Lauren's CNF Blog

CNF Evaluation/ Reflection

2009-12-11T15:20:00.000-08:00

1. Meeting Course Objectives:

- What did you learn in this course?

I started writing my own blog before I took this class and I always loved writing poetry and non- fiction because it was basically writing a version of who I am. I feel like in life, we all go through the same experiences and I strongly believe I have a lot to offer the world. I want to inspire. And with creative non- fiction, I can write the truth but in many different styles of versions to depict that truth- hence Creative non-fiction. This class was very beneficial for me. I learned how to write persoanl and other types of that expanded my skills and helped me to understand more what I like to do.

-About the form of CNF?

There are many different forms but that's why I like it. Each type of creative non-fiction piece, a person produces, it all displays the truth in a different way depending on the style the writer uses.

-What did you learn about how to write creative non-fiction?

I think I learned about focus the most. Sometimes when I have an idea for a story, I write what I feel but didn't think of it too much from the perspective of the reader. Now when I write, I become more aware of each paragraph and contemplate more about ways I can write a certain piece that will make my focus more clearer.

- About where to publish/find publishing venues for your creative writing?

I didn't really give this much thought before, but it is really important for an emerging writer to get their work out there in some way. I mean, every little bit helps and eventually you will get close and closer to where you rally want to be. But you have to try. There are so many great publications, and many involve a personal and inspirational approach that I like to use in my writing.

-Did you change anything /try anything different in your writing process? Please describe?

Yes, definitely. I used to hate editing a lot more and just like I hate to throw away garbage in my room, I also don't like to cut sentences in my stories. I feel like everything has a meaning, but now I see that in order to get to a clear focus, is is important to change things around. I also look for my focus more and instead of using a lot of "telling" sentences, I try to describe as best as I can. At first, it was a challenge but I think I'm getting a little better at it. And my sentences do sound more metaphoric which is great.

-Which class assignments/class experiences helped you learn whatever you learned?

I learned from all of them but for some reason, I really enjoyed writing the last story a lot because I truly feel like it gave me more an ability to expand my creativity and skills in writing. I used imagery and description more than ever before in my writing and I never thought I could do it throughout a story like that. But really, this is how stories should be. The reader should be able to come up with their own interpretation.

-What do you wish the course spent more time on?

I guess writing creative non-fiction in general. There is so much information and so much to know and I wish the classes were longer. But other than that, I gained so much and I absolutely loved the class.

What do you wish we'd spent less time on?

I think the class was fine just the was it was.

2. Structure of course/assignments:

- Blogs

I enjoyed writing many of the blogs and felt that it gave me the opportunity to contemplate about a lot of stories we read while thinking and reflecting on my own.

- Reading

The readings helped me to think about my own writing in ways of making it better and different styles I can use.

-writing journal

It was difficult sometimes to get ideas across on page but it enabling me to see constant themes in my writing which I think was one of the main point of writing in our journals. I also loved our discussions in class and hearing others' comments.

-writing assignments

I enjoyed the topics we had to write about and I feel each benefited me and gave me more experience and skills in writing that will help me in my future writing career.

-exploration of publication venues

I am really glad we did this in class because I wasn't aware of all the venues that are available and it is important to get your work out there.

Questions:

-Right pace/schedule?

Yes I do feel that we had enough time to do everything. I stressed a little about my stories being done one time because they had to be written close to when the last story was due but many of the stories were drafts. There wasn't a huge emphasis on perfection until we got to the final draft. I just put pressure on myself when it comes to my writing which I am working on.

-Coherence of material?

Yes. Everything was understandable and clear.

-Workload => Too much, too little, just right? What would you change?

The workload was fine. Like I said before, most of the time I put pressure on myself. I'll admit though, some of the readings I didn't get to because I had so many other things due the same week but I felt guilty and tried to review them before class so I understood what everyone was taking about. But most of them I read and I finished all the stories on time. :)

-Cover material appropriate to course goals?

Yes, Defiantly

-Enough feedback for grades?

Oh, plenty. In fact, I appreciated it so much that you gave so much time for your students- All the comments you gave and the conferences. A lot of professors don't do that. Well, no one I met so far except for you. I am very thankful and received so much from it. Thank you again.

3. Provisions for feedback/grades

-comments/grades for blogs

Everything was great.

-comments/grades for blogs

I wish there was more of a focus on this because I enjoyed reading my classmates blgs to see what they thought, but I'll admit I didn't get too much feedback either.

-reading aloud from journals + class discussion

I enjoyed this a lot. It was fun in class and I learned so much. There was a lot of interation and discussions with my classmates that made them more my friends instead of people in the same class.

-conferences with professor on papers

I had two conferences with you but loved them both. I feel like they help a lot and it is always enjoyable to talk with you.

-group work with classmates on papers

Enjoyable, fun, and informative

-written feedback/grades on papers

Again, thank you so much for all your time. I enjoyed reading your comments, appreciated your feedback, and benefited quite a bit from it. :)

-reflective writing about your work (in you journal, on your blog)

I enjoyed this a lot and felt that it was very useful.

Questions:

-Which form of feedback was most helpful?

Probably the last story, because I really took it seriously about how I should concentrate on my focus. I actually printed out your feedback as a guide so it helped a lot.

-Which did you enjoy most?

I enjoyed reading the first one a lot because it was feedback from a story that meant to much to me. And at the time, I was going through a lot of anxiety and it meant a great deal to me to hear good news about something I wrote. Thank you.

-Any which you felt was unproductive?>

Well, I gained a lot of insight from all of them but since I didn't re-write my third story, I would say that one. But maybe in the future I will.

-What would you do more of?

More editing and revising.

-What would you do less of?

Telling, Telling, Telling- without letting the reader decide for themselves.

-Did you feel the grading system was fair?

Yes I do.

-Did the grades/grading system contribute to learning?

Yes

4. General response:

-Is there anything you could tell me that would help me teach a better/more engaging course?

Actually no. I loved your teaching methods and way you taught the course. I loved this class a lot! I especially loved how you saw each of us as an individual with different interests, feelings, and personalties. There was no pressure in the class at all. I felt more confident and enjoyed writing- not just for a grade but for myself. The class was also a lot of fun and I wanted to
come!

-Anything you want to say about your experience of the course?

Same. Thank you so much for everything. You are an amazing professor and I wish I had more classes with you.

