The most important step before taking the wheel for writing is to turn on my music, inspiring my mind and energizing it for the journey to come. I look on to the road and turn off to the freeway, ready to venture forward on a frontier paved by words. I wish it were always so easy as to just follow the lines and structures given to you, but then there are always hundreds of cars going the same direction-- some less graceful than others. Their individual journey is not important in regards to mine, and so all I can is focus on my lane and continue on.
Without further delay, I review my thoughts, plant my hands on the keyboard, and go watch “The Matrix” instead. I've been driving for the past two hours, so how much could a pit stop hurt? I'm
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There is always a path back to where you were, or signs that can guide you down a better path. The fog is clearing, and reflecting on what I already have accomplished helps guide my next steps. I relax a bit as I go along, paying more attention to my music and enjoying the smallest things about the travels, until I'm right where I belong again. The freeway is more clear, but I can see night approaching and clouds rolling in.
Using every ounce of will and focus confined within my consciousness, I return to my realm of literature, fully prepared to describe the literate process of me writing- but then decide to read history instead. Once I finish that, the grotesque fear of working at McDonald's all my life pulls me back to my laptop to write once more. I put on the five hour Final Fantasy XV soundtrack in the background and begin the journey forward into learning about Black History for literature. Hopelessly procrastinating is hard work, and so I go ahead and make dinner for myself before inevitably returning to the
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I feel the motivation pushing me forward, and I can see my exit in the horizon. Despite the setbacks, a paper has been formed. I question the contents of what I have pieced together, as the destination wasn't quite what I expected. I'm unsure of whether it is actually good or not, for I'm no resident of this frontier. It is too late for doubt now, though stopping by a few friendly faces to ask what's good or bad will certainly make for a much more enjoyable evening. The hours on end of driving for the paper had me frustrated and blank at times, but it would not be my journey without those moments. Each car follows the same road, but each has their own odyssey, and their own
Tytell, John. “The Joy of On the Road.” On the Road. Text and Criticism. Scott Donaldson, ed. New York: Viking, 1979. 419-430.
My literacy journey began long before I had actually learned how to read or write. While recently going through baby pictures with my mother, we came across a photo of my father and I book shopping on the Logos boat, a boat that would come to my island every year that was filled with books for our purchasing. Upon looking at this picture, my mother was quite nostalgic and explained how they began my journey to literacy through experiences like this. My earliest memory of experiencing literature was as a small child. My parents would read bedtime stories to me each night before I went to bed. I vividly remember us sitting on the bed together with this big book of “365 bedtime stories for 365 days” and we read one story each day until we had
Unable to dispel the notion he was being stalked by a hidden fiend, he crossed to the other side of the road, so as to give himself an unobstructed view of the rooftops, while continuing his journey. Then he saw what he dreaded most; a predatory apparition, unmistakably human in form, flowing stealthily across the rooftops like a creature of air. In the grip of fear and isolation, he struggled to articulate his scrambled thoughts. Believing he was being pursued by a supernatural being, he damned his fate in the conviction of his own innocence.
Cherish The heavy clomp walking sound that came from deep inside of the forest. He wishes he had never heard it. He wishes he could just pretend nothing is happening. It stops not too far from him, but all he can hear is his heartbeat thumping so hard within his chest.
I opened my eyes and was blinded by the piercing ray of light pointing right into my eyes, a massive headache was pounding my head, and all I could hear was the sound of a high pitched whistle. Until I hear something else. Voices? No. Not just that, but yells, cries for help, people sobbing.
Breath, taken for granted every second of everyday. It just happens, breathe in breathe out. Anything can be taken away in an instant. Eka a twenty three year old student has his first vacation since he started college to become a tectonic plate scientist. With his mother, papa, two sisters, and a newborn baby boy.
