I have always searched for greater meaning in my life. I am perpetually anxious and bored. As a child, I found that reading took me out of my life and into lives I wanted to live. My fear of mediocrity nips at my heels and sends me running. Running leads to stumbling, and when I hit the ground the only way to rid myself of the shame is by writing. I must write like an addict must use. There is no high, I just get well. At an early age, I concluded that I was missing something vital, something that weighed enough to keep me grounded. The realization that I was deeply flawed took me on many paths that left me with more questions than answers. I became fearful that I would live out the rest of my life directionless. I was looking for something …show more content…
When I am out, I observe the world around me. My biggest fear is not having anything to write about, so I am always looking for material. I watch people, I talk to strangers, I read as much as I can. Every conversation, mistake, heartbreak, painting, and novel are stored inside of me. I pull from this place when I am writing. Sometimes it’s uncomfortable, but I always leave this place with a better understanding of myself and my writing. If I had not accepted writing as my passion, I would be living life on a surface level. I have struggled with overthinking my entire life, but when I am writing I indulge my bad habit. While writing, I feel safe imagining every possible …show more content…
Some days the words flow out of me naturally, other days I struggle to string together one coherent sentence. I am never satisfied with my writing. This is not a problem that is unique to me, anyone who makes art knows one is rarely, if ever satisfied with their work. I must remind myself every day that my desire for perfection is both unattainable and unproductive. I will never improve as a writer if I refuse to write out of fear of failure. I would not say my search has ended. I am still searching for my place in the world as a writer. I will continue to search for the right words for the rest of my
In the past three months I feel like I have accomplished a great deal. As the semester comes to an end I find myself reflecting not only how I have survived the first semester but also what I have learned. The most important thing I have learned so far is how to become a better writer. I did not think it could really happen to me. I did not think I could handle all the work. I did not think I could actually become a better writer. Some how after all the hours of writing, and putting effort into the papers that I wrote this semester, I became a better writer. I did this because I concentrated on two very important areas, with the attitude of, if I could just become better in those then I would become a better writer. With help from an awesome teacher and a reliable tutor I have become a better writer by improving my skills in the areas of procrastination and content.
I give in. My passion for writing is growing larger and larger each day, it has become the only thing I think about on a daily basis. It’s turning into a nuisance! I curse it to the back of my head every time it comes to fore thought. It twists my guts into an almost wrenching pain when I don’t have the chance to write something down on a piece of paper and make it my own. It forces the air from my chest as if I were a cartoon character with an anvil flattened. Where did I get this from, you ask? Let me tell you a story that explains my passion. Sit back, and enjoy the ride.
As these few tales reveal, my memories of writing are strongly connected with the intense emotions I felt as I grew up. They are filled with joy, disappointment, boredom, and pride. I believe that each of these experiences has brought me to where I am today. I can only look to the future and hope that my growth will continue, and my writing will reflect those changes within me. As a writer, I have grown immeasurably and will continue to so long as I can find some paper and a pencil.
When trying to think of a positive writing experience I have had in my lifetime, particularly as a small child, I could not think of any. So I began to ask myself why is it that I do not like writing, what happened in my life for me to have such animosity towards the act. I was finally able to think of an event and realized that it had all begun in the 3rd grade. One day, as a punishment for talking during class, I was kept inside during recess and was forced to write Wise Old Owls until my hands began to cramp. For 45 minutes, I was only allowed to write the same old phrase over and over again; “The wise old owl sat on an oak, the more he heard, the less he spoke, the less he spoke the more he heard, why can’t I be like that wise old bird”. To this day I can still remember that little rhyme and to this day I can remember that same feeling I felt as a elementary school student. From that point on I have always had an aversion for writing, it always seemed like a punishment. I still do not understand how people can journal. I don’t see how someone can sit down and write an entry or a novel just for the hell of it. It seems unnatural to me, but I guess that all of these feelings are just because I see writing as a punishment, an
I am sitting in my bed, thinking about my process of writing as I am trying to go through it. It seems the more I think about it, the less I understand it. When I am writing, I don’t think. Which I know, sounds bad. But, I spend every single moment of every single day over thinking, over analyzing, and over assuming every aspect of my life. When I’m writing, I’m free from that for just a little bit. Until of course, my hands stop typing or the pencil (no pens- never pens) stops moving, then I’m right back on the carousel that is my brain. Heidi Estrem says, “...writers use writing to generate knowledge that they didn’t have before.” (Writing is a Knowledge-Making Activity 18). I believe my ability to write without an exact destination
Focus, Capture, Develop, and Take another shot are hard concepts to grasp while growing up and maturing. Throughout every obstacle that I have faced whether personally, academically or socially I have had to remember to apply these qualities to my life daily. As a child the one person a girl naturally gravitates toward to be her protector and supporter is her father. I, on the other hand, did not have that experience with mine. My transition from childhood to adulthood began at the age of seven, when I was placed into an unfamiliar and chaotic situation. I had to learn how to capture the essence of life’s gifts in order to cope and thrive. My mom had decided that we would be moving to Texas from California, for a job opportunity she received
For the first six years of my life, I was a boy who savored going to school and seeing all of my friends. Then one day in first grade, during English class, that all changed thanks to a time were we had to read out loud. This day scared me for a while, and caused a fear in me that I wouldn’t let go of for about another eight years. Let me tell you first off, I was not at all the same person in first grade as I am today. For one thing, I was totally inconsiderate to any understanding of the reading system. I am writing about this event for the sole reason that it has changed the way I have live my life up to these recent years. Now that all of that is out of the way, I will continue with a story about a boy who overcame a reading and writing disability and turned it into motivation.