Blog # 23 Final Fourth Draft- Beyond

2009-12-10T09:17:00.001-08:00

Beyond-

I sat back at ease in my seat, anticipating what was to come. The plane was probably now over the Atlantic ocean. My CD player was on with playing music from a CD that reminded me of him. It could have been of any genre. Love often has that effect on someone to turn the simplist things in a rembrance of the person you love. The butterflies in my stomach spread open their wings and flew around carelessly. I closed my eyes and gave in to letting the moving pictures in my head return to the previous summer. Did we really meet over a year ago? I laughed silently to myself. Fate is spread around the world purposely by everyone in hope that it really exsits. Andrea came here for English lessons and stayed at my Uncles's house in Tacoma Park, Maryland. He, without my awareness, was related to my uncle's wife. This was the first time my mother and I visited there in years. Andrea walked in the door while I stood up from the couch to greet him, aware of my cold hands from the soda can I was holding. His efforts to talk to me in his ruffled english made me talk in sentences i think he could easily understand. Eventually, our conversation came on its own without practice, into long explorations into each other's lives- being dragged in unexpectedly by a mapped out love soon to turn virtual.

"Can I kiss you," he asked quietly in his italian accent, just two days later while we sat downstairs on the pull out bed. My shaky reply eventually caused me to move in close to his lips to expreince my first kiss. His moist lips turned into an over abundance of saliva forming around my mouth. My lips slightly in disbelief but my stomach froze in anxiousness and excitment. My body tingly and my face, a burning sensation but a shade lighter like a pregnant woman from absolute happiness. We then both heard everyone calling us from upstairs. My mother wanted to take a group picure. I sat next to him on the couch in the living room, my exposed heated face, visibly seen now. My smile wide. The only evidence of what was really felt behind those large, glassy eyes, warm face, and plump, pink lips. The picture was taken.

All year of phone calls, emails- those I received and sent out everyday; the ones I anticipated all day in school, and ran in the house for onto the computer as if he was waiting there with his arms spread open. It was me who asked him to be my boyfriend. I already had an email waiting for me in my inbox and a phone call from him the next day I returned home. Puppy love my mother called it, aware of my love sickness that followed days after our visit. But the kind you talk about, admire, and long for and allow to take over. The newness and fresh ingredients of love replaced ordinary and into a mixture of possibility, never before experienced in glorious wait for the first taste.
...

I sat by the dark colored salt water pool just so my feet can feel the coolness of the water, giving me an idea of the temperature while I, transfixed at the ocean waves washing in and out. Only this wasn't the ocean. It was the sea and my pupils in full focus dilated a little more staring at the island they never seen before. I took off my shirt, revealing a bathing suit underneath, and after deciding to go into the water threw it on the nearest rock behind me. It barely made it onto the rock. As soon as it fell to the ground, an Italian man picked it up and waked over to me. He spoke in Italian obviously but I didn't understand a word. It didn't matter. I smiled and decided to lay out on one of the lounge chairs instead. The sun beat down on my face- oh so hot yet rejuvenating- warming my body and any thought that could have disturbed the moment. But the sun couldn't even find anything wrong either. I wasn't alone for long and my mind still consumed by my heart kept me from seeing past those three short weeks in Italy.

The sky was a light shade of blue so pure and full of life, holding clouds with peculiar shapes. The air smells so fresh- of sunblock and life- far away from even the remembrance of a pollutant. Laughter all around me, child and adult a like. The converging of Italian forming a separate language of it's own- one so soothing and delightful. Water builds up in my already squinting eyes from staring at the sky for so long but I don't want my sunglasses changing this picture to a different shade. Andrea remained a thought in my head, a image to form my lips into an automatic smile. My body, almost a separate being felt his presence nearby. The sensations all around me began to dwindle from the highest form to a degree or two under. I soak in my aloneness slightly more , an importance when it is permanent, stand up, gather my belongings and walk up the pathway towards the villas to great my Italian boyfriend coming to find me. He stood at the steps close to his villa, a towel in his hand, his face drooping in guilt and sadness from sleeping in later. We both held on to each other as if the time we had left was ending at that moment. The picture was complete again. A constant temperature, like a wanted summer heat wave. But there is always the season after to break through and shiver any remains away.

The island at night was uninhabited- giving way to a time of solitide. We stuck off a lot at night. It was almost as if the night was created for us. His parents advising him not to and my aunt and uncle telling me of his parents concern didn't make any difference to our decision making. One night a plan was determined. He told me to wait for him when we walked up the stairs that led to a walkway to his house late at night. He went inside to lay down for a while in his bed so he parents would think he was asleep. He told me he would sneek out. I sat on the walkway by myself, my eyes glaring at the door to open like a cat hearing every noise and observing everything around me. I peered behind the bushes like a spy. My body, in pure anticipation turned to uptight edge when I didn't see the door open. I slowly turned back then sat on the steps closer to my villa, still in the same direction as before but further away. A couple minutes more. That's it. I walked the pathway that led to my own villa, slowly opened the door, crept to my suitcase to get out my pajamas and went to bed.

His touch startled me and my eyes not yet adjusting to his presence saw a blurry image. "What are you doing here?" I asked him thinking it was several hours later. I followed him outside tiptoeing to the door which he opened slowly staring into the room where my Aunt and Uncle were sleeping adjacent to where we were. My heart started to race when I thought I heard a noise coming from their room but when we left the villa, my hand instantly grabbed his and my eyes returned back to normal- My body feeling the welcomed anxiousness of the night before us.

The sky lit up in complete decoration to celebrate the night- giving way to a color so visible and luminescent all around us, although, my face was already lit up holding onto his hand. We sat on one of the lounge chairs by the sea where I was just recently by myself. The sea hiding in the dark, only revealing itself by sound and once again the waves were heard pushing against the rocks careful not to disturb the night. I smell the air and let out a small sigh. I could even smell the sweet, saltiness of the sea. Its aroma filled the air. My body almost under a spell, wrapped up in its own mediation. A powerful serenity- enough to be absorbed, giving off an intense aurora to anyone sitting near me. Andrea motioned to me that he saw a metear stream across the sky. I then fixed my eyes on the starry sky in wait. When another one revealed itself, I closed my eyes to make a wish and shifted my eyes toward Andrea, wondering if his wish was the same. The night kept us there begging us to stay longer. We sat like magnets taking advantage of the idleness around us and giving a silent prayer of gratitude. When chills started to make my body aware of discomfort from the slight breeze, I looked to Andrea only as if he had a quite remedy. The sky seemed to appear a little lighter and my eyes roamed around a bit telling me I should return back. But my mind, counting ahead of time, didn't seem to worry yet about my trip back to America.

I felt the coolness of the balcony on my hands as I turned my body away from him. I stared at the scenes before me in a different view- eyes not fixed on the images around me but of the upcoming scenes in my head. I noticed a small array of goosebumps on my skin from a breeze in the air or perhaps imaginary. The sun, not as visible anymore- hiding behind several clouds in the sky, setting up the dramatic scene for us. I stared at his eyes I always compared to the sea- now looking at them from a greater distance even though I was only two feet away. He stood before me, promising he would never leave me. The silence around us from nature, overhearing our words was given to us in hope of us staying together but secretly knowing differently. The rest of the time there was pushed to fast forward.

