything at ninety miles an hour and also making sure his little sweet pea - who was howling like a demon and whose throat was bloating up something fierce - was keeping the damn popsicles (which she hated) in her mouth. I’m never really sure the paranoia about my throat comes from, but I’m pretty confident in pegging that as one of the triggers.
It continued as I grew - an irrational fear of people touching my neck. Mom would squeeze my shoulder or rub my back, and suddenly her thumb would slip a little too far up and I’d flail away in a panic, before I even realized what I was doing. I’d then apologize profusely, because she usually came out hurt (either by smacking her arm away or just emotionally), and I’d spend the next half hour assuring her that no, she was fine, and thank you very much for being concerned, this is just me.
If I know it’s coming, then I can usually brace myself. There’s always a shudder, but it’s better just to know. In high school, one of my best friends ran up to me and tried to get my attention by tapping my neck. He found himself nearly decked for his efforts. We both stood there in horror after I barely restrained myself from going apeshit, gaping at each other with huge eyes. I eventually managed to squeak out apology after apology, hoping to Whatever was out there that he wouldn’t decide that I was some psycho he needed to avoid. Bless his heart, he was very gracious about the entire thing - I hadn’t actually hit him, I’d just whirled around and started reacting, and he managed to hop back in time to avoid my panicked thrashing. Still, to this day, he’s very careful about tugging or tapping my arm to get my attention.
(next time, try to use something that has a specific moment)
Anyway, this is once again in use for my professor, so you'll be seeing a lot of nonfiction pieces. And, if there's any poetry I write that I don't absolutely hate, I'll put it up here too. And of course, anything else, if I write it. Anyway.
Below you'll find a couple instances of beginnings, a list of endings, and a short piece about a body part (in this case, my neck). I also make notes to myself.
In high school, I’d look at everyone around me, envious of their strengths. I had friends that were good at science, others at math or history. English had always clicked, for me, and I usually dominated a discussion in the classroom. But I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I’d just sort of idly answer, “Write,” when I was asked. Fake confidence. About my junior year, however, sitting in an English class, writing a speech about the different types of fiction - I realized how passionate I actually was about this topic. That yes, I did want to spend the rest of my life putting words on a page for people to read. I finally had my own strength, but it was in such an odd branch. The school didn’t know how to handle it. There were no creative writing classes. It usually prepared students to go to a prestigious school with all honors. Many graduates went to an Ivy League school, or went on to follow in their parents’ footsteps to become doctors, lawyers, and politicians. It was terrifying, at first, to be the only one I knew to answer “writing.” To explain to my family that I’d like to write books - a field that looked both simultaneously easy and impossible to break into. But at the same time, something about it appealed to me - the struggle of forever being dissatisfied with your work, always wanting to improve. Sitting, staring at the screen, thinking for literally ten minutes or more about the proper word choice, just one word I could use to properly describe what was going on. The plan for the rest of my life started with a simple, convenient response.
This experience happened to me quite recently: Last week, in fact. But, to backtrack: As I’ve focused on pretty much every final writing assignment for a class (much to my reluctance - I try for something else, but it always ends out turning into this), my dad died suddenly and unexpectedly around 2:30 AM on December 24, 2009. I used to think my journey into adulthood began there - without a parent to rely on, I’d have to start pulling more weight around the house. And I did. (stopped)
Endings in my Life
- Sitting in free period, losing one of my best friends. She confronted me, and it was incredibly anticlimactic.
- Dad dying - the end of some part of me. The real ending was when we spread his ashes - that man couldn’t fit in that little bag.
- The end of high school (worst period of my life). I thought it was sophomore year, and in a way, it was, but it didn’t really happen until Dad died.
- End of my need to help everyone - sophomore year in college. Ties into my slow change into a more reserved, introverted person.
History of a certain part of your body (either my neck or my ankles. If there’s time, try both).
Direct, immersive. No long intro.
When I was two, three years old, I stepped on a hive of water wasps at our cabin. I have no idea what I was doing - probably hopping around with stick swordfights, as I was prone to. I’d opened my mouth to scream, and. Well.
To top it all off, I was allergic to stings from any sort of bee - wasps, hornets, yellow jackets, you name it. Our cabin sits in the Middle of Nowhere, and the nearest hospital was an hour away. Apparently, my Dad was going ninety down the dirt roads, making sure I always had a popsicle in my mouth to ease the swelling. Like most people, I did have a gag reflex, so I couldn’t get the most affected area. My father had to battle both not crashing into anything at ninety miles an hour and also making sure his little sweet pea - who was howling like a demon and whose throat was bloating up something fierce - was keeping the damn popsicles (which she hated) in her mouth. I’m never really sure the paranoia about my throat comes from, but I’m pretty confident in pegging that as one of the triggers.
It continued as I grew - an irrational fear of people touching my neck. Mom would squeeze my shoulder or rub my back, and suddenly her thumb would slip a little too far up and I’d flail away in a panic, before I even realized what I was doing. I’d then apologize profusely, because she usually came out hurt (either by smacking her arm away or just emotionally), and I’d spend the next half hour assuring her that no, she was fine, and thank you very much for being concerned, this is just me.
If I know it’s coming, then I can usually brace myself. There’s always a shudder, but it’s better just to know. In high school, one of my best friends ran up to me and tried to get my attention by tapping my neck. He found himself nearly decked for his efforts. We both stood there in horror after I barely restrained myself from going apeshit, gaping at each other with huge eyes. I eventually managed to squeak out apology after apology, hoping to Whatever was out there that he wouldn’t decide that I was some psycho he needed to avoid. Bless his heart, he was very gracious about the entire thing - I hadn’t actually hit him, I’d just whirled around and started reacting, and he managed to hop back in time to avoid my panicked thrashing. Still, to this day, he’s very careful about tugging or tapping my arm to get my attention.
(next time, try to use something that has a specific moment)