What did you learn in this course? I learned that using the work I in your writing is ok, and i am not going to be arrested by the english department for doing so.
About the form of CNF? There are many different forms. In the beggining of class when we were just writing about us, almost like free writing, it was easy. But as we went on and introduced writing in epsiodes, or focusing on an object it got increasingly difficult.
What did you learn about how to write CNF? I learned that i could simply be creative. There were guidelines that i had to follow, but for the most part it is enjoyable. I learned that I love it.
About where to publish/find publishing venues for your creative writing? There is an array of places that I can use to send my writing. The list that was given in class, may it only be a small percentage, was a great help.
Did you change anything /try anything different in your writing process? Please describe. As mentioned before I got to write about me. I loved that, and i also got to really explore my psyche and try and figure out why i felt the way i did about certain things.
Which class assignments/class experiences helped you learn whatever you learned? The first two essays, and the journal writings. the journals helped me take apart my thoughts and really spend some time to reflect about situations that i have not really talked about.
What do you wish the course spent more time on?What do you wish we'd spent less time on?
I wish we spent less time writing about what we did to revise, i liked talking about it but not writing about it on my blog. I would have liked to spend more time journaling.
Right pace/schedule? yes
Coherence of material? yes
Workload => Too much, too little, just right? What would you change? Besides some of the blogs, everything was great.
Cover material appropriate to course goals? yes
Enough feedback for grades? most certainly
Which form of feedback was most helpful? sitting down and having conferences was a huge help!
Which did you enjoy most? class discussions
Any which you felt was unproductive? no
What would you do more of? journaling
What would you do less of? blogging
Did you feel the grading system was fair? yes
Did the grades/grading system contribute to learning? yes
Is there anything you could tell me that would help me teach a better/more engaging course? I would possibly have more class discussion and less blogging.
Anything you want to say about your experience of the course? it was great. i really enjoyed the class and am very happy that i was the only one left to sign up for. i would have been missing out.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Blog 22 ( revised essay)
Her laugh resembles mine, the way she speaks is just like me, and we both have the same smile. We share the need to wear our hearts on our sleeves; we speak our minds almost too much, and have blond moments just as often. We are smart, we are daddy’s girls, and share a bond that is unbreakable.
Several pictures a year are taken of the two of us together and they change drastically every time. There were pictures of us when she was little and I was looking at her with disgust, because now she was the baby and I was jealous, and as the years went on they changed again as we got closer. A picture can say so much about a person but it cannot tell you of their past. The picture above is the two of us at my Aunt Beth and Brandy’s baby shower. We were sitting in wooden chairs at the end of the dance floor watching them open their gifts. She was sitting a couple of inches in front of me because she was taking pictures to make a scrap book for our aunts. I remember looking at her, studying the way she moved, laughing because she placed her feet on the ground just like I did, even though she didn’t have the injury that cause me to do it. She held the pencil the same way as me, and when she stood up she wiggled her hips, as I always do because my pants never stay on. She seemed to pick up on the little things that I do, and made them her own little quirks; I wonder if she even realizes where she got them from.
Sometimes I wonder how it is that we are so alike. You see, I do not live with her; she lives with my father and her mother. When I was younger, we spent every other weekend and the summers together until I was about 14. Being that she is five years younger than me, there was not much that happened to us at the same time. Meaning I liked boys when she still thought they had cooties, and as I went through my teenage years, she was playing with her dolls still. I also was a different person whenever I was at the house in Pennsylvania. I never showed my true colors this only happened when I was in Jersey. So how do two people who are not around each other all the time become two peas in a pod?
Could it be the one undeniable factor that we share that makes us so similar? Something inside of us is the identical, science can prove it to be true, we share DNA. May it only be partial, it is there. Nature and science tells us that with in both of our bodies we possess the DNA of Stephen Quinn. It is the determining factor that seals the bond that we have; the law tells me that it is so. Yet “Blood”, whether it is half, full or none is not what makes us what we are. It is experiences, talks, hugs, fights, Christmas mornings, secrets, make-up, late night movie nights, and talks on the phone that last for hours.
Watching her at the party, realizing all the things that made us so similar, I decided I wanted to take a picture to document this time in our lives. I reached into my mess of a purse and looked around for my pink camera, which had silver marks all over it because of the chipped paint. I pulled it out, turned it on, and tapped my sister on the shoulder. When she turned around and saw the camera I did not even have to ask. She scooted her chair towards me and leaned up against my shoulder, this was our usual pose. Next she asked what she always does, “Funny or smiling?”; just another part of our routine. I replied with "smile nice." In a matter of 15 seconds there we were on the screen; two young women smiling just like each other, making a memory of that day.
This bond that we have is due partially because of what is written in the laws of science, but the largest contributing factor is choice. I do not live with her, have never gone to the same school, never had the same friends, and have not always followed the same rules. I could very easily just give her a hug and a kiss at holiday parties just to say hello, and have the occasional conversations when advice is needed; but we both made the choice to not go down that road. We chose to love each other unconditionally, to talk all the time, share our thoughts, hopes, fears, moments of excitement. She whether she realizes it or not made a choice somewhere along the road that she wanted to be like me in way; some of these choices she realized and some she did not. I chose to be there for her, and to try and be a good example. We are as close as we are because we want to be, not because we share some measly DNA. There are many people out there who do not feel the need to make this sincere connection in our situations, but we did.
I look back at this picture today as I am writing and I am proud; proud that we made the choices that we did and that she so much like me. I think about how much she has become her own person since this picture was taken is amazing; how strong she has become and how her talents have flourished. While there are many resemblances and shared characteristics between the two of us, she is one in a million and adds her own little tweaks to what we share. A picture can sometimes be deceiving, leading you to believe there is love when there is not; this will never be the case with us. Our smiles will always be genuine and our love will always be true. As we age and life changes our picture are bound to change, but one thing will always remain the same between her and I, we are Sisters by blood, and Best Friends by choice.
( there is a really good picture that goes with this esasy but stupid Kean computers will not let me post it, booooooo! )
Several pictures a year are taken of the two of us together and they change drastically every time. There were pictures of us when she was little and I was looking at her with disgust, because now she was the baby and I was jealous, and as the years went on they changed again as we got closer. A picture can say so much about a person but it cannot tell you of their past. The picture above is the two of us at my Aunt Beth and Brandy’s baby shower. We were sitting in wooden chairs at the end of the dance floor watching them open their gifts. She was sitting a couple of inches in front of me because she was taking pictures to make a scrap book for our aunts. I remember looking at her, studying the way she moved, laughing because she placed her feet on the ground just like I did, even though she didn’t have the injury that cause me to do it. She held the pencil the same way as me, and when she stood up she wiggled her hips, as I always do because my pants never stay on. She seemed to pick up on the little things that I do, and made them her own little quirks; I wonder if she even realizes where she got them from.
Sometimes I wonder how it is that we are so alike. You see, I do not live with her; she lives with my father and her mother. When I was younger, we spent every other weekend and the summers together until I was about 14. Being that she is five years younger than me, there was not much that happened to us at the same time. Meaning I liked boys when she still thought they had cooties, and as I went through my teenage years, she was playing with her dolls still. I also was a different person whenever I was at the house in Pennsylvania. I never showed my true colors this only happened when I was in Jersey. So how do two people who are not around each other all the time become two peas in a pod?
Could it be the one undeniable factor that we share that makes us so similar? Something inside of us is the identical, science can prove it to be true, we share DNA. May it only be partial, it is there. Nature and science tells us that with in both of our bodies we possess the DNA of Stephen Quinn. It is the determining factor that seals the bond that we have; the law tells me that it is so. Yet “Blood”, whether it is half, full or none is not what makes us what we are. It is experiences, talks, hugs, fights, Christmas mornings, secrets, make-up, late night movie nights, and talks on the phone that last for hours.
Watching her at the party, realizing all the things that made us so similar, I decided I wanted to take a picture to document this time in our lives. I reached into my mess of a purse and looked around for my pink camera, which had silver marks all over it because of the chipped paint. I pulled it out, turned it on, and tapped my sister on the shoulder. When she turned around and saw the camera I did not even have to ask. She scooted her chair towards me and leaned up against my shoulder, this was our usual pose. Next she asked what she always does, “Funny or smiling?”; just another part of our routine. I replied with "smile nice." In a matter of 15 seconds there we were on the screen; two young women smiling just like each other, making a memory of that day.
This bond that we have is due partially because of what is written in the laws of science, but the largest contributing factor is choice. I do not live with her, have never gone to the same school, never had the same friends, and have not always followed the same rules. I could very easily just give her a hug and a kiss at holiday parties just to say hello, and have the occasional conversations when advice is needed; but we both made the choice to not go down that road. We chose to love each other unconditionally, to talk all the time, share our thoughts, hopes, fears, moments of excitement. She whether she realizes it or not made a choice somewhere along the road that she wanted to be like me in way; some of these choices she realized and some she did not. I chose to be there for her, and to try and be a good example. We are as close as we are because we want to be, not because we share some measly DNA. There are many people out there who do not feel the need to make this sincere connection in our situations, but we did.
I look back at this picture today as I am writing and I am proud; proud that we made the choices that we did and that she so much like me. I think about how much she has become her own person since this picture was taken is amazing; how strong she has become and how her talents have flourished. While there are many resemblances and shared characteristics between the two of us, she is one in a million and adds her own little tweaks to what we share. A picture can sometimes be deceiving, leading you to believe there is love when there is not; this will never be the case with us. Our smiles will always be genuine and our love will always be true. As we age and life changes our picture are bound to change, but one thing will always remain the same between her and I, we are Sisters by blood, and Best Friends by choice.
( there is a really good picture that goes with this esasy but stupid Kean computers will not let me post it, booooooo! )
Monday, December 7, 2009
Blog 22
The Teacher's Voice, A Literary Journal for Poets and writers in Education, is the publication venue that I chose. At first I chose it because it seemed to be one of the only ones left, but after reading over what they are all about and the type of writing that is published, it was a perfect choice. Being a student who is going to into education I have always had very strong opinions on how the education world is being handled; and this journal allowed me to realize that I am not alone in how I am feeling.