The real end of the vacation took place in Rome where he lived, the last night to soak it all in. All the people walking past me, a familar scene like New York City where shops lined up on either side of the street. He took me into an abandoned building and I, carefully followed him up several flights of stairs past pieces of wood and occasional shards of glass; my hand resting in his. When on the top, I stared at a painting before me and my eyes tried to capture it all at once. The sunset glistened over the top of every building around us giving it an orangey contrast. The grundy, old buildings we past just moments ago on the train ride over, almost completely covered over by foreign graffiti disappeared. Andrea moved closer to me, and put his arms around my body. It was at that moment a separate beauty was created from what was seen around me and what was felt inside me. The two united into one and I then remembered where I was.

The dream played for a while longer until the middle of the night held our return. Andrea slowly opened the door, and we both crept slowly to his room. Mostly in silence we sat on his bed and kissed. I layed with him for quite some time after and mistakenly drifted to sleep. The knots started forming in my stomach, wakening me, and I opened my eyes. I held him tightly in my arms and he watched as I went in the next room over to sleep for a while longer before my Uncle would wake me in the early morning to leave. I heard my name not long after and my eyes adjusting to the morning light and my body like impulse raced to see Andrea. The morning was solemn. I walked to serve myself breakfast with the rest of my family in the kitchen. Slowly, I got my belongings together. The cars could be heard outside, driving up and down the street, still continuing its usual everyday pattern of life. I left my lipglass on the couch for him to find after I left where my lips had recently been.

We walked to the elevator to take us to the first floor of his apartment building. I was the last to follow- stalling and dragging behind. The doors to the elevator separated two worlds- the one which would soon be the past and the one of the future. As the doors slowly closed, I managed to see a tear coming down from his face. Almost shut now, I could still see his penetrated eyes, so focused and lifeless. The door shut and the dagger went in to my chest. I said my real goodbye to the world around me through teary eyes. I stared out the window of the cab on the way to the airport. My uncle sat next to me and saw the tears flowing down my face- the drops I refused to brush away. His reassurance and caring words I don't remember. I was alone again but this time I wouldn't find him waiting for me. The once beautiful city around me became instantly distorted and now into a foggy mist from my leaking eyes. I was still there, a dream world I so fantasized about all year. But now, I was home before I had a chance to leave.

I started my senior year in high school one month later. We were no longer together . I had to eventually take off the taped pictures of him on my locker of unrealistic hope I held on to for over a year. I stared at them as I slowly took off one by one, re-imagining each memory I now placed in my heart. I slip the pictures into my bookbag to return home. I was without him. We escaped from the virtual world into a three week dream. The dream ended with a sickness that stayed dormant inside, waiting for me to let go. The bats flew around in my stomach with their wings getting tangled and entwined. I look around and I start to see my reality looking back at me. My friends start walking towards me and I close my locker, swing my book bag over my shoulder, and wait to greet them.

Blog #22: Publication- Bellingham Review

2009-12-06T19:45:00.000-08:00

The Bellingham Review - Literature of Palpable Quality

Consists of:
Poems, essays, stories, and photographs that “display both depth of content and nudge the limits of form or execute traditional forms exquisitely.”

This magazine encompasses works that reflect the heart and soul of human nature. Hope and faith are common and widespread themes throughout the publication and any reader can absorb a sense of confidence and inspiration.

Creative non-fiction stories such as:
"On the Whole" tells the story of strength about a woman struggling with cerebral palsy. When one half of her body felt beautiful, the other felt clumsy. Eventually she found hope when she confided in a friend, fell in love, and bore a child realizing and believing that all things are possible. “Unexpectedly, I catch my reflection walking, my gait a bit like a dance.”

"School Shoes" is about a young girl living with a dysfunction that causes her feet to point inward and her difficult encounters that she faces in school among her peers from not being able to properly “fit in.” In her experiences with her caring, protective mother and hypochondriac father, she learns through her own imaginative mind and faith in herself that she can be anybody she truly wants to be. It doesn’t matter how the rest of the world views you, but if you are able to learn from it all and move past it- becoming a stronger and more beautiful individual. “I kept my new dance shoes, of course, and continued to put on my own performances in the privacy of my bedroom. There I was not only a great ballerina but also a circus aerialist.”

"Vision and Fear" describes the past and present fears of a man growing up. While his fears as a child were insignificant, his real fear later on in life involved his expected son’s heart condition. Sometimes to rid our fears in life, we have to overcome life’s biggest challenges, but in the end what we really gain is faith.

Content:
Rather than focusing on a specific form or length, this publication is more open to the true expression of the individual and the words they choose to display and share with their audience. This results in a prized publication that is comprehendible and valued by everyone who can easily relate to or appreciate a truly meaningful and memorable work of art.

History and Introduction:
An annual literary magazine which started publication in 1977 at Western Washington University. Prior to 1997, this magazine produced semi-annual publications, but now publishes every spring. Bellingham’s Review’s current issue is volume XXXII, Issue # 61.

Current subscription rates from the publisher are $12 for one year or $ 20 for two years. If purchased from a newsstand or store, the cost is $10 per issue but does not include updates.

Submissions:
Are received from all over the world from established and emerging writers without restriction to form or subject matter.
Work needs to be within a 9,000 word limit in order to be accepted. Poetry submissions of 3-5 poems are preferred.
Submissions are not accepted through email but can be send to:

Fiction, Nonfiction, or Poetry Editor
Bellingham Review
Mail Stop 9053
Western Washington University
Bellingham, WA 98225

September 15th through December 15th are the dates that accept submissions.
Applicants will know the decision of their submittal within one to six months.
Those who have their work published will receive payment depending on the amount of funds available.
Although submitted work to other publications is allowed, they require immediate notification if published elsewhere.

Blog # 21- The true purpose of your story

2009-12-03T11:40:00.000-08:00

The first section of homework we had to read on revising our work is about rereading, Reimagining, and Reshaping. There is a line in this passage that says, "Try asking yourself why anyone would want to read this piece- what are its meaning and purpose." Many times before I start writing, I focus on an inspirition I find interesting but I also think it is important to be able to connect with your audience- to find something they can relate to. In many ways, we all go through the same experiences and many others aren't able to see things through your perspective. Writng is like finding a light at the end of the tunnel and in many respects, sometimes when I read... I say out loud "Oh wow, I feel that way too" or "I never saw it that way before." I think that's why I like writing the most. I like to inspire others and hope they recieve something through my writing. So this section really helped me to see that finding a FOCUS is significantly important and once I find the purpose of writing a story, I can get more ideas together for what I want to say.

