(no subject)
It’s a shitty characteristic to get stoked over shit that might not actually be that cool. Sadly, I’ve been trying to decide whether I want to drop my autobiography class, because it seems challenging and I don’t work well under intimidation. The median age in the class is probably somewhere around 45, and I forced myself to reconsider after wondering if my life at age 19 is interesting enough to be written and refined.
My mother never told me a single story about her father, so I stopped wondering about him around the time when I completed elementary school. As far as I knew, Grandpa X treaded among the ranks of other disappearing acts, such as Harry Houdini and Tupac Shakur.
I tried to complete the first homework assignment, but the second sentence stumped me because I don’t know anything about my roots or myself. It’s possible that I once “met” my silhouette of a maternal grandfather, perhaps he even made an appearance at Phelps Memorial Hospital on the day of my birth, but I never asked about him because something about my mother’s silence warned me not to.
At this point I don't know how to approach the creative autobiography; while it helps that I've been reading memoirs since the fall semester ended, the struggle of a budding writer is indeed frustrating as fuck. Recently I've noted a lot about the unexpected, and in class on Thursday night the professor asked us to write two pages about something that turned out differently than expected. That was great. What I wrote was not that great.
My mother never told me a single story about her father, so I stopped wondering about him around the time when I completed elementary school. As far as I knew, Grandpa X treaded among the ranks of other disappearing acts, such as Harry Houdini and Tupac Shakur.
I tried to complete the first homework assignment, but the second sentence stumped me because I don’t know anything about my roots or myself. It’s possible that I once “met” my silhouette of a maternal grandfather, perhaps he even made an appearance at Phelps Memorial Hospital on the day of my birth, but I never asked about him because something about my mother’s silence warned me not to.
At this point I don't know how to approach the creative autobiography; while it helps that I've been reading memoirs since the fall semester ended, the struggle of a budding writer is indeed frustrating as fuck. Recently I've noted a lot about the unexpected, and in class on Thursday night the professor asked us to write two pages about something that turned out differently than expected. That was great. What I wrote was not that great.