The journal it self is a non profit organization. They have private funding and everyone who is working towards making it are all volunteers. The individuals who work together to compile this journal are all educators or grad students who are going to be headed into an education field. The whole magazine its self is online, due to high printing costs, and you can subscribe online by just giving them your e-mail. ( it took me less than a minute to do) Since they are all volunteers and their funds are limited there is no real publishing schedule, but they are looking to expand in the new year. Their mission statement or their reason for creating this journal is as follows:
( read allow, computer will not let me copy and paste)
On the website it self there are several headings that are posted. One being, is there a war on public education? If clicked on it will lead you to articles that have been posted by educators that are voicing their opinions towards the changes being made in education. One article that caught my eye was The Business of Education: Teachers Missing at the top, written by Helen Zelon. It is an article that explains the "changes" that Mayor Bloomberg is making for schools in the city.
( read a small excerpt of this allowed to the class)
Other headings read, A Genesis Poem ( will be read aloud to the class) , Vol.3 #1, which links you to other postings that have been made by educators show casing poetry, creative non fiction, short stories and essays. Back issues, links you to other volumes; and resource links which is self explanitory.
The publication venue is looking for writers who want to voice their opinions about the ever changing education world. Most of them share similar views that the teacher is not being aloud to do thier job, and that government needs to take a step back. This is a place where teachers can unite, and come up with solutions to all of the problems that are arising everyday. For as long as I can remember I have been taught that the government has tried to have its hands in everything, and these individuals are voicing their reasons as to why this needs to stop. It is a journal that is meant for teachers, parents, and students. You as an individual are asked to submit your work, thoughts and feelings. hopefully it will get published in one of the volumes, but if not any feed back helps out those who are constucting the venue. Education, with out it what hope can we have for america, is changing and not for the better; it is time for change, this is the voice of the magazine. It is a wonderful place for anyone who is connected to education and should be shared with everyone.
The journal it self is a non profit organization. They have private funding and everyone who is working towards making it are all volunteers. The individuals who work together to compile this journal are all educators or grad students who are going to be headed into an education field. The whole magazine its self is online, due to high printing costs, and you can subscribe online by just giving them your e-mail. ( it took me less than a minute to do) Since they are all volunteers and their funds are limited there is no real publishing schedule, but they are looking to expand in the new year. Their mission statement or their reason for creating this journal is as follows:
( read allow, computer will not let me copy and paste)
On the website it self there are several headings that are posted. One being, is there a war on public education? If clicked on it will lead you to articles that have been posted by educators that are voicing their opinions towards the changes being made in education. One article that caught my eye was The Business of Education: Teachers Missing at the top, written by Helen Zelon. It is an article that explains the "changes" that Mayor Bloomberg is making for schools in the city.
( read a small excerpt of this allowed to the class)
Other headings read, A Genesis Poem ( will be read aloud to the class) , Vol.3 #1, which links you to other postings that have been made by educators show casing poetry, creative non fiction, short stories and essays. Back issues, links you to other volumes; and resource links which is self explanitory.
The publication venue is looking for writers who want to voice their opinions about the ever changing education world. Most of them share similar views that the teacher is not being aloud to do thier job, and that government needs to take a step back. This is a place where teachers can unite, and come up with solutions to all of the problems that are arising everyday. For as long as I can remember I have been taught that the government has tried to have its hands in everything, and these individuals are voicing their reasons as to why this needs to stop. It is a journal that is meant for teachers, parents, and students. You as an individual are asked to submit your work, thoughts and feelings. hopefully it will get published in one of the volumes, but if not any feed back helps out those who are constucting the venue. Education, with out it what hope can we have for america, is changing and not for the better; it is time for change, this is the voice of the magazine. It is a wonderful place for anyone who is connected to education and should be shared with everyone.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Blog number 21
Going through Theils idea's for revision I decided to chose number one on page 90 which reads: Look at a short piece of your nonfiction. What details are most crucial to creating the tone of the piece? Are there any important details you can identify that need further elaboration?
I chose a piece of writing that we worked on September 14Th, I believe the prompt was to write about scars that we have on our bodies. I wrote to following
Left leg, to the right of my shin, lies a large circle that is a dim, pinkish, purple bruise. It is there every day of my life and has been for the past two years. When I get cold its color resembles that of a child who's lips turn blue because the refuse to get out of the pool. This scar on my body is more than an ugly marking that needs to be covered up every time i wear a skirt or dress. Looking down at my damaged leg is like an automatic flashback to the most frightening night of my life. The accident. This abnormality invokes fear into my bones, visions of terror, but also a feeling of safety; my friend may even call it a life saver.
The tone of this piece is a disgust with a scar on my body. I feel that this comes across by the way it is explained and the words that are used. Such as ugly, abnormality, and the fact that it needs to be covered up. These details are needed so the audience can truly understand that it is not supposed to be there, and I do not want it to be there.
To make this into a longer piece and to elaborate on the scar its self I would need an insane amount of details added. The description of the scar itself would need to be more elaborate, I could add what happens to it when I am hot, or right after the shower. Showing that when i change so does my scar. Also because I stated that it invokes fear, i would need to give examples of what i see when i have my flashback of that night. I could talk about what it looked like when it first happened, a couple days after, once it really began to heal, and other peoples reactions to it. I did an essay about scars for the first part of the semester, but now that I am looking at this piece and exploring how i could revise it; i think this would make an excellent essay choice for essay number four, or something along those lines.
I chose a piece of writing that we worked on September 14Th, I believe the prompt was to write about scars that we have on our bodies. I wrote to following
Left leg, to the right of my shin, lies a large circle that is a dim, pinkish, purple bruise. It is there every day of my life and has been for the past two years. When I get cold its color resembles that of a child who's lips turn blue because the refuse to get out of the pool. This scar on my body is more than an ugly marking that needs to be covered up every time i wear a skirt or dress. Looking down at my damaged leg is like an automatic flashback to the most frightening night of my life. The accident. This abnormality invokes fear into my bones, visions of terror, but also a feeling of safety; my friend may even call it a life saver.
The tone of this piece is a disgust with a scar on my body. I feel that this comes across by the way it is explained and the words that are used. Such as ugly, abnormality, and the fact that it needs to be covered up. These details are needed so the audience can truly understand that it is not supposed to be there, and I do not want it to be there.
To make this into a longer piece and to elaborate on the scar its self I would need an insane amount of details added. The description of the scar itself would need to be more elaborate, I could add what happens to it when I am hot, or right after the shower. Showing that when i change so does my scar. Also because I stated that it invokes fear, i would need to give examples of what i see when i have my flashback of that night. I could talk about what it looked like when it first happened, a couple days after, once it really began to heal, and other peoples reactions to it. I did an essay about scars for the first part of the semester, but now that I am looking at this piece and exploring how i could revise it; i think this would make an excellent essay choice for essay number four, or something along those lines.
Blog 19
Essay number four:
“Why do we have to go to another store today? We have gone into about ten already and the only thing that anyone has found are shells and candles, I am hungry” This was a typical statement from my brother whenever the girls had a shopping day on vacation, and I never quite understood why he still came along every time we went. Usually shopping days occurred after at least half of the family had got sun burnt and needed a day away from the sun. I was usually the starter of this, for I somehow always forgot to re-apply around the second day and had to spend time lying on a couch in severe pain. Yet this was how it went, long drive, food, play, burn then shop. Besides fishing shopping was one of my favorite things to do when we were all together. I found it amusing when the men would get angry, and when my step mom would get all worked up and frantic when one of us went missing, even though we were just on the other side of the store. This was my family, crazy lunatics all coming together to look at little nick-knacks that were thrown about the store attempting to find the best deal. At this point in the day it was getting to be about one so everyone was getting hungry and the boys were done, done, done and for them it was time for beach and beer. Now although I was leading towards their thinking I spotted something out of the corner of my eye that brought be back. There it was shoved behind a coffee mug that had some silly statement on it; it had twelve sides, four letters, and an engraving that probably took a mere twenty minutes to carve. It was a little larger than the size of my palm and shared my pale complexion, although I had a red tint due to the burn. It was simple and elegant; there was just something about it that spoke to me, so I bought it. It was 3.95, cost less than the McDonald’s breakfast that I had earlier that day. I showed it to my younger sister and she said it was pretty, my step mom also had the same reaction, but I knew to them it was just another object that could be collected from our vacations. To me though it was special, I knew it would serve more of a purpose then just a memory of shopping with the family that year.
The remainder of vacation went like this. I slowly began to heal so I managed to venture out into the sun again, but with heavy duty protection, and always had a t-shirt on hand. My siblings and I all just hung out, laughed, ate A LOT, watched movies, drank, and tried to put out of our minds the ending of this vacation and returning to work. No one ever wants to leave, not just because we aren’t working, but because there are seven of us in our family so to get us all together in one place takes a lot of effort, but means the world when it happens. Our last day arrived, we packed, doubled checked the house and headed back to reality. We all had something to bring home with us, shells, pictures, some scars from falling while intoxicated, and in the bottom of my purse wrapped in tissue paper was my souvenir.
As we rode home and I got tired of listening to music and playing games with the family, I rolled over and un-wrapped the gift I bought myself. Now in my possession it still held so much beauty I was not able to look at it and not smile. I felt calm holding it, this was a help specially the way my father happened to be driving at the moment, and it seemed to have a power that only I could feel. I could hold it in one hand, but chose to use two because I could not imagine dropping it, I held it close to me for awhile just thinking about the trip and feel asleep with it in my arms.
After a total of around eleven hours we finally returned home, I packed up the remainder of my things and got into my car to travel back to Jersey. I took a lot away from the trip but most importantly I had my special souvenir. I threw I pack into my purse to make my journey home and took it out once I was all settled in. I took a moment just sitting there on my bed looking at it, studying the detail, even though as I mentioned it probably did not take too long, and I envied who ever did the engravings. Then I took my pointer finger and traced the four letters that were written down the front. First two parallel lines with a small horizontal line in the middle, then a perfect oval with no mistakes, next a straight line with a moon half full attached to it, and the last one I traced went left, down, right, left, down, right. Four letters that were the main reason why I looked at this knick knack, they spelled out the word H O P E. A word that is very important in my life. For I have taught myself that no matter what has gone wrong in my life that the only thing that I can do is to never give up hope. Sitting there on my bed, sad to be home, this word and this artifact left me with a feeling of security. All that was left to do was the find a place to put it. All around my room there were items of sentimental value that I was sure to save, but most of the time I just threw around my room without care. I could not do that with this item, I needed it to be in a place that could always be seen, a place that was close to me, and a place that my cats could not get to. I peered around for a while and decided that my night stand would be the best place, so every night before I went to bed I would be able to look over at it.