Why did I choose essay number 4? When I was in one of my classes this mornning, my professor startied talking about Keat's poem Ode to a Nightengale. The line "O for a beaker full of the warm South" is actually a beautiful description because it focuses on a feeling- a specific sensation instead of describing a glass of wine. We can almost feel the essense on our tongues. With my fourth essay, I wanted to get my audience to feel instead of me telling, telling, telling. Yes, it is more difficult for me to write but what I recently learned is that great art is not just all about visual. And that's what I feel writing is all about.

My fourth essay revision ideas...

2009-12-01T13:47:00.000-08:00

Ok so most likely I will be revising my fourth essay. This might be somewhat of a challenge for me but it is different than what I am used to writing so I wanted to possibly enhance my writing skills by doing something I never did before. I like the whole concept of showing in this story rather than telling, explaining and giving continuous reflections. I mean, most of us like to write, right? So, we have the ability to provide descriptive and elaborate scenes than can give the reader the ability to come up with their own meaning of the story instead of it being pointed out to them with the usual reflection. I felt as I was writing this that I was being taken back to this time period when I was in Italy. Sometimes my thoughts and feelings of being there are not so accessible now because this was several years ago but when I started describing the scenes, it started to all come back to me.

My focus was the tricky part. I wanted to initially focus on the thought of a love that goes beyond. It was my first time visiting a foreign country but the reason for vacationing there the summer of 2004 was because I feel in love with a guy from Italy who originally came to America for English lessons. The whole experience for me was absolutely magically. Yes, I was in a beautiful country but what made it more exciting and memorable was the fact that i was with the first love of my life. And really, when you are in love, the surroundings become even more beautiful. When I was alone in Italy, I still felt happy because it wasn't permanent. When your away from someone you love for a long period of time, it changes from being alone to pure loneliness. When I left Italy, I wasn't focused on leaving Italy as much as I was focused on leaving a huge part of my life behind and what I originally thought was possible: A long term relationship with someone from another country. It opened a door to reality for me. And the dream I once experienced had to end. I want to incorporate how being in a certain place doesn't matter, but the emotions you feel from who you are with does. And also how reality really gave me that perspective when I was with him for those three weeks but how to be separated. Because in life, anything is possible. I could have stayed with him but I also would have being putting myself through a lot of pain. So in the end, I made the right decision.

Blog # 19 Essay number 4

2009-11-22T20:03:00.000-08:00

I don't have a title yet...

I sat by the dark colored salt water pool just so my feet can feel the coolness of the water, giving me an idea of the temperature while I, transfixed at the ocean waves washing in and out. Only this wasn't the ocean. It was the sea and my pupils in full focus dilated a little more staring at the island they never seen before. I took off my shirt, revealing a bathing suit underneath, and after deciding to go into the water threw it on the nearest rock behind me. It barely made it onto the rock. As soon as it fell to the ground, an Italian man picked it up and waked over to me. He spoke in Italian obviously but I didn't understand a word. It didn't matter. I smiled and decided to lay out on one of the lounge chairs instead. The sun beat down on my face- oh so hot yet rejuvenating- warming my body and any thought that could have disturbed the moment. But the sun couldn't even find anything wrong either.

The sky was a light shade of blue so pure and full of life, holding clouds with peculiar shapes. The air smells so fresh- of sunblock and life- far away from even the remembrance of a pollutant. Laughter all around me, child and adult a like. The converging of Italian forming a separate language of it's own- one so soothing and delightful. Water builds up in my already squinting eyes from staring at the sky for so long but I don't want my sunglasses changing this picture to a different shade. I soak in my aloneness a little more then stand up, gather my belongings and walk up the pathway towards the villas to great my boyfriend coming to find me.

The island at night was uninhabited- giving way to a time of solitide. We stuck off a lot at night. His parents advising him not to and my aunt and uncle telling me of his parents concern didn't make any difference to our decision making. One night a plan was determined. He told me to wait for him when we walked up the stairs that led to a walkway to his house late at night. He went inside to lay down for a while in his bed so he parents would think he was asleep. He told me he would sneek out. I sat on the walkway by myself, my eyes glaring at the door to open like a cat hearing every noise and abserving everything around me. I peered behind the bushes like a spy. My body, in pure anticipation turned to uptight edge when I didn't see the door open. I slowly turned back then sat on the steps closer to my villa still in the same direction as before but further away. A couple minutes more. That's it. I walked up to my own door, crept to my suitcase to get out my pajamas and went to bed.

His touch startled me and my eyes not yet adjusting to his presence saw a blurry image. "What are you doing here?" I asked him thinking it was several hours later. I followed him outside tiptoeing to the door which he opened slowly staring into the room where my Aunt and Uncle were sleeping adjacent to where we were. My heart started to race when I thought I heard a noise coming from their room but when we left the villa, my hand instantly grabbed his and my eyes returned back to nromal and my body feeling the welcomed anxiousness of the night before us.

The sky lit up in complete decoration to celebrate the night- giving way to a color so visible and luminescent all around us, although, my face was already lit up holding on to his hand. We sat by on one of the lounge chairs by the sea where I was just recently by myself- a different yet equal feeling. The sea hiding in the dark, only revealing itself by sound and once again the waves were heard pushing against the rocks careful not to disturb the night. I smell the air and let out a small sigh. I could even smell the sweet, saltiness of the sea. Its aroma filled the air. My body almost under a spell, wrapped up in its own mediation. A powerful serenity- enough to be absorbed, giving off an intense aurora to anyone sitting near me. Andrea motioned to me that he saw a metear stream across the sky. I then fixed my eues on the starry sky in wait. When another one revealed itself, I closed my eyes to make a wish and shifted my eyes toward Andrea wondering if he did the same. The night kept us there begging us to stay longer. We sat like magnets taking advantage of the idleness around us and giving a silent prayer of gratitude. When chills started to make my body aware of discomfort from the slight breeze, I looked to Andrea only as if he had a quite remedy. The sky seemed to appear a little lighter and my eyes roamed around a bit telling me I should return back but my mind, counting ahead of the time, didn't seem to worry yet about my trip back to America.

I felt the coolness of the balcony on my hands as I turned my body away from him. I stared at the scenes before me in a different view- eyes not fixed on the images around me but of the upcoming scenes in my head. I noticed a small array of goosebumps on my skin from a breeze in the air or perhaps imaginary. The sun, not as visible- hiding behind several clouds in the sky, setting up the dramatic scene for us. I stared at his eyes I always compared to the sea- now looking at them from a greater distance even though I was only two feet away. He stood before me, promising me he would never leave me. The silence around us from nature, overhearing our words was given to us in favor of us staying together but secretly knowing differently. The rest of the time there was pushed to fast forward.