Throughout my college career I noticed how different my form of writing has become. When I came to this realization, it made me wonder why this is so. Is it that I am simply just writing a lot more than I have in the past? Is it because I am simply maturing as a writer and combining all the techniques I am picking up on my own? All these questions, along with many more, rambled around my head sounding like a resounding gong struggling to find a true conclusion. As the school year went on I came to find out the truth about why my writing has changed, which brought me to a rewarding conclusion.
By journaling, I can reflect upon the highs and low of my day and what could I have done better. I am able to free my mind each day, which allows me to center my thoughts. Now that I am doing counseling sessions, and my mom is very aware of the anxiety I feel when I bottle everything inside, she has the tendency to ask me “How was your day?” I proceed to be open and honest in order to no fall through the cracks of depression. Research suggests that creative therapy and expression of art is a great process for healing emotional behaviors. Stuckey and Nobel (2010) discuss topics on psychological and physiological engagements that can reduce anxiety, negative emotions, and other psychological states that are impacting individuals. Engaging in music, expressive writing, creative expression, and visual art therapy fostered positive outcomes of health and wellness. The way in which I have felt when I shut down compares to none. Currently, I enjoy releasing everything I feel on paper, which allows me to express myself in multiple ways. In the end, improving my communication skills and lowering my anxiety level is the ultimate goal I am trying to achieve. Hubbs and Brand (2005) states journaling allows the writer to gain the ability to connect internal processes with their external realities. The journaling process allows me to be open and self-aware of my actions and my perceptions on life. I have much to do
I have always considered writing to be a work in progress, and it constantly can be improved. I have always been devoted to writing. I loved to write stories as a child because I could use my creativity and create any type of character I desired. But I have struggled with writing as well. English has never been my forte. I have received A’s, B’s, C’s, and D’s on essays. I truly never found my voice in writing. In my high school, English teachers would give me mixed reviews on my writing. For example, in 9th grade my English teacher said I was organized with my thoughts, and my writing process was excellent. While in 10th,11th grade ,12th grade my teachers only said negative things about my essays. Not being a strong writer made me despise writing. Then I started to believe that writing is not important. I came to conclusion that writing is not important ,because I am going to be a Math major. I had the mindset that I am not a writer, and will never be a writer. But, my thoughts about writing changed when I started taking English at CSUN.
Writing has always been one of the things that I’m passionate about. Whenever I have something on my mind, I would jot it down or type it in my notes. No matter how small or pathetic it seems, I would always write it down, because you never know when you’re going to go back to it and create something grand, out of inspiration. People would think that a person like me would write down poems or novel ideas. That’s completely true, but I also write down recipes, grocery lists, hate lists and literally anything that comes to my mind. I’m the type of person that does not like to miss anything, forget anything and likes to include everything. People would say I’m a perfectionist or a control freak and as much as I would hate to admit that, it is true. While these traits of mine might hinder my writing process, during this school year I learned how to embrace them.
When I was younger, one of my favorite books was I'll love you forever. This book was very important to me because it was the first book that was ever read to me, that I actually understood. My mom read it to me practically every single night. It also made me really happy, because the story line of it was; even though you grow up, you will still be your moms little baby. Of course, when I was younger, I was like "It will be so long before I grow up, I have so many more years to come!"
Before you met me, I was a wreck and things were pretty heavy around me. But now, together, we are a beautiful wonderful wreck as our lives have been permanently intertwined whether we like it or not. Between you and me, there is always some sort of pushing and pulling. Most of the time, it consisted of me pushing you away and you pulling me back in from the depths of my own fear and anxiety. On my part that 's what makes you perfect for me. But we weren’t perfect together, we were far from it. There always something going on with me, even when I didn’t. I was always shrouded in some sort of a lie, a protective layer of myself that I don’t let people see. I never wanted them to see how broken and fucked up I truly was. So I only let them see
In my past experience with learning writing, I can group the ways I have been taught into three categories. I have learned by teaching myself how to write, have learned in an academic setting, and have learned through hands-on experience in a professional setting.
These past four years have really been a life changing experience. From a childish freshmen not only at school but at home too, to a still sometimes childish senior, one who knows when and how to control himself. This school and its teachers have taught me so many lessons that will not be forgotten any time soon.