For what felt like the 100th time I was sick again. I couldn’t breathe, my fever was spiking, and my whole body was in pain. It was a part of my yearly routine being sick all the time, but this year it was just too much. No one seemed to care anymore, because it happened so often, I was like the girl who cried sick. I felt like I had nothing and nothing could get better, until I rolled over and saw it. I had changed its surroundings a bit now there was a candle and a plastic flower that went around the base of the. Those four little letters again were there, and I started to feel better. Of course my insides were not magically getting better, but my spirit was lifting at I was at least able to sleep. From this point I am stumped! I do not know if because I have been out of it lately so I have writers block but I cannot figure out where to go from here. As always I have trouble with my focus, I know that it has to deal with , what in people lives keeps them going when things are bad. Other than that I am lost. HELP!
“Why do we have to go to another store today? We have gone into about ten already and the only thing that anyone has found are shells and candles, I am hungry” This was a typical statement from my brother whenever the girls had a shopping day on vacation, and I never quite understood why he still came along every time we went. Usually shopping days occurred after at least half of the family had got sun burnt and needed a day away from the sun. I was usually the starter of this, for I somehow always forgot to re-apply around the second day and had to spend time lying on a couch in severe pain. Yet this was how it went, long drive, food, play, burn then shop. Besides fishing shopping was one of my favorite things to do when we were all together. I found it amusing when the men would get angry, and when my step mom would get all worked up and frantic when one of us went missing, even though we were just on the other side of the store. This was my family, crazy lunatics all coming together to look at little nick-knacks that were thrown about the store attempting to find the best deal. At this point in the day it was getting to be about one so everyone was getting hungry and the boys were done, done, done and for them it was time for beach and beer. Now although I was leading towards their thinking I spotted something out of the corner of my eye that brought be back. There it was shoved behind a coffee mug that had some silly statement on it; it had twelve sides, four letters, and an engraving that probably took a mere twenty minutes to carve. It was a little larger than the size of my palm and shared my pale complexion, although I had a red tint due to the burn. It was simple and elegant; there was just something about it that spoke to me, so I bought it. It was 3.95, cost less than the McDonald’s breakfast that I had earlier that day. I showed it to my younger sister and she said it was pretty, my step mom also had the same reaction, but I knew to them it was just another object that could be collected from our vacations. To me though it was special, I knew it would serve more of a purpose then just a memory of shopping with the family that year.
The remainder of vacation went like this. I slowly began to heal so I managed to venture out into the sun again, but with heavy duty protection, and always had a t-shirt on hand. My siblings and I all just hung out, laughed, ate A LOT, watched movies, drank, and tried to put out of our minds the ending of this vacation and returning to work. No one ever wants to leave, not just because we aren’t working, but because there are seven of us in our family so to get us all together in one place takes a lot of effort, but means the world when it happens. Our last day arrived, we packed, doubled checked the house and headed back to reality. We all had something to bring home with us, shells, pictures, some scars from falling while intoxicated, and in the bottom of my purse wrapped in tissue paper was my souvenir.
As we rode home and I got tired of listening to music and playing games with the family, I rolled over and un-wrapped the gift I bought myself. Now in my possession it still held so much beauty I was not able to look at it and not smile. I felt calm holding it, this was a help specially the way my father happened to be driving at the moment, and it seemed to have a power that only I could feel. I could hold it in one hand, but chose to use two because I could not imagine dropping it, I held it close to me for awhile just thinking about the trip and feel asleep with it in my arms.
After a total of around eleven hours we finally returned home, I packed up the remainder of my things and got into my car to travel back to Jersey. I took a lot away from the trip but most importantly I had my special souvenir. I threw I pack into my purse to make my journey home and took it out once I was all settled in. I took a moment just sitting there on my bed looking at it, studying the detail, even though as I mentioned it probably did not take too long, and I envied who ever did the engravings. Then I took my pointer finger and traced the four letters that were written down the front. First two parallel lines with a small horizontal line in the middle, then a perfect oval with no mistakes, next a straight line with a moon half full attached to it, and the last one I traced went left, down, right, left, down, right. Four letters that were the main reason why I looked at this knick knack, they spelled out the word H O P E. A word that is very important in my life. For I have taught myself that no matter what has gone wrong in my life that the only thing that I can do is to never give up hope. Sitting there on my bed, sad to be home, this word and this artifact left me with a feeling of security. All that was left to do was the find a place to put it. All around my room there were items of sentimental value that I was sure to save, but most of the time I just threw around my room without care. I could not do that with this item, I needed it to be in a place that could always be seen, a place that was close to me, and a place that my cats could not get to. I peered around for a while and decided that my night stand would be the best place, so every night before I went to bed I would be able to look over at it.
For what felt like the 100th time I was sick again. I couldn’t breathe, my fever was spiking, and my whole body was in pain. It was a part of my yearly routine being sick all the time, but this year it was just too much. No one seemed to care anymore, because it happened so often, I was like the girl who cried sick. I felt like I had nothing and nothing could get better, until I rolled over and saw it. I had changed its surroundings a bit now there was a candle and a plastic flower that went around the base of the. Those four little letters again were there, and I started to feel better. Of course my insides were not magically getting better, but my spirit was lifting at I was at least able to sleep. From this point I am stumped! I do not know if because I have been out of it lately so I have writers block but I cannot figure out where to go from here. As always I have trouble with my focus, I know that it has to deal with , what in people lives keeps them going when things are bad. Other than that I am lost. HELP!
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Blog 18
Blog 18:list some places that have been important in your life; if possible, go to one of them and write in your writing journal about what you see => use this writing to create a blog entry where you use description to make a point/reflect on a realization (like McPhee). Do not state your reflection directly.
Swing set
My dads house
the frront porch
my car
The shower
Where can you go to breathe?
Theres a place I know about where the world does not exsist. It is quiet, warm, and safe. This place can serve many purposes to different people, it can be taken for granted or just the opposite, be a blessing. For me this is my escape. Surrounded by three walls and a curtain I am
untouchable. When I am here my senses are at their highest levels. The aromas in the air mixed with the hot steam take me far away from the outside world. Sometimes I just close my eyes and stand there allowing my senses to run wild. I smell the carribbean and feel thousands of sensual pricks of heat all over my body. Then quickly i am swept away to another location, I hear the sounds of a rain storm on a hot summer night and I wish i could stay. To ensure that nothing can interupt my moments of serenity i keep my eyes closed tight, for seeing my surroundings would take me away from my liquid fantasy. Everyday I am able to leave my world for awhile, forget about lifes day to day stresses and emerse myself in the delights of something so simple. I myself would never be one of the individuals who does not enjoy the simple things in life, for in these moments I am in heaven. That is until I run out of hot water.
Swing set
My dads house
the frront porch
my car
The shower
Where can you go to breathe?
Theres a place I know about where the world does not exsist. It is quiet, warm, and safe. This place can serve many purposes to different people, it can be taken for granted or just the opposite, be a blessing. For me this is my escape. Surrounded by three walls and a curtain I am
untouchable. When I am here my senses are at their highest levels. The aromas in the air mixed with the hot steam take me far away from the outside world. Sometimes I just close my eyes and stand there allowing my senses to run wild. I smell the carribbean and feel thousands of sensual pricks of heat all over my body. Then quickly i am swept away to another location, I hear the sounds of a rain storm on a hot summer night and I wish i could stay. To ensure that nothing can interupt my moments of serenity i keep my eyes closed tight, for seeing my surroundings would take me away from my liquid fantasy. Everyday I am able to leave my world for awhile, forget about lifes day to day stresses and emerse myself in the delights of something so simple. I myself would never be one of the individuals who does not enjoy the simple things in life, for in these moments I am in heaven. That is until I run out of hot water.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Blog 17, Essay 3
There is more to being sisters then blood.
Her laugh resembles mine, the way she speaks is just like me, and we both have the same smile. We share the need to wear our hearts on our sleeves; we speak our minds almost too much, and have blond moments just as often. We are smart, we are daddy’s girls, and share a bond that is unbreakable; we are sisters.
Several pictures a year are taken of the two of us together and they change drastically every time. There were pictures of us when she was little and I was looking at her with disgust, because now she was the baby and I was jealous, and as the years went on they changed again as we got closer. A picture can say so much about a person but it cannot tell you of their past. The picture above is us at my Aunt Beth and Brandy’s baby shower. We were sitting in two wooden chairs at the end of the dance floor watching them open their gifts. She was sitting a couple of inches in front of me because she was taking pictures to make them a scrap book. I remember looking at her, studying the way she moved, laughing because she placed her feet on the ground just like I did, even though she didn’t have the injury that cause me to do it. She held the pencil the same way as me, and when she stood up she wiggled her hips, as I always do because my pants never stay on. She was indeed my sister, there was no questioning it.
Yet I sit and wonder how it is that we are so alike? You see I do not live with my sister; she lives with my father and her mother. She is by definition my half sister, which means she shares half of my genetics. My dad is her dad, so in us we have his DNA; the only difference is that the other half of our makeup is from two different women. There is one difference we have. We also as I mentioned to not live together. When I was younger I lived there every other weekend and during the summers till I was about 14ish. My sister is five years younger than me so she was never going through the same changes I was. I also was a different person whenever I was at my dad’s house. My true colors and personality were only shown when I was here in Jersey. So how do two people who are not around each other very often become so much alike, I have no answer, but in my case we are spitting images of one another in looks and personality.
Blood whether it is half, full, none is not what makes us siblings. It is experiences, talks, hugs, fights, Christmas mornings, secrets, and a bond that no other individual could ever have with us. My sister is my best friend, not because she has to be, but because we chose to be. She called me about two months ago crying, falling apart, her and her boyfriend of two years broke up and she felt as though her world had ended. I talked to her for hours trying to calm her down, but even as I talked and gave advise I knew there was no hope in this helping right now. I knew this because I already went through this, and I knew that she handles situations that same way that I do; her heart was broken and nothing at that moment could make it feel any better. These phone calls continued all month, and every time she cried, I cried too. Not because I missed her boyfriend, but because a part of my, my sister, was hurting. They say that twins feel the others pain because they were connected in the womb, well she is five years younger, comes from a whole other uterus, and I can still feel her pain.