The real end of the vacation took place in Rome- the last night to soak it all in. All the people walking past me, a familar scene like New York City but compariably different. Shops lined up on either side of the street; glamorous and sheek. I walked in expecting to find some last minute gifts for my family. I strutted around pretending they didn't have what I was looking for, gave a smile to the sales lady as if I were a usual italian customer, and walked out onto the crowded yet welcoming streets of Rome. I walked past a McDonalds and gave a small laugh. "You probably eat here a lot?" I asked Andrea. His response was a no and the conversation stopped shortly after. My stomach found new interests. He took me into an abandoned building and we, carefully, walked up several flights of stairs past pieces of wood and occasional shards of glass. When on the top, I stared at a painting before me and my eyes tried to capture it all at once. The sunset glistened over the top of every building around us giving it an orangey contrast. My eyes free to roam around yet my legs stood paralyzed at the view. The grundy, old building we past just moments ago on the train ride over, almost completely covered over by foreign graffiti perished as I then remembered where I was.

My first drink at a bar at age 17 and I wasn't even home. The name of it, sex on the beach, was the same. I told Andrea to order it for me. I sat and waited until the drink was put in front of me. Fruit filled the glass and I took the small straw on the inside and sipped. I rested my self against the chair, folded my legs and joined in to the conversation with laughter and light English. Then Andrea and his friends gave me more of a tour. We drove around the city as I, peering through the sunroof, camera in my hand and the wind greeting me in the face. My eyes yet again in full focus of the fast, moving images around me. I snap a couple pictures with my camera and put it back down next to my feet of the car and then I quickly rise up again.

The middle of the night held our return. Andrea slowly opened the door, and we both crept slowly to his room. Mostly in silence we sat on his bed and kissed. I layed with him for quite some time after and mistakenly drifted to sleep. The knots started forming in my stomach and I opened my eyes. I held him tightly in my arms and he watched as I went in the next room over to sleep for a while longer before my Uncle would wake me in the morning early to leave. I heard my name not long after and my eyes adjusting to the morning light and my body like impulse went to see Andrea. The morning was solemn. I walked to serve myself breakfast with the rest of my family in the kitchen. Slowly, I got my belongings together. The cars coud be heard outside, driving up and down the street, still conitnuing its usual everyday pattern of life. I left my lipglass on the couch for him to find after I left.

We walked to the elevator to take us to the 1st floor of his apartment building. I was the last to follow- stalling and dragging behind. The doors to the elevator separated two worlds- the one which would soon be the past and the one of the future. As the doors slowly closed, I managed to see a tear coming down from his face. Almost shut now, I could still see his penetrated eyes, so focused and lifeless. The door shut and the dagger went in to my chest. The tears began on cue and and I said my real goodbye to the world around me through teary eyes. I was home before I had a chance to leave.

Ideas/ Focus for Fourth essay

2009-11-15T18:40:00.000-08:00

For my fourth essay, I think I'm going to go with my experience in Italy. I did a couple paragraphs about this in my last blog and I liked the description I made and found it easy to remember what I felt by remembering certain moments of the trip. I was 17 years old when I first visited Elba- an island off of tuscany and a couple family members helped pay for my trip because I I had a boyfriend who lived there. The experiences I had there were unbelievable and when I think of my ex-boyfriend, I remember how much I loved him but I also think back to Italy. So my focus that I been trying to utilize is a love that I felt that went beyond. It came in multiple forms. It was a complete journey for me and when I look back, I connect all these feelings and moments wrapped into one.

I started to do some free writing about this and I wrote down a couple incomplete paragraphs about my three week vacation there with my boyfriend. The scenes I wrote about were one of the last days there and how the view around me changed because of the heartbreak I was about to experience leaving him. And then I will write about leaving Italy (the real goodbye) and how it felt going home. Then there are a couple experiences I want to write about because they lead to my focus the most. I loved a time when I went off by myself for a little while. But at the same time, I still felt an incredible happiness when I was with my boyfriend. I will describe these two moments and what was felt. So far, I am planning on writing about four scenes. Two goodbye scenes and two other scenes about Italy in itself and Italy with a boy I was in love with. Hopefully it will come together more when I begin writing. I need to do some more free writing and developing.

Blog # 18 - A small taste of paradise

2009-11-10T12:57:00.000-08:00

I sat by the dark colored salt water pool just so my feet can feel the coolness of the water, giving me an idea of the temperature while I, transfixed at the ocean waves washing in and out. Only this wasn't the ocean. It was the sea and my pupils in full focus dilated a little more staring at the island they never seen before. I took off my shirt after deciding to go into the water and threw it on the nearest rock behind me. It barely made it onto the rock. As soon as it fell to the ground, an Italian man picked it up and waked over to me. He spoke in Italian obviously but I didn't understand a word. It didn't matter. I smiled and decided to lay out on one of the lounge chairs instead. The sun beat down on my face- oh so hot yet rejuvenating- warming my body and any thought that could have disturbed the moment. But the sun couldn't even find anything wrong either.

The sky, a light shade of blue pure and full of life holding clouds with peculiar shapes. The air smells so fresh- of sunblock and life- far away from even the remembrance of a pollutant. Laughter all around me, child and adult a like. The converging of Italian forming a separate language of it's own- one so soothing and delightful. Water builds up in my already squinting eyes from staring at the sky for so long but I don't want my sunglasses changing this picture to a different shade. I soak in my aloneness a little more then stand up, gather my belongings and walk up the pathway towards the villas to great my boyfriend coming to find me.

Twas Paradise.

Blog # 17 Essay # 3 A Simple Piece of Paper

2009-11-10T11:10:00.000-08:00

Lauren, I hope you will fill these pages with words that express everything you are and everything that you hope to be. Express yourself. Be yourself. Just be you. Have a great year and a great life. - Mr. D.

I didn't see Mr D. after that year but he understood what writing meant for me and he wasn't even my actual teacher. He was an older man who helped out in my S- Track English class in tenth grade. A class he knew I didn't want t be in because I actually wanted to learn. On my birthday when I walked into the class I saw a present on my desk and inside was a blue journal with flowers on it and a bag of swedish fish. Even though I loved swedish fish, I valued the journal more.

A notebook or journal holds together numerous freshly clean and uncluttered pages that are just so welcoming and inviting. I don't want to disappoint it with amateur writing. I want my work to stand out in pride. I am fully aware of the feeling of a new notebook in my hand and often bring it up to my nose and smell its enchanting scent. It reminds me of an old library with dozens of books that I know I'll never get a chance to read.