Writing and reading are two essential skills that we need to have in order to succeed in any field of study that we have chosen. Without these two we would not be here, wouldn’t be writing right now and would be considered the lowest class of our society. There are different aspects of writing that each of us may, or may not, excel at. Some of us are creative enough to write short stories or even novels on fiction while others, like me, are better at writing essays. To accomplish this we have all had a person to inspire us, to drive us, to get us over the hump of confidence that we need to succeed. Still to be successful we need to count on ourselves to succeed.
Writing is something that comes to some as a talented ability, yet others as an inconvenient burden. It’s just one of those things where “you either have it, or you don’t.” Within composing, one can express their feelings and emotions through mind-blowing subtle details. The reader can grasp the elements within a story, to where it practically feels as if they are living it themselves. Writing can be an unwinding strategy for some, a method of communicating feelings for others, or just essentially enjoyable.
Blacktop reflects on the rocker-panel of my car and its constant monotonous pattern has been following me for the past 200 miles. The mile markers on the side of the road stand like a line of obedient soldiers at attention to mark my way toward freedom and salute me when I pass. Eventually they become somewhat invisible because the beauty of the background wins my competitive eye and draws me to its splendor. The copper-colored mountains mix with the purple base to form a contrast that compliments the sunset, and the road curves through the giant rocks as if God put His finger down and drew squiggly lines in the malleable sand. When I need to clear my head, I come here. I come to the place where I can valiantly chase down the horizon with the grill of my car—a perilous fight. Only the continuous double yellow line and the white line box me in. I hesitantly look in the rear-view mirror, and see the clouds hanging on the mountains like a smooth white cloth over the back of a crocodile. I pass by the large city signs on the road staring down each and move on like checking off boxes on a to-do list When my car hits just the right angle on the two lane road, the sun reflects on the dried and fresh bug carcasses and they become confetti to celebrate my commencement into my new world. The road knows where I am going, and because I come here so frequently, my tires glide in its parallel-like rails leading me safely to my destination. I don’t know where I am going, but all I know is that I have to get somewhere. I vanish into the calming sound of the wind through the sunroof, taste the mountain air on my tongue, and let the soundtrack of my journey syncopate with my heartbeat. I am miles away from a “home,” but the welcome mat of the ope...
The notebook assignment has been a challenging task in developing good writing habits and gaining critical awareness of myself as a writer. In this essay, I will talk about my original writing habits, the developments that have occurred in the notebook and explaining how these influenced my creative productivity. I was very optimistic when we were given the notebook assignment in our ‘Thinking like a Writer’ module. It was a chance for me to demonstrate a fresh output on my creativity, gain focus and insight into the technicalities of my mind.
Even as a child, my thoughts multiplied into stunning branches of ideas, each more complex than the last as they grew from the core of the tree that was my imagination. The notions arranged themselves into stunning pyramids of coherent phrases, eloquent and profound. But when the words came out of my mouth, they tumbled and slipped, vowels and consonants lost somewhere in the back of my throat as my tongue struggled to maintain pace with my mind. I felt an immense powerlessness. Writing was my only weapon against my villain, my struggle with speech.
“Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing and learn as you go.” (E. L. Doctorow) This quote really does capture the real meaning of writing. Each time you start with a blank page and work from there.
The writing process involves steps needed for individuals to become successful writers. The steps addressed throughout the writing process are prewriting, drafting, revising, editing, and publishing (p. 365). Individuals use these steps to help create, manage, and bring to life their piece of work. However, research suggests that these steps are demonstrated in a specific order during the writing process; many writers tend to “move across and back and forth” during the writing process (p. 365).
middle of paper ... ... d in an unknown surrounding and somehow I had become part of it. I welcomed the crash of an animal over my tent or the presence of the sand fleas. I journeyed into their environment a foreigner, and even in my most vulnerable stages of sleep, I had become an accepted presence. While on my solo I wrote a letter to myself.
At the end of my semester in EL170, I am left with a very similar feeling of nostalgia and a strange separation from my journey through writing. I look back at genres visited and works “completed” by our class, and I’m left with a sense of pride at how far we’ve come. And most likely I’ll never again visit where I’ve been, but that doesn’t mean that the memories of where I have visited won’t stay with me for a long time.