Sitting in my chair watching my sister at the party, realizing all the things that made us so similar, I decided I wanted to take a picture. I reached into my mess of a purse and looked around for my pink camera, which had silver marks all over it because of the chipped paint. I pulled it out, turned it on, and tapped my sister on the shoulder. When she turned around and saw the camera I did not even have to ask. She scooted her chair towards me and leaned up against my shoulder, this was our usual pose. Next she asked what she always does, “Funny or smiling?” ; just another part of our routine. I replied with smile nice, since I had been watching her I wanted to take a picture that shower how much she was like me. I look back at this picture and I am proud. Proud that she is my sister, happy she is a lot like me, and I like to think about how much she has become her own person since it was taken. There are many resemblances and shared characteristics between the two of us, but she is one in a million and adds her own little tweak to what we share. A picture can sometimes be deceiving leading you to believe there is love when there is not; this will never be the case with one of our pictures. Our smiles are always real and nothing about our relationship will ever be fake. I cannot wait to see down the road what our pictures begin to look like. No matter how they change though one thing will always remain the same, we are Sister by blood, and Best Friends by choice.
Her laugh resembles mine, the way she speaks is just like me, and we both have the same smile. We share the need to wear our hearts on our sleeves; we speak our minds almost too much, and have blond moments just as often. We are smart, we are daddy’s girls, and share a bond that is unbreakable; we are sisters.
Several pictures a year are taken of the two of us together and they change drastically every time. There were pictures of us when she was little and I was looking at her with disgust, because now she was the baby and I was jealous, and as the years went on they changed again as we got closer. A picture can say so much about a person but it cannot tell you of their past. The picture above is us at my Aunt Beth and Brandy’s baby shower. We were sitting in two wooden chairs at the end of the dance floor watching them open their gifts. She was sitting a couple of inches in front of me because she was taking pictures to make them a scrap book. I remember looking at her, studying the way she moved, laughing because she placed her feet on the ground just like I did, even though she didn’t have the injury that cause me to do it. She held the pencil the same way as me, and when she stood up she wiggled her hips, as I always do because my pants never stay on. She was indeed my sister, there was no questioning it.
Yet I sit and wonder how it is that we are so alike? You see I do not live with my sister; she lives with my father and her mother. She is by definition my half sister, which means she shares half of my genetics. My dad is her dad, so in us we have his DNA; the only difference is that the other half of our makeup is from two different women. There is one difference we have. We also as I mentioned to not live together. When I was younger I lived there every other weekend and during the summers till I was about 14ish. My sister is five years younger than me so she was never going through the same changes I was. I also was a different person whenever I was at my dad’s house. My true colors and personality were only shown when I was here in Jersey. So how do two people who are not around each other very often become so much alike, I have no answer, but in my case we are spitting images of one another in looks and personality.
Blood whether it is half, full, none is not what makes us siblings. It is experiences, talks, hugs, fights, Christmas mornings, secrets, and a bond that no other individual could ever have with us. My sister is my best friend, not because she has to be, but because we chose to be. She called me about two months ago crying, falling apart, her and her boyfriend of two years broke up and she felt as though her world had ended. I talked to her for hours trying to calm her down, but even as I talked and gave advise I knew there was no hope in this helping right now. I knew this because I already went through this, and I knew that she handles situations that same way that I do; her heart was broken and nothing at that moment could make it feel any better. These phone calls continued all month, and every time she cried, I cried too. Not because I missed her boyfriend, but because a part of my, my sister, was hurting. They say that twins feel the others pain because they were connected in the womb, well she is five years younger, comes from a whole other uterus, and I can still feel her pain.
Sitting in my chair watching my sister at the party, realizing all the things that made us so similar, I decided I wanted to take a picture. I reached into my mess of a purse and looked around for my pink camera, which had silver marks all over it because of the chipped paint. I pulled it out, turned it on, and tapped my sister on the shoulder. When she turned around and saw the camera I did not even have to ask. She scooted her chair towards me and leaned up against my shoulder, this was our usual pose. Next she asked what she always does, “Funny or smiling?” ; just another part of our routine. I replied with smile nice, since I had been watching her I wanted to take a picture that shower how much she was like me. I look back at this picture and I am proud. Proud that she is my sister, happy she is a lot like me, and I like to think about how much she has become her own person since it was taken. There are many resemblances and shared characteristics between the two of us, but she is one in a million and adds her own little tweak to what we share. A picture can sometimes be deceiving leading you to believe there is love when there is not; this will never be the case with one of our pictures. Our smiles are always real and nothing about our relationship will ever be fake. I cannot wait to see down the road what our pictures begin to look like. No matter how they change though one thing will always remain the same, we are Sister by blood, and Best Friends by choice.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Extra blog:
From talking with my group and the professor I am going to take the picture of my siblings and I, and write about what makes a family. It is not only blood that holds us together as brother and sister, because in my case I do not share " blood" with all four of them. Only two of them, and it is only half. My brothers and sisters are just that, they are not labeled as "step or half ".
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Blog 16
1. your proposed focus + the object, place, or person you will write about to develop that focus2. the specific descriptions or information you will present to develop your focus3. what each description shows about your focus4. a specific request for feedback
The object that I want to focus on is a picture of all of my siblings and I on vacation two years ago. It is very rare that the five of us are all together so having this picture in my room brings back lots and lots of memories that involve us all, some being good and some not. The focus that I am chosing to write about is siblings who have a different parent or parents are siblings no matter their title. Blood does not make us brothers and sisters.
First I plan on giving a decription of each of the five of us on the picture, connecting eachothers looks. Then connecting our feelings. From here I will talk about the picture and a few others moments in our lives that aided in getting is where we are today. If possible I would like to take a memory that i have shared with each of my siblings and after each memory come back to the picture of us all.
I would like to know if this is a good idea. I think my focus as usual is not complete and any feed back that may help me develope a strong focus would be great.
The object that I want to focus on is a picture of all of my siblings and I on vacation two years ago. It is very rare that the five of us are all together so having this picture in my room brings back lots and lots of memories that involve us all, some being good and some not. The focus that I am chosing to write about is siblings who have a different parent or parents are siblings no matter their title. Blood does not make us brothers and sisters.
First I plan on giving a decription of each of the five of us on the picture, connecting eachothers looks. Then connecting our feelings. From here I will talk about the picture and a few others moments in our lives that aided in getting is where we are today. If possible I would like to take a memory that i have shared with each of my siblings and after each memory come back to the picture of us all.
I would like to know if this is a good idea. I think my focus as usual is not complete and any feed back that may help me develope a strong focus would be great.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Final essay number one
Villain and Superhero in one...
Strong, Brave, Smart, Independent, Thoughtful, and Wise beyond her years are just a few of the qualities that represent the woman who is my mother. Absent, Jealous, Intentions of being there, Busy, and clueless to what is going on, are qualities that represent the parent who is my mother. How can one woman possess these very different characteristics and be the same person?
Christmas time last year Grandpa was in the hospital due to needing a five bypass surgery on his heart. He is a 78 year old man with a history of cancer, infections, diabetes, and whatever else you face at his age. Things did not look very good. The whole family was a mess, including me. My aunt, who had not been home in three years to see the family since she moved away, flew home. My uncle who lives in California came back to Jersey, and most of my grandfather’s girlfriend’s family was all there. No one was sure what the outcome was going to be for this is a serious surgery for anyone, specially an old man. Amongst all the insanity there was a breath of fresh air. One person who kept everyone calm, who gathered all of the people close and spoke the them giving assurance that in the end all would be ok, just as Moses did for the Israelites. She was our savior, and this woman was my mother. She was worried and hurting too, but put that aside to care for everyone else. She knew that there needed to be someone that was holding us all together, and without hesitation she stood up and took the job. There were nights that I heard her crying when she thought no one was around, but how could she not. Everyone needs time to breathe and let out emotion, even the heroines like her.
My mother the heroine, she was the one person in the family who always had her suit of armor on underneath her dress. Being the oldest she was the protector of the Tooley’s, seeing what no one else could, keeping the clan safe and sheltered. Although she was not always thanked for her work, or told she did a job well done, recognition is not what she seeked. It was seeing her family together, and making it through another obstacle in one piece. This is the woman who I envy and find myself taking after.
Then there is the parent who I strive to be as different as possible from, the parent who never seemed to have time for me, and never could tell just how much I was hurting. Junior year of high school I went from being 127 pounds to weighing 110 pounds in a matter of two months. My bones were popping out, I could not sleep, when I did eat, my body was in such need of nutrients I put on no weight, and I spent almost every night crying myself to sleep. This was my life. There was no way you could ignore the changes that had occurred within me, specially being my mother how could one not notice? Well she noticed alright, this parent of mine, and she made an effort to try and find out what was wrong, but after I shut her out after a few tries she backed off. SHE BACKED OFF! I was 16 years old, going through a horrible break-up, losing my mind by the minute and she just let me be. Where was her suit of armor now? Why did she not use her super strength and knock down my walls, no matter how many obstacles she had to cross, wasn’t I worth saving? Her daughter, her so called life, and I was left to fight my own battle, a battle I am still fighting today.
I was left to fight alone, while superwoman was off saving others. A group of men who were sexually abused when they were younger had formed an online group, looking for a bright light of strength to help them. She was there and spent hours a day with these men. Listening, giving advice, and being exactly what they needed. Headline: Men Beaten, Battered, and Destroyed Saved by an Everyday Woman Looking to Help. If recognition was given that would have been the title of an article. I would come home from school, work, or just being out and she would either be on the computer e-mailing these men back and forth, or on the phone strategizing how to save someone who went a-wall. Most people forget about men who were raped and emotionally hurt, but not this woman. She reached out and made a difference for these men, and saved a handful of lives. It takes one hell of a woman to talk a person out of committing suicide. I can only hope to possess the compassion and strength that she has.
This site that my parent was a part of needed her, but so did I. Freshmen year of college something happened to me that caused me to relapse back into my depression. Someone hurt me, took my trust, threw it on the ground and spit on it; leaving me with a broken heart and a nasty souvenir. While I tried to fight back, I lost, and my grades had to pay the price. So I headed home in May with my head sulking and heart hurting. My parent, thought that I was partying too much and was not able to handle college life, so she grounded me for the whole summer. I was too weak to even argue at the time, but where was her compassion then? Why could she listen to these men with all their problems and care for them so, but when her daughter needed her, she turned the other cheek and sat down at her desk to write an e-mail. This e-mail was to one of the men that she had been helping, she was looking for some advice, so she turned to him. The rule in my house with the computer was, you leave it up its fair game, and I wish she never left this up. Dear X, I fear that I have spoiled my daughter. She is so selfish and ungrateful. I have given her all the things she has wanted and doing poorly in school is how she repays me. I have always been so nice about things, I think this time I am going to have to put my foot down and punish her. This is of course is not word for word what she said, but it was something along these lines. I was selfish; she gave me everything I wanted, I would have taken having the woman that she is as my parent, over any material item. I was tempted to write another e-mail for both them to read, explaining what had happened and really giving it to him and her, but it was not worth it.