What is a piece of paper? A simple piece of paper enables us to pour the words that our mind has created and since our mind is constantly being flooded with new information- these thoughts often get misplaced upon another bookshelf in our mind corroded with dust. So a piece of paper gives us all the ability of memory and fast recollection. It also cages in our thoughts, experiences, and pondering so we can evaluate and make sense of them. One sheet of paper eventually forms 2, 3, 100 pages and before you know it, a story is produced. But is the piece of paper in itself significant or notebook or is it just out of convenience that we use them. If you think about it, you can write on almost anything- maybe it won't always be permanent such as writing on your hand (hopefully you wash your hands several times a day) but it is still possible.

A notebook, easy access in itself, not only holds many pages together but it is our own- a connecting piece to our soul. It is our friend, catching up on old tmes or revealing innermost secrets to. A child will often tell about a first kiss that they can't yet tell their parents. Or perhaps it becomes a way to deal with what we can't in real life. In this way, It becomes our safety net. A place to hold anxieties, worries and fears.

Inside my purse, there is so many receipts. Why don't I throw anything out? Thats another story. But all my purse's have old papers and receipts- those that are crinkled and torn and smell like chocolate probably from the restaurants that give out those after dinner mints. I'm sure there are many random ideas or the start of poems I simply forgot about over time. But I don't worry about it too much because I know more ideas will come. When I look at all my old notebooks and journals; the ones I bought and the ones that were given to me as a gift, I see that I start to write but then I eventually stop, a couple pages here and there and some possible half way through. I never finish a notebook. I just like to keep buying more. Way too often I gawk at my handwriting or word usage and then it hinders me from writing something else.

I recently searched around my room and found so many of them. When i was younger, I considered them to be diaries- writing about all my heart breaking moments sich as breakups, first experiences, the cruelty of friends, boys, and oh yea- one was devoted to a cat I once owned for a sort time. And then there was the time I pretended to be Harriet the spy and hide behind trees to write about people who passed by into a black, Mead notebook. On the book shelf in my living room there is an older one I bought with a lock at the dollar store in highschool with a picture of my idol Lucille Ball scotch- taped to the cover. After a while, I stopped writing on a day to day basis or even a weekly basis because it was exhausting to relive all the moments I already gone through. But when I really needed to get something out of me, I needed a brand new notebook and quick!

My other notebook is in my mind. I write in this one all the time. I don't usually bring a notebook around with me because I don't want to flood its perfect condition with a load of useless junk i call thoughts. But aren't our thoughts useful because they accumulate to something big, perhaps an important message or story that only our subconscious keeps inside? I always wanted to wait until the perfect idea would come along or award-winning thought. But really, we can't get there without the occasional cross out here and there. So what I would do is gather up all my thoughts into a collection bin and say to myself "I'll eventually write it down." But I get so upset with myself sometimes because I could of had some good creative writing going on but it is impossible when I can't retain the same initial thoughts in my head. We think all the time. Right now I'm thinking about how my pen is making a funny noise as I'm writing and oops, there goes another essential thought in my writing process.

Thoughts come when I drive or when I'm in a state of hypnosis that I create when my conscious mind is too bored to stay focused. And then there's the inspiration that can come at any moment. And I think, wow that's a good thought. Should I pull over or keep driving? Damn, why do good thoughts come at the worst times? Sometimes my mind can drive me crazy but if I had to thank it for at least one thing, it would be my writing. We think the things we think because of who we are and we should be proud of that.

Blog # 16 My Final Draft- My Claddagh Story

2009-11-01T17:08:00.000-08:00

My Claddagh Story

Before we left the hospital for the last time, I sat in one of the chairs by myself outside my grandmother’s room. I stared at my ring and rubbed the heart so roughly that the ring became wet from the sweat of my finger caused by severe pain surrounding my entire body. I clung on to it, pressing it against my skin, like a memory I didn't want to forget. At this time the heart was facing outward but when I was sitting there at the hospital, I didn't want to think of Sean as my finger caressed the ring. I took the ring off my finger and slid it back on with the black heart facing towards me. My only thoughts were of my grandmother and this ring was what she gave me- not the one I lost long ago, but the meaning, the power, the love that will remain with me forever.

This ring always intrigued me and I became captivated when I eventually learned of its meaning. When I got older and bought my first Claddagh ring, I followed the traditional custom. I would automatically start up a conversation when I saw others wearing it, becoming instantly drawn to its magnetic force. It wasn't until 2006 when I started using the ring's meaning in my own way that I truly saw its profound significance and importance in my life. Now it never leaves my finger. This beautiful Irish ring worn today by many people encompasses a great symbolic meaning and it seems that most everyone who wears one possesses their own story.

The center piece displays a heart of love surrounded by hands of friendship and on top rests a crown of loyalty. This ring, according to old custom, can be worn to represent if a person's heart is available or taken. If the ring is worn on the left hand with the heart facing inward, it means that you are married. If it is worn on the right hand with the heart facing inward, you're in a relationship with someone and your heart is therefore taken, but if the heart is looking the other way, then you’re still in search of love.

My first introduction occurred when I was a little girl and my grandmother took me to a jewelry store where rows of rings stood before me. My surroundings were hazy and unrecognizable looking back at that moment, but I now see it must have been important for her to buy me this ring. I watched as she picked up a small, silver Claddagh ring, finding the right one to fit my finger and I carelessly took care of it, in adoration of the object itself, like a child often is with a new toy. That highlighted time eventually formed a memory and a special link was created. From that day on, without so much realizing it then, this symbol became our own- a special bond we shared of her Irish background she passed down and from all the love she bestowed. She always wore a gold Claddagh ring on one of her fingers which in the future I would own. My eyes would gaze upon its worth with so much unspoken sentiment, knowing it represented a connection we had that could never compare to any replica I may find. I always owned silver but it was she who wore gold.

She was the only grandmother I ever had, even though my dad’s mom is still alive. But a three year separation period that they, the Sicilian side of the family started over a series of unnecessary tension gave me a new perspective. And now my dad is the only one who really talks to her. To me that’s not true family and I don’t regret not calling her. But my nana was the one that was there for me and my family, financially and emotionally. She would always sit, beaming in the audience at all our school events. She would often brag to various people in the family about all of our accomplishments, addressing how immensely proud she was of all her grandchildren. But most of all, she was always there.

I tried numerous times to find the ring my grandmother bought for me but it was impossible and I think it will forever remain lost. If I would've known how much that ring would mean to me in the future, I would have never taken it off, just like the one I own today. This one has a black heart. And I am conscious of it's presence on my finger in fear that this too shall slip off and veil itself from my sight.

My grandmother died November 17th 2006 due to a sudden aneurism in the brain. The phone rang in the morning as I was upstairs in the bathroom toying with my hair in preparation for school. I froze as my mother picked up the phone and began screaming. My grandfather told my mom a blood vessel burst in my grandmother's brain and she was being rushed to the hospital. But yet I held on to a sense of optimism that everything was going to be all right. It had to. My grandfather, her best friend in life, remained by her side, trying to talk to her until her last words turned to slurs as he watched her slip from his life.

On the way to my grandparent’s house to meet my uncle, my sister was driving as my mother and I began a solemn conversation about Thanksgiving. “We should cook for Nana this year,” Carrie said to us knowing that our grandmother would be too weak. When we arrived, our optimism turned into a reality we weren't ready to embrace as we saw my uncle standing beside his car in the driveway. "She's not going to make it," James said too fast. He looked as if all color vanished from his face as he prepared those words. My mother immediately fell to the ground in front of the strange, yet familiar house; her eyes rolled up towards the sky. As everyone tried to help her up, I began screaming "Nana! Nana!" My uncle grabbed me and I began to cry in his arms. He started breaking down. Realizing it, he stopped himself and said we had to go. It wasn't long after that I began to realize she already died on the way to the hospital. This we all knew, even though a machine was keeping her alive until we all decided it was time to let her go.

It was the year of death. Rich and Tony- their names still reappear in my mind never letting me forget. A car accident that started it all, quite like the big bang theory. One was my best friend's ex-boyfriend and the other, a friend of my boyfriend. Bad things could happen and they will. This was the main thought that dwelled inside me; found a place to live and stayed dormant for a long time. My relationship with my boyfriend Sean at the time began to falter, a complete turnaround from the ideal relationship I thought we once had- a relationship that focused on perfection- change was incomprehensible. Now I see it as inevitable. The third death was my grandmother. The next instance of death after my grandmother, my boyfriend just gave the only response he could. I felt the coldness of his words rise goose bumps on my skin. "Everybody’s dying," he said to me without glancing at my face. This time we were walking figures- so distant, not able to save each other. Death became the norm and support for one another couldn't be found.

I sat in the waiting room not far from where my grandmother's body was. There were several Amish people there and I remembered the Amish shootings that occurred that same year. I felt connected to them. Someone was there talking to one of them about the situation. "Do you think there is hope she will make it?" I asked one of them, trusting they would give me some type of spiritual response. The woman looked at me and said it was possible. A small amount of optimism came back and I prayed that maybe this time God can let my family have a miracle.

I had to keep leaving the room. I wasn’t able to stay. I listened as more commotion filled the room- on and off crying, and decisions about letting go of my grandmother after the doctor informed us several times of what I refused to understand. Why can’t we just have more time? What about a miracle? I remembered the Claddagh. My eyes shifted around the room and stopped when I reached her belongings. Her ring was somewhere in here and I wanted it. It needed to be with me.

Before we left, I stood inside the room staring at who was once my Grandmother- noises from the machines could be heard. It was quiet this time. I kissed my grandmother’s forehead whispering "I love you Nana," - my unreturned goodbye. My grandfather sat lifeless in the chair, refusing to believe what was surrounding him. Focusing on his own strength he said to me, "I'm sorry kiddo."

It was my 16th birthday when I first received a significant part of my grandmother- wrapped up in a white box. She told my mom beforehand that she couldn’t wait to give me this present. Inside rested an aquamarine necklace much bigger than the one she got for me a few Christmases before. Its smooth, shimmering surface collected different colors of light all around me. I could almost see my reflection. My grandmother told her it was a ring that belonged to her mother. Now it was given to me as a necklace. My treasure of aquamarine jewelry eventually grew to a collection I received from my grandmother’s will. She talked with my mom often about what she would leave to me and my sister. But really, she left more than just jewelry. She left a piece of herself.

The last day she was alive, I was fighting with Sean which was habitual at the time. My mind, half-absorbed over a merry-go-round of a problem which I usually started, focused on whether I would get a call from him soon. We all sat in the dining room talking, just my grandparents, my mom and I. I remember staring at her gold Claddagh ring, but this time I told her how much this ring always meant to me. I lifted up my hand to show her mine. They both looked so happy. My grandfather showed us his new wedding band that my grandmother recently bought for him after he lost the previous one. Jokingly, she said that this was going to be his last one. After a while into the conversation, I decided to walk downstairs to our rec room to watch TV in complete thought of my boyfriend, while feeling slightly guilty. I didn’t listen to my intuition that day. I looked upstairs and saw my grandmother looking back at me. I had to quickly turn my head back to the TV because I felt that I was doing something appallingly wrong. Later on when they were both getting ready to go, they whispered to each other about the old beat up couch I was sitting on. I knew they were planning on getting us a new one for Christmas. I followed them back upstairs to give a quick goodbye which I now wish was longer. But it was enough to give me some kind of an imprint- the scent of her perfume and the feel of her brown jacket with the furry hood brushing up against my face when my arms were wrapped around her. That day I didn't wave out the window until their white, Grand Marquis drove out of sight.

It will be three years next month since her death and the season's return drags in extra memories. My grandfather doesn't wear his wedding band anymore and even though I don't fully understand, but now I realize that this was something he had to do. I broke up with my boyfriend the first summer after, realizing it was something I had to do. Even though I think about being in a relationship, I can't imagine myself taking that chance again just yet. My grandfather lives alone. He takes a woman out for breakfast on Sundays. My mom says it is just for companionship, but I wish that woman was my nana. I picture her sometimes at the house, walking in her slippers, revitalizing it with her presence and returning that feeling of contentment as soon as you walk through the door. Holidays were the greatest. It was an escape from home- a treat we all looked forward to. When I was younger I looked forward to the huge, extravagant presents my grandparents would buy for all of us. They would ask us to make up a list in October. But it was the conversation I eventually started to look forward to- the laughter and of course my grandmother running into the kitchen in the middle of dinner forgetting to take the rolls out of the oven. I especially loved when we would all rest our bellies from all the holiday eating. Midway between unconsciousness and watching TV, I would glance over at my grandmother still puttering around in the kitchen where I can still picture her. That feeling was unforgettable. She gave us all more life than we already had- especially for my grandfather. Those two were a match that was meant to be even before the beginning of time. “Sidekicks,” my grandfather says sometimes.

I bought a silver ring that served the purpose of a wedding band for my boyfriend on our one year anniversary. I already owned a ring he gave to me, and I felt that this would represent our love and what I once thought was endless. But now when I look back, I see that sometimes change has to occur in life even though it isn’t always easy to face. A year later, he lost this ring in the river at the cabins which held most of our memories and was what we both considered the foundation of our two year romance. Now, this piece of jewelry I once gave him with the inscription “My love always” is probably still there, swimming among the rocks and other lost belongings in the river, where it belongs. I recently went to that area with his cousin (one of my best friends) and I told her I wanted to see the cabins again- to just quickly glance at what was such an immense part of my past. It took me not even one minute before I told her to turn around. That place was completely different to me now and I think I’ll leave it that way.