How is it that you can be so proud and so angry at the same person? How can you want to scream, yell and cry at a parent, and give an award for the woman that she is? What do you do when you look at a person and smile and as you give them a hug, a fire begins to burn inside of you and you have to pull away? As I get older I possess more and more qualities of the heroine, adding my own little tweak to the way I handle things. I am or like to think I am the Superhero of the Quinn’s. I strive to help those who need me, to be there for family, and to make people smile whenever possible. I hope to be even more successful then my mother, but to learn from her all that I can. She has endured a lot in her life, and is a magnificently tough individual, being like her, would be an honor.
I have not yet reached the part of my life where I am to be a parent, someone who has a life in their hands and is 100% responsible for the well being of that person. When this day comes, I do not want to be like the parent that I have. To even type these words is painful, because although I know my parent loves me, she messed up. She needed to be there, being my protector, savior, and mother. My shoulder to cry on, my person to turn to, the one who was always on my side, the one who was ALWAYS there, the one who saw through my walls, and the one who no matter how hard things were, never gave up. I wanted her and I needed her, in fact I still do. So what do you do when your mother and parent are the same person? How do you tell the two apart? Heroine and Villain become one person, except I am the only one without the rose colored glasses, so I alone can see both. Looking at her looking in the mirror I see a working woman who could save the world, and then the reflection of a broken parent who knows nothing of her mistakes. While I may be angry and hurt at my parent; and proud and envious of my mother, the truth is I love them both. When it comes to love these two people become one, but love is not always enough.
Strong, Brave, Smart, Independent, Thoughtful, and Wise beyond her years are just a few of the qualities that represent the woman who is my mother. Absent, Jealous, Intentions of being there, Busy, and clueless to what is going on, are qualities that represent the parent who is my mother. How can one woman possess these very different characteristics and be the same person?
Christmas time last year Grandpa was in the hospital due to needing a five bypass surgery on his heart. He is a 78 year old man with a history of cancer, infections, diabetes, and whatever else you face at his age. Things did not look very good. The whole family was a mess, including me. My aunt, who had not been home in three years to see the family since she moved away, flew home. My uncle who lives in California came back to Jersey, and most of my grandfather’s girlfriend’s family was all there. No one was sure what the outcome was going to be for this is a serious surgery for anyone, specially an old man. Amongst all the insanity there was a breath of fresh air. One person who kept everyone calm, who gathered all of the people close and spoke the them giving assurance that in the end all would be ok, just as Moses did for the Israelites. She was our savior, and this woman was my mother. She was worried and hurting too, but put that aside to care for everyone else. She knew that there needed to be someone that was holding us all together, and without hesitation she stood up and took the job. There were nights that I heard her crying when she thought no one was around, but how could she not. Everyone needs time to breathe and let out emotion, even the heroines like her.
My mother the heroine, she was the one person in the family who always had her suit of armor on underneath her dress. Being the oldest she was the protector of the Tooley’s, seeing what no one else could, keeping the clan safe and sheltered. Although she was not always thanked for her work, or told she did a job well done, recognition is not what she seeked. It was seeing her family together, and making it through another obstacle in one piece. This is the woman who I envy and find myself taking after.
Then there is the parent who I strive to be as different as possible from, the parent who never seemed to have time for me, and never could tell just how much I was hurting. Junior year of high school I went from being 127 pounds to weighing 110 pounds in a matter of two months. My bones were popping out, I could not sleep, when I did eat, my body was in such need of nutrients I put on no weight, and I spent almost every night crying myself to sleep. This was my life. There was no way you could ignore the changes that had occurred within me, specially being my mother how could one not notice? Well she noticed alright, this parent of mine, and she made an effort to try and find out what was wrong, but after I shut her out after a few tries she backed off. SHE BACKED OFF! I was 16 years old, going through a horrible break-up, losing my mind by the minute and she just let me be. Where was her suit of armor now? Why did she not use her super strength and knock down my walls, no matter how many obstacles she had to cross, wasn’t I worth saving? Her daughter, her so called life, and I was left to fight my own battle, a battle I am still fighting today.
I was left to fight alone, while superwoman was off saving others. A group of men who were sexually abused when they were younger had formed an online group, looking for a bright light of strength to help them. She was there and spent hours a day with these men. Listening, giving advice, and being exactly what they needed. Headline: Men Beaten, Battered, and Destroyed Saved by an Everyday Woman Looking to Help. If recognition was given that would have been the title of an article. I would come home from school, work, or just being out and she would either be on the computer e-mailing these men back and forth, or on the phone strategizing how to save someone who went a-wall. Most people forget about men who were raped and emotionally hurt, but not this woman. She reached out and made a difference for these men, and saved a handful of lives. It takes one hell of a woman to talk a person out of committing suicide. I can only hope to possess the compassion and strength that she has.
This site that my parent was a part of needed her, but so did I. Freshmen year of college something happened to me that caused me to relapse back into my depression. Someone hurt me, took my trust, threw it on the ground and spit on it; leaving me with a broken heart and a nasty souvenir. While I tried to fight back, I lost, and my grades had to pay the price. So I headed home in May with my head sulking and heart hurting. My parent, thought that I was partying too much and was not able to handle college life, so she grounded me for the whole summer. I was too weak to even argue at the time, but where was her compassion then? Why could she listen to these men with all their problems and care for them so, but when her daughter needed her, she turned the other cheek and sat down at her desk to write an e-mail. This e-mail was to one of the men that she had been helping, she was looking for some advice, so she turned to him. The rule in my house with the computer was, you leave it up its fair game, and I wish she never left this up. Dear X, I fear that I have spoiled my daughter. She is so selfish and ungrateful. I have given her all the things she has wanted and doing poorly in school is how she repays me. I have always been so nice about things, I think this time I am going to have to put my foot down and punish her. This is of course is not word for word what she said, but it was something along these lines. I was selfish; she gave me everything I wanted, I would have taken having the woman that she is as my parent, over any material item. I was tempted to write another e-mail for both them to read, explaining what had happened and really giving it to him and her, but it was not worth it.
How is it that you can be so proud and so angry at the same person? How can you want to scream, yell and cry at a parent, and give an award for the woman that she is? What do you do when you look at a person and smile and as you give them a hug, a fire begins to burn inside of you and you have to pull away? As I get older I possess more and more qualities of the heroine, adding my own little tweak to the way I handle things. I am or like to think I am the Superhero of the Quinn’s. I strive to help those who need me, to be there for family, and to make people smile whenever possible. I hope to be even more successful then my mother, but to learn from her all that I can. She has endured a lot in her life, and is a magnificently tough individual, being like her, would be an honor.
I have not yet reached the part of my life where I am to be a parent, someone who has a life in their hands and is 100% responsible for the well being of that person. When this day comes, I do not want to be like the parent that I have. To even type these words is painful, because although I know my parent loves me, she messed up. She needed to be there, being my protector, savior, and mother. My shoulder to cry on, my person to turn to, the one who was always on my side, the one who was ALWAYS there, the one who saw through my walls, and the one who no matter how hard things were, never gave up. I wanted her and I needed her, in fact I still do. So what do you do when your mother and parent are the same person? How do you tell the two apart? Heroine and Villain become one person, except I am the only one without the rose colored glasses, so I alone can see both. Looking at her looking in the mirror I see a working woman who could save the world, and then the reflection of a broken parent who knows nothing of her mistakes. While I may be angry and hurt at my parent; and proud and envious of my mother, the truth is I love them both. When it comes to love these two people become one, but love is not always enough.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Blog # 12
Sitting on my bed looking around my room many happy thoughts came into my head, but one thing really caught my eye. My sisters high school graduation picture, she is wearing a white cap and gown, her hair is pin straight, which is how it always is or she goes nuts, her make-up is done just like I taught her, and her smile is perfect. One word came to mind when I see her in that picture, proud. I know you are not supposed to pick favorites with in a family but if i had to choose it would be Cyd. She is a younger version of me, who made better choices. She has always had a good head on her shoulders and I think everyone could be a bit more like her. She does not look at the world through rose colored glasses, she see's people and things just the way they are. She is not afraid to fall in love even though she knows the pain of it ending; she always speaks her mind, and has a heart of gold. I am so honored to be her big sister and blessed to have her in my life, for we are each other’s rocks, and without her I would not be complete. Looking up at her face I could not ask for a better sister or friend.
Blog # 11
There is a teady bear that sits on the top of my desk. Right now all that you can see is it paw that is pink with a white on the front side of the hand. This teddy bear has been with me since the say that I was born into this world. This is the pink bear that my daddy gave me. I honestly do not have any real memories with this bear, I did not bring it to and from places with me or have trouble parting with it. I think it was part of my pretend class one or two times when i was little, but that as far as it goes. Yet this bear means the world to be simply because of WHO gave it to me. My dad lives in another state and even when he did not, he never lived with me. So looking up at that bear was like always having him around. I was an independance little girl so I didnt need the bear, or my dad with me all the time, but knowing he was always there made me safe. If possible I will hold on to this bear my whole life, for the symbol that it stands for will not always be around. My father holds a very special place in my heart, and so does this pink teddy bear sitting way up high in my room.
Blog # 10
The essay that I am going to revise is essay number one. The one about my Ex and our unfortunate day. The reason that I would like to revise this essay is because recently someone wonderful has come into my life and he has in the past two weeks helped me make more progress on getting over this event then I have in four years. So I would like to take this event and the scar it left on me and turn it into a healing piece. What does it take to get past an emotional scar. With out going into to much detail because that will be for the essay its self, but I think my main point is, you can not do it alone. As strong as you are, we all need someone to help us feel better. It could be a friend, a parent, sibling and in my case a boyfriend. How much can you do on you really do on your own? So i will be taking what aaron did to me and the scar it left on me, and showing how one person can almost make that scar disapear.
Essay numero dos
Divorce
DIVORCE…it is just a word in the dictionary with a definition and origin, same as the word ICECREAM; but say the two aloud and focus on the feeling you get, when those simple two syllable words are spoken. For me when I say ice cream I think about Oreos, chocolate, cookie dough, cold, and the word yummmyyyy certainly comes to mind. Then I say Divorce, and I think my parents, fighting, growing up, crying, big family and missing out. At the age of one, my whole was turned upside down, and I did not even know it.
By one my mother and father split, by age two my father re-married and I gained a stepmother and two pain in the ass step brothers, who felt it was their job to make my life a living hell. Everyone says that’s their job as brothers, well I say screw that. This is when things got complicated. I was spending every other weekend with my dad and during the week with my mom, so I was just being shipped back and forth from place to place, like an airplane going from airport to airport. As a little child this was no easy task to cope with. I cried, kicked, screamed and threw fits every time the drop was made. I either did not want to leave my mom or after the weekend was over I did not want to leave my dad. They say the young child gets scared when his or her parents hide behind an object, well imagine them really leaving and you don’t know why. This was my life, a baby nomad, except I had a chauffeur.
Your parents splitting up, no matter the age you are, deeply affect’s a child whether you yourself realize it or not. I become conscious of the influence it had me very early. You see, part of growing up is getting into lots of trouble, being silly, having your parents or guardians taking care of you, you are not supposed to be or act like a grown up when you are little. It is just not part of the job description of a child, but I felt like I had no choice. I had babysitters till I was 12, but they never watched me. I usually found a way to make some sort of dinner, I did my homework, helped my friends out, and did things that I think I was too young to be doing, yet I did anyway. Sad part is, I loved acting like a grown up. Being responsible and having friends, (my stuffed animals) and adults looking to me for help made me feel special. Since my dad had the boys, work and my step mom I felt like there was little time for me, and my mom was always working, sleeping or going on dates; I took care of me. It was fun, being like a big person, but now that I am 22 where has my childhood gone? It is like when those who never go to college and just jump into the real world look back and want to kick their selves in the ass because they did not go, I do the same thing when I think about missing out on the kid experience.
Now I am grown up, I have bills, work and school. Plus I can drive, this gets old real fast; and have so many other responsibilities that I do not want. Every day I wish that I could be a little kid again, and while I know most people do say this, my reasons are different. I want to be a little kid again so I can experience it for the first time. I want to play with bubbles, get dirty, draw on the walls with crayon, but doing such things now are not part of my job. This is what divorce did to me; it stripped me of my childhood and made me feel like a 5 year old going on 25. It took away the rights I had as a youngster, and that’s not fair. DIVORCE, which is defined as a judicial declaration dissolving a marriage in whole or in part, esp. one that releases the husband and wife from all matrimonial obligations, is not just a word to me. It is a painful process that does not only affect those who are the divorcees, but hurts the children involved and can strip a child of her right to be young.
DIVORCE…it is just a word in the dictionary with a definition and origin, same as the word ICECREAM; but say the two aloud and focus on the feeling you get, when those simple two syllable words are spoken. For me when I say ice cream I think about Oreos, chocolate, cookie dough, cold, and the word yummmyyyy certainly comes to mind. Then I say Divorce, and I think my parents, fighting, growing up, crying, big family and missing out. At the age of one, my whole was turned upside down, and I did not even know it.
By one my mother and father split, by age two my father re-married and I gained a stepmother and two pain in the ass step brothers, who felt it was their job to make my life a living hell. Everyone says that’s their job as brothers, well I say screw that. This is when things got complicated. I was spending every other weekend with my dad and during the week with my mom, so I was just being shipped back and forth from place to place, like an airplane going from airport to airport. As a little child this was no easy task to cope with. I cried, kicked, screamed and threw fits every time the drop was made. I either did not want to leave my mom or after the weekend was over I did not want to leave my dad. They say the young child gets scared when his or her parents hide behind an object, well imagine them really leaving and you don’t know why. This was my life, a baby nomad, except I had a chauffeur.
Your parents splitting up, no matter the age you are, deeply affect’s a child whether you yourself realize it or not. I become conscious of the influence it had me very early. You see, part of growing up is getting into lots of trouble, being silly, having your parents or guardians taking care of you, you are not supposed to be or act like a grown up when you are little. It is just not part of the job description of a child, but I felt like I had no choice. I had babysitters till I was 12, but they never watched me. I usually found a way to make some sort of dinner, I did my homework, helped my friends out, and did things that I think I was too young to be doing, yet I did anyway. Sad part is, I loved acting like a grown up. Being responsible and having friends, (my stuffed animals) and adults looking to me for help made me feel special. Since my dad had the boys, work and my step mom I felt like there was little time for me, and my mom was always working, sleeping or going on dates; I took care of me. It was fun, being like a big person, but now that I am 22 where has my childhood gone? It is like when those who never go to college and just jump into the real world look back and want to kick their selves in the ass because they did not go, I do the same thing when I think about missing out on the kid experience.
Now I am grown up, I have bills, work and school. Plus I can drive, this gets old real fast; and have so many other responsibilities that I do not want. Every day I wish that I could be a little kid again, and while I know most people do say this, my reasons are different. I want to be a little kid again so I can experience it for the first time. I want to play with bubbles, get dirty, draw on the walls with crayon, but doing such things now are not part of my job. This is what divorce did to me; it stripped me of my childhood and made me feel like a 5 year old going on 25. It took away the rights I had as a youngster, and that’s not fair. DIVORCE, which is defined as a judicial declaration dissolving a marriage in whole or in part, esp. one that releases the husband and wife from all matrimonial obligations, is not just a word to me. It is a painful process that does not only affect those who are the divorcees, but hurts the children involved and can strip a child of her right to be young.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Blog #9 essay number two
The focus of my essay is going to be the impact of a divorce on a little gir, teenager, and woman. Growing up in middleschool I had many friends who's parents were divorced just like mine, but they didn't know their dad's; I couldnt understand that, because my dad was there. He lived in a different state but I saw him every weekend. He bent over backwards for me, and did everything that I can remember to see me. The only thing that ever hurt was that he couldn't coach my soccer games, or make me dinner everynight. This was because of the divorce. I lived with my mom, it was just her and I in what turned into different places. We moved alot and I never really knew why. I never really saw my mom and for some reason I do not have many memories with her, although I lived with her.
It is a touchy subject and I need to focus on one specific thought, but I am having trouble with this. Hopefully by this weekend I will be able to settle on one idea and write a strong essay
It is a touchy subject and I need to focus on one specific thought, but I am having trouble with this. Hopefully by this weekend I will be able to settle on one idea and write a strong essay
Monday, October 5, 2009
Essay # 1 Draft
Kelly Quinn
Essay # 1, rough draft
Creative non-fiction
Scars, this is a word that can possibly be looked back upon in remembrance of a silly activity or mindless act, but in most cases scars are reminders of pain. Falling off of your bike, cutting yourself with a knife, a surgery, or a car accident, these are all incidents who’s result is usually the gaining of a scar. They come in all shapes and sizes, for instance the bruise on my leg is about the size of a grape fruit, and the cut on my neck is no longer than an inch long. We all get them different ways, doesn’t really matter how, when, or why we get them; it’s the impact they have on us. One type of scar in particular that I fear the most is the emotional scar. No one can see it, not even you, it can fade just like an actual scar, sometimes medicine is needed to help reduce its appearance, but it never really goes away. It sits there inside of you like a cancer that is waiting to show its ugly head at any moment; some days you can almost forget about it and others it is as though a hand grenade has just gone off inside of you but no one else can see. These scars go deeper than any physical scar, the do not always scab, or change colors as they heal; because truthfully some are just as fresh in your mind 20 years later than they were the day they happened…
I can still feel the breeze blow past my head and the sound of all the particles in the wood breaking less than an inch away from my head. I still get chills when I can feel his cold fingers on the back of my neck, and the rug scraping my knees as I slid down the stairs. My heart just stops and I can’t breathe every now and then, just like that day. It happened six years ago, towards the end of winter, I remember because the walk to Courtney’s was so cold. Six years ago and I feel like it was yesterday, six years ago and the sounds, smells, and pain are no less apparent than they were that day. That day changed me, weakened me, and stole a piece of me that I fear I will never get back. That day was the day that I was belittled to a mere nothing in my ex-boyfriends eyes.
This was the first time he ever laid a hand on me in that manor, but it was far from the first time he hurt me. He was the guy that everyone loved and never thought he was capable of the things I said he did. Truthfully I do not even think my friends believed me. He was good. He knew what to say, how to act, the right way to smile; it is frightening to think about the power that this boy had over everyone, especially me. I gave up the love of my life for this guy, walked right out of his life, into the jaws of a great white shark. A beautiful creature, who is so graceful and smart, but when it’s hungry, strikes with a force that no matter the strength of the individual, there is no escaping, it will devour you alive.
I was sixteen years old at this point; we had been dating since I was 15. We were either at each other’s throats or in the sack making up. Forgive me for not using the term making love when I speak of this guy, for there was no love involved in this relationship. Things went well in the beginning and then they got destructive. Lying, fighting over everything, cheating, lying, making up poems and passing them around school, lying, turning friends against me, lying, lying, and did I mention lying. It was one thing right after another, something that a 16 year old girl who is in high school is just not able to handle. I was no saint, I made mistakes too, but I never made him feel like nothing, I never hurt him like he hurt me. I guess my views are one sided, but when someone does what he did, and as a sixteen year old girl you blame yourself; he deserves no sympathy.
“We need to talk about this, why are you doing this to me?!”
This is how our conversation on the phone started that day. It was a back and forth battle of who can yell the loudest the get their point across. I won, he caved.
“Fine, just come over and we will talk about it, but you can’t stay long.”
I liked winning; I would get a feeling of satisfaction because for once he gave in to me. So I called the Alpha Taxi, my favorite place, got a cab and headed over there. It was only about a 15 minute drive, but that day took longer, there was traffic. We stopped in front of the house, 5 Yuro Drive, a tan and brown residence nothing special about it, I paid the guy and made my way to the front door. Pushed the door bell twice, no answer, knocked twice, no answer, as I went to knock again (for I had just spend 15 dollars taking a cab all the way over here I was not going to be a happy camper if we did not talk) he opened the door. I could tell real quick that he was angry, he used to get a wrinkle in-between his eyes when he was about to yell, and the moment I saw his face it was already there.
“What are you doing here!?”
I couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his mouth, did he not just say I could come over to talk, was I hallucinating? He was on the phone with his best friend Jimmy complaining that I had just showed up with no invite, going on and on about how I was crazy. (Looking back, I was a little out of my mind at this age, but who could blame me, a 40 year old woman would be acting the same way being in a relationship like I was in) This set me off; I was in the house at this point hunched over in a little ball, crying so hard that I couldn’t breathe. I was near the end of the couch on the floor by the front door; I had fallen over from crying. Right here I should up gotten up and left, but at the time I couldn’t. He was standing over me yelling, very loud to, but I couldn’t hear him, everything sounded like I was underwater. I know he was switching back and forth from yelling at me and then yelling at Jimmy. He pushed me over so that I was laying on the ground now; he kept nudging me like you would to provoke a dog to bite. He told me to leave over and over again, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe; it felt like I was having an asthma attack; so I just laid there and cried. I did not speak to him, or yell; I at the point literally just curled up and cried.
How could I do this, this wasn’t me. Out of all of my friends I was the strongest, the leader of the group. The advice giver on everything, the big sister, the captain of the soccer team, the girl who always took care of herself. When I look back on this I am just angry for how weak I was.
I finally came to from my state and realized he was gone. I took a few moments and a couple of deep breaths and headed up stairs, he was still on the phone.
“Jimmy I do not want to be like my cousin, I don’t want to do this man, but I am going crazy!”
I heard him but I couldn’t believe he meant what he said, he would never hit me. I knocked on the door and asked him to come out about 3 times, my world changed when he opened that door. His eyes were black and filled with hatred. He grabbed both of my arms and pinned me and against the wall and started screaming at me going on and on about what an awful person I am. Next he took a few steps back into his bathroom which was directly behind him. At this point I began to cry again, uncontrollably, this pissed him off. Then he uttered under his breath, “Don’t make me do this.”
I barley heard him over my sobs, but I saw him stand up and then fly at me. His fist missed my face by a quarter of an inch and flew right through the wall, leaving an enormous hole and dent. (Which he later showed off to his friends bragging how strong he was, but left out the part that it was meant for my head) I froze, stopped breathing, and just stared at him for what seemed to be forever, and then collapsed again. This time I was near the stairs and before I attempted to move, his cold lifeless fingers were on the back of my neck, he was crying. His grip got tighter as I stood up, he pushed me back down. I yelled at him to let me go, but every time I spoke he would squeeze harder. Then he pushed me. I rolled down the stairs, my knees were already red from being pushed on the carpet, my arms had bruises on them from him grabbing me so hard, and now after hitting my head on the railing I lay flat on the floor at the bottom of those twelve stairs, looking up at a person that I once upon a time thought I loved. I stared into his eyes until he went back into his room and dialed someone’s number. It took me a few minutes to get up; I grabbed my purse and jacket, walked out of his house and walked down the street to Courtney’s . I was like a zombie in a trance. It wasn’t true, I was dreaming, this did not just happen. My knees buckled when I entered her room, I sobbed for three hours, went home and went to bed. The next day at school, he told me I was crazy and it never happened. I only told my closest friends, because I knew him and no one would have believed me.
This scar it runs deep, there is no escaping it. I can put it out of my mind for months at a time, but it never goes away. When a man hits you, a piece of yourself dies, and you can never get that back, especially a man who was supposed to love you. A man who had no problem putting your troubles aside so he could get laid, who would turn around the next day and act like you never existed. A man who put his hands on me with full intention to hurt and inflict pain. As I said earlier, I was no angel I played my part in our fights, but never once did I do anything that deserved what I got. Six years later, and this wound is wide open.
Essay # 1, rough draft
Creative non-fiction
Scars, this is a word that can possibly be looked back upon in remembrance of a silly activity or mindless act, but in most cases scars are reminders of pain. Falling off of your bike, cutting yourself with a knife, a surgery, or a car accident, these are all incidents who’s result is usually the gaining of a scar. They come in all shapes and sizes, for instance the bruise on my leg is about the size of a grape fruit, and the cut on my neck is no longer than an inch long. We all get them different ways, doesn’t really matter how, when, or why we get them; it’s the impact they have on us. One type of scar in particular that I fear the most is the emotional scar. No one can see it, not even you, it can fade just like an actual scar, sometimes medicine is needed to help reduce its appearance, but it never really goes away. It sits there inside of you like a cancer that is waiting to show its ugly head at any moment; some days you can almost forget about it and others it is as though a hand grenade has just gone off inside of you but no one else can see. These scars go deeper than any physical scar, the do not always scab, or change colors as they heal; because truthfully some are just as fresh in your mind 20 years later than they were the day they happened…
I can still feel the breeze blow past my head and the sound of all the particles in the wood breaking less than an inch away from my head. I still get chills when I can feel his cold fingers on the back of my neck, and the rug scraping my knees as I slid down the stairs. My heart just stops and I can’t breathe every now and then, just like that day. It happened six years ago, towards the end of winter, I remember because the walk to Courtney’s was so cold. Six years ago and I feel like it was yesterday, six years ago and the sounds, smells, and pain are no less apparent than they were that day. That day changed me, weakened me, and stole a piece of me that I fear I will never get back. That day was the day that I was belittled to a mere nothing in my ex-boyfriends eyes.
This was the first time he ever laid a hand on me in that manor, but it was far from the first time he hurt me. He was the guy that everyone loved and never thought he was capable of the things I said he did. Truthfully I do not even think my friends believed me. He was good. He knew what to say, how to act, the right way to smile; it is frightening to think about the power that this boy had over everyone, especially me. I gave up the love of my life for this guy, walked right out of his life, into the jaws of a great white shark. A beautiful creature, who is so graceful and smart, but when it’s hungry, strikes with a force that no matter the strength of the individual, there is no escaping, it will devour you alive.
I was sixteen years old at this point; we had been dating since I was 15. We were either at each other’s throats or in the sack making up. Forgive me for not using the term making love when I speak of this guy, for there was no love involved in this relationship. Things went well in the beginning and then they got destructive. Lying, fighting over everything, cheating, lying, making up poems and passing them around school, lying, turning friends against me, lying, lying, and did I mention lying. It was one thing right after another, something that a 16 year old girl who is in high school is just not able to handle. I was no saint, I made mistakes too, but I never made him feel like nothing, I never hurt him like he hurt me. I guess my views are one sided, but when someone does what he did, and as a sixteen year old girl you blame yourself; he deserves no sympathy.
“We need to talk about this, why are you doing this to me?!”
This is how our conversation on the phone started that day. It was a back and forth battle of who can yell the loudest the get their point across. I won, he caved.
“Fine, just come over and we will talk about it, but you can’t stay long.”
I liked winning; I would get a feeling of satisfaction because for once he gave in to me. So I called the Alpha Taxi, my favorite place, got a cab and headed over there. It was only about a 15 minute drive, but that day took longer, there was traffic. We stopped in front of the house, 5 Yuro Drive, a tan and brown residence nothing special about it, I paid the guy and made my way to the front door. Pushed the door bell twice, no answer, knocked twice, no answer, as I went to knock again (for I had just spend 15 dollars taking a cab all the way over here I was not going to be a happy camper if we did not talk) he opened the door. I could tell real quick that he was angry, he used to get a wrinkle in-between his eyes when he was about to yell, and the moment I saw his face it was already there.
“What are you doing here!?”
I couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his mouth, did he not just say I could come over to talk, was I hallucinating? He was on the phone with his best friend Jimmy complaining that I had just showed up with no invite, going on and on about how I was crazy. (Looking back, I was a little out of my mind at this age, but who could blame me, a 40 year old woman would be acting the same way being in a relationship like I was in) This set me off; I was in the house at this point hunched over in a little ball, crying so hard that I couldn’t breathe. I was near the end of the couch on the floor by the front door; I had fallen over from crying. Right here I should up gotten up and left, but at the time I couldn’t. He was standing over me yelling, very loud to, but I couldn’t hear him, everything sounded like I was underwater. I know he was switching back and forth from yelling at me and then yelling at Jimmy. He pushed me over so that I was laying on the ground now; he kept nudging me like you would to provoke a dog to bite. He told me to leave over and over again, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe; it felt like I was having an asthma attack; so I just laid there and cried. I did not speak to him, or yell; I at the point literally just curled up and cried.
How could I do this, this wasn’t me. Out of all of my friends I was the strongest, the leader of the group. The advice giver on everything, the big sister, the captain of the soccer team, the girl who always took care of herself. When I look back on this I am just angry for how weak I was.
I finally came to from my state and realized he was gone. I took a few moments and a couple of deep breaths and headed up stairs, he was still on the phone.
“Jimmy I do not want to be like my cousin, I don’t want to do this man, but I am going crazy!”
I heard him but I couldn’t believe he meant what he said, he would never hit me. I knocked on the door and asked him to come out about 3 times, my world changed when he opened that door. His eyes were black and filled with hatred. He grabbed both of my arms and pinned me and against the wall and started screaming at me going on and on about what an awful person I am. Next he took a few steps back into his bathroom which was directly behind him. At this point I began to cry again, uncontrollably, this pissed him off. Then he uttered under his breath, “Don’t make me do this.”
I barley heard him over my sobs, but I saw him stand up and then fly at me. His fist missed my face by a quarter of an inch and flew right through the wall, leaving an enormous hole and dent. (Which he later showed off to his friends bragging how strong he was, but left out the part that it was meant for my head) I froze, stopped breathing, and just stared at him for what seemed to be forever, and then collapsed again. This time I was near the stairs and before I attempted to move, his cold lifeless fingers were on the back of my neck, he was crying. His grip got tighter as I stood up, he pushed me back down. I yelled at him to let me go, but every time I spoke he would squeeze harder. Then he pushed me. I rolled down the stairs, my knees were already red from being pushed on the carpet, my arms had bruises on them from him grabbing me so hard, and now after hitting my head on the railing I lay flat on the floor at the bottom of those twelve stairs, looking up at a person that I once upon a time thought I loved. I stared into his eyes until he went back into his room and dialed someone’s number. It took me a few minutes to get up; I grabbed my purse and jacket, walked out of his house and walked down the street to Courtney’s . I was like a zombie in a trance. It wasn’t true, I was dreaming, this did not just happen. My knees buckled when I entered her room, I sobbed for three hours, went home and went to bed. The next day at school, he told me I was crazy and it never happened. I only told my closest friends, because I knew him and no one would have believed me.
This scar it runs deep, there is no escaping it. I can put it out of my mind for months at a time, but it never goes away. When a man hits you, a piece of yourself dies, and you can never get that back, especially a man who was supposed to love you. A man who had no problem putting your troubles aside so he could get laid, who would turn around the next day and act like you never existed. A man who put his hands on me with full intention to hurt and inflict pain. As I said earlier, I was no angel I played my part in our fights, but never once did I do anything that deserved what I got. Six years later, and this wound is wide open.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Blog # 6: Personal Essay
As of right now I am torn as to how I should approach my essay. The first essay that I am going to construct is going to be "The Accident", which I feel can be told in both parallelism and also accumulation. Writing a CNf piece of the accident can do in many different directions and can also be told in many different ways.
For example if I take the Parallelism approach, the piece could either work from me speaking as though I am back in the past and just reflecting on things that I see now, or I could tell it from my perspective now and flashback to the accident. Or I can tell it is a serious of episode, which would also work. The events of that night were all over the place, and the foreshadowing of the accident, that at the time I did not notice, but do now. I am quite confused as to which route I take, but I am sure this is alright, considering that when you write about your self there is an infinite amount of ways to do so.
For example if I take the Parallelism approach, the piece could either work from me speaking as though I am back in the past and just reflecting on things that I see now, or I could tell it from my perspective now and flashback to the accident. Or I can tell it is a serious of episode, which would also work. The events of that night were all over the place, and the foreshadowing of the accident, that at the time I did not notice, but do now. I am quite confused as to which route I take, but I am sure this is alright, considering that when you write about your self there is an infinite amount of ways to do so.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Blog # 5
Edwidge Danticat's, Westbury Court, uses parallelism in his writing. He/She is taking an event that happened to him/her and looking back at it from an older age. There are moments in which the writer is there in the moment, and others where he/she is reflecting back on the incident. It is all the same story and all the same feelings, just told from two very different points in the authors life. Alive, by Drummond is what I believe to be using accumulation. Her series are not as predominant as other we have read, but her segments go from one thought to another
Both authors writing make you think. Could this happen to me?, Are we all that vulnerable?, Should I be paying more attention? There are always things that happen, and sadly it is the negative that make you realize this, that make you think had I not been doing so and so, could I have changed this. Alive really made you look at the questions that I have previously mentioned. Here is a woman who has training in dealing with serial killers, who is trained in fighting and knows how to protect herself, but in the end she realizes she is just as in danger as any other female. It makes me think about how prepared am I really if something we to happen to me, like a man following me. Also, when I am home napping or watching soap net, would i notice a condo next to me on fire. I feel that you can prepare and prepare but until you are put in a specific situation, you will have no idea how you are going to react.
Both authors writing make you think. Could this happen to me?, Are we all that vulnerable?, Should I be paying more attention? There are always things that happen, and sadly it is the negative that make you realize this, that make you think had I not been doing so and so, could I have changed this. Alive really made you look at the questions that I have previously mentioned. Here is a woman who has training in dealing with serial killers, who is trained in fighting and knows how to protect herself, but in the end she realizes she is just as in danger as any other female. It makes me think about how prepared am I really if something we to happen to me, like a man following me. Also, when I am home napping or watching soap net, would i notice a condo next to me on fire. I feel that you can prepare and prepare but until you are put in a specific situation, you will have no idea how you are going to react.
Monday, September 21, 2009
blog # 4 Schwartz
Schwartz is telling us of her family history from mainly her account but also from the words of her father. The sections in this CNF writing go from her as a child listening to her father rant and rave about how things used to be, to her trip with him to Rindeim, gaining more of an understanding, to her atleast being a woman who now had full knowledge of what was going on, and what her father meant.
The focus I believe of this piece was to show her readers that WWII had an impact on individuals differently. What we read in books or online is not the only way it can be told. She takes it to the next level, and tells it through the eyes of two people three different ways. We see how her father was changed and felt about it, and how it effect her as a child and as a grown woman.
I personally liked how she broke up the story and went back and forth between her younger and older self. Don't all of us do the same thing when we are looking back at something that had molded us into who we are today. First we think about it when it happened to us, take your oldest memory for instance. I would be looking at it from a 3 year old perspective, but as I write about it, I would also be looking at it as a 22 year old woman.
Schwartz's gaps add to her writing, she goes one step further than Kincaid. Where Kincaid just adds her two cents in with apprentices, Schwartz's really explains the changes that she endures.
The focus I believe of this piece was to show her readers that WWII had an impact on individuals differently. What we read in books or online is not the only way it can be told. She takes it to the next level, and tells it through the eyes of two people three different ways. We see how her father was changed and felt about it, and how it effect her as a child and as a grown woman.
I personally liked how she broke up the story and went back and forth between her younger and older self. Don't all of us do the same thing when we are looking back at something that had molded us into who we are today. First we think about it when it happened to us, take your oldest memory for instance. I would be looking at it from a 3 year old perspective, but as I write about it, I would also be looking at it as a 22 year old woman.
Schwartz's gaps add to her writing, she goes one step further than Kincaid. Where Kincaid just adds her two cents in with apprentices, Schwartz's really explains the changes that she endures.
Blog # 3
Orwell and Montaigne are both taking an approach that we have not read in detail in this class yet. They are putting an emphasis on the events that are taking place during the time in which they are writing. Montaigne's piece centers around many names that in his time were spoken about all the time, yet now as we read his piece we can not quite relate as other may have been able to. He also speaks less about his emotions then some of the other authors we have read, he describes others more then himself. Orwell on the other hand, while he certainly puts a focus on the current events in the world during his time, is similar to other authors; meaning he tells us his account from Solly his point of view. His words allow us into his body and we can almost feel exactly what he is feeling.
More recent CNF writings have the same approach that Orwell did, it is more about the "I", then the story. When we are writing in our journal it is for us and possibly the teachers eyes as well, the point being we at this time are not looking to publish our journals. Yet those authors who are in our time, not only have to stay true to themselves, they need to be able to interest the reader. The story should not be embellished just to sell books, it should stay true to how it occurred; but what it should do, and does, is use language properly and in a way that captures it's audience.
More recent CNF writings have the same approach that Orwell did, it is more about the "I", then the story. When we are writing in our journal it is for us and possibly the teachers eyes as well, the point being we at this time are not looking to publish our journals. Yet those authors who are in our time, not only have to stay true to themselves, they need to be able to interest the reader. The story should not be embellished just to sell books, it should stay true to how it occurred; but what it should do, and does, is use language properly and in a way that captures it's audience.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Reactions to Lott and Kincaid
Kincaid's, Biography of a Dress, I found to be not as interesting as the readings we encountered last week, yet it is still a very defining form of creative non-fiction. She is, similar to Out there, telling a story. A story about her life as a one and a half year old, and the events leading up to her wearing this yellow dress on her second birthday. She throughout the six pages is reflecting back onto the person she was when she was 1 1/2, which I must say I give her credit for, and comparing that person who who she is now. "( but I do now)" is repeated several times, it is as though she has to keep telling herself that she is now brighter, more aware, and better than her mother. She is the kind of woman who seems to have low self confidence and needs to continue to give herself self gratification. This is different from the previous stories I feel, because it is more personal. By adding her side comments, it becomes less like a story, and more about her accomplishments as she aged. It further shows that CNF takes on many forms, and that the readings and what we are writing are about, the reader and ME. I and me are the most important words in Kincaids writing, she just like us write for no one but ourselves, with hopes that others will enjoy and learn from our writing; but if they do not, it was meant for us and if no one shares our thoughts it is ok.
Lott:
" Rather, it is writing about ones self in relation to the subject at hand." Lott reminded me of this, it is not just about my life and my experiences; CNF is taking those things and relating them to such things as events in history. For example 911, it something that happened to our whole country, but doing a CNF piece on it would involve, a day in history and how I remember it. He also makes a strong point, to write CNF one must not be vain. It is about experiences and trying to discover who we are, and were, not to boast and brag. Creative non-fiction to me now, is like a short story book. It takes several different elements and events that occur, but no matter how long, short, interesting, not interesting, there is an underlying theme, YOU. There are moments in life that you are unable to forget or those you do not want to forget, so we write about them. It can be as simple as a dream that frightened us, or something as large as a war; but these memories and events define and make up who we are. Every individual will have their own definition of what CNF is, some ideas may merge and others may be extreme and no one can think of how it is related. Again though, there is no room for us to judge because when it comes down to it, there is no definite definition. It is your TRUTH and you thoughts, no one else's.
Lott:
" Rather, it is writing about ones self in relation to the subject at hand." Lott reminded me of this, it is not just about my life and my experiences; CNF is taking those things and relating them to such things as events in history. For example 911, it something that happened to our whole country, but doing a CNF piece on it would involve, a day in history and how I remember it. He also makes a strong point, to write CNF one must not be vain. It is about experiences and trying to discover who we are, and were, not to boast and brag. Creative non-fiction to me now, is like a short story book. It takes several different elements and events that occur, but no matter how long, short, interesting, not interesting, there is an underlying theme, YOU. There are moments in life that you are unable to forget or those you do not want to forget, so we write about them. It can be as simple as a dream that frightened us, or something as large as a war; but these memories and events define and make up who we are. Every individual will have their own definition of what CNF is, some ideas may merge and others may be extreme and no one can think of how it is related. Again though, there is no room for us to judge because when it comes down to it, there is no definite definition. It is your TRUTH and you thoughts, no one else's.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Creative Non-fiction
Any one person can sit down and tell you a story about something that happened, two years ago, while they were at a family picnic ,and their crazy uncle did something ridiculous; but to write Creative Non-fiction it takes more then that. You have to dig deep into your memories, even those that are still fresh in your mind. When you put words down on a paper, they have to be more then just a simple recollection. There needs to be intricate details, the way a room smelt or the specific colors that made up your mothers garden. Creative Non-fiction digs deep into your senses and forces you to transport yourself back to a place, and allow you to be in that moment, as if you were truly there again. It is like traveling in a time machine that takes you through your mind. There are no limits, and every road block you hit, you must dig deeper. There are no locks in Creative non-fiction, just fields of white paper that allow your pen and mind to run free. The focus is on you and or an event, and with out judgement you can be selfish. You take fact, that you experianced, and make it come alive; so that if another individual reads it, they to can feel, taste, smell, and imagine all that you did.
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