My mind always drifts when I'm driving and I often search to find a good song on the radio or one to match the mood I'm in. I pause when "How to save a life" by The Fray comes on- a depressing song that I used to not be able to listen to and my mind almost immediately starts replaying the same, familiar scenes. That long drive to Philadelphia, knowing what we were about to do. It was our second day there and the last. My brother was driving so I was able to stare out of the passenger side window in complete orbit trying to form her face in the passing clouds. I felt the pain more when this song came on. Now I turn the song up, almost in full blast so it can penetrate throughout my body erasing everything else that could disturb this time. More memories start pouring in and I can almost hear her speaking to me. "I need you Nana" I begin to say out loud as several tears sometimes build up in my eyes. In the same instance, a big smile emerges across my face and I glance up at the sky and back down at the world around me where, I’m fully conscious of the present again and of the Claddagh I can feel wrapped around my index finger. My grandmother was gone but she wasn't permanently out from my life and I know she will always be with me. This is our hidden secret that rests upon my finger, connected to my soul. And that I can never lose.

(Names were changed for privacy reasons)

Oh, Aquamarine

The finest of blues
Born with the color flowing throughout my blood
dripping from a claddagh of memory
so permanently attached upon my finger
A magnet to my grandmother
The link connected to a blue heart
coloring my world as a constant reminder
The blanketed sky where she watches
like a river reflecting the sky in soft ripples
not to disturb their unity transforming to one
A desire to swim with the water splashing over me
A continuous rejuvenation of memory
An understanding of a fish’s dependence on water
Our shared Piscean souls
The color resting beside diamonds, rubies and pearls
Value more often to catch the light
A gift left for me
and the Golden treasure dressed in blue
that walks beside me always

Blog # 15 Last minute picture

2009-10-30T12:58:00.000-07:00

ok, so I forgot to grab some pictures in the morning for school. The truth is I been up so late the night before doing homework of course and I told myself I would just look for them in the morning but in the morning I forgot. Oddly enough I happened to bring a photograph with me to school anyway. This one is of me and my best friend about two years ago. As I was walking out the door yesterday morning my mom stopped me and said she found a picture. Without thinking, I stashed it in my book bag and only thought of it again before class when I started panicking that I forgot to look for a photo. But I had one all a long and I consider this in some way fate.

My best friend: How do I describe him. He has been there for me my whole life- well for the past 2 and a half years of knowing him. I have many friends but he is a person I can honestly say is a genuine and rare find. He proves how much he loves me every day by helping me get through my most difficult moments. And when I pulled that picture out of my book bag, I couldn't help but smile. This time he came through for me again without even realizing it. The picture I have of us is just one of many but it is one of the pictures I used to put together a calendar of all of our memories as a christmas present for him. Pictures hold memories whether painful or happy and I feel that they are so useful in life. When I look at that picture I know even more that we share such a powerful connection and this will last forever.

Blog # 13 Clutter?

2009-10-28T21:30:00.001-07:00

Ok, so maybe I don't have an actual item to describe but I will tell you this- I don't like to throw things away. When I looked into my purse before, I noticed many receipts, old chocolate, and a tissue wrapper with no tissues left in it. Call me lazy or weird but I think it also has to do with my having the constant feeling that I might need these items again in the future. In some way, I'm nervous of throwing things out- eventually I get to it but I always seem to put it off.

My closet: My mom is obsessed with garbage day and she yells at me to find stuff she can collect to throw away. I dread garbage day for two reasons. 1: This means I actually have to get off my ass and search for things I don't need and 2: What can I possible throw away? Everything is wrapped in to some type of memory. I have old stuffed animals, clothes, dolls, boxes filled with little trinkets I used to call treasures, and the old miscellaneous. My mom goes into my closest herself and shows me a box of things to look at and I immediately say "No, I like those," or "I can't throw THIS away!" Everything reminds me of a specific time and I just can't bring myself to throw things away. For instance, I used to love collecting things- pencils, stickers, etc. I remember when I found my old sticker book in my closest. I was amazed at how many stickers I collected and of all different styles and colors. Everything represents me now or who I was and I like to hold on to that.

Blog # 12 Hmm

2009-10-27T12:55:00.000-07:00

My two essays that I wrote were completely different which is good. My first one means so much to me because it surrounds a difficult time in my life that i had to face. I feel that I needed to get that story out and when I read it over again, remembering those same experiences I can begin to see all over again how intense everything was for me in 2006. But I overcame it. That's the important part. Writing is strength for me. It always has be. To write about all I went through- it eventually becomes much more than an experience. I put together many stories in one to give way to a symbolic meaning and I want to finish it. I can't leave this piece alone. I don't want to. I think I will do more editing to it and see how much more powerful I can make it.

Don't get me wrong. My second piece also includes many interesting, and sometimes difficult experiences from the past. It also talks about what I want to do with the rest of my life and why I came to this conclusion. But I also feel that I need to think into this one a little more and how I am going to focus it into one whole idea instead of numerous ideas. Both stories represent a lot of truth but I am going to revise number 1.

Blog # 11. Essay 2.

2009-10-18T17:48:00.000-07:00

I don't have a title for this yet but here goes...

My 2nd Essay.

I was sitting at a diner last night with my best friend. Our food didn't arrive yet so I was able to tell him about my day. "Writing is such a huge part of civilization," I say as I think back to my last class. I tell him how writing is such a major impact on the world. I begin a conversation about a couple stories I had to write for another class and how they connected to previous poems I had already written All the intense moments in my life, I turned to writing- to break down the extremity, dissemble it and help me deal. "Maybe that's your writing style," my friend says feeling my passion through my words. My eyes shift began to shift as I qickly thought back to how a pen and paper become the most essential tools throughout my life.

The first real poem I can remember emphasized the cruelty of friends and the impact it had on my life those three years in middle school. The poem was titled "Hidden Secrets." The girl I wrote about was was in school with me and I don't think she realized what I was feeling. This marked the beginning of my realization of true friendship and how if that gets destroyed, it can get be returned. I ended up losing many friends in middle school- "dropping them like flies" was an expression I used a lot. They happened to all join together in a union against me. Their leader, Janet, used to also be a friend of mine. I can still picture her eyes, squinty like, but enough to show evil through them. At that time, she made an effort to taunt me, attacking me for sport- an extracurricular activity she participated in full- time. I had to pass by Janet and her snickering clan, playing their never-ending game of follow the leader to get to my mom's car. Janet followed me and put her arm around me as she looked back at her friends and laughed. I wanted to break her arm off and destroy her but I just kept walking. My mom was my support system. Most of the time i just ignored them, knowing my mom would raise my spirits and tell me how special I was. My home was a separate dominion and when I was there, nothing else seemed to matter.

Now when I drive past that school, It's so hard for me to recall good memories but I can't help but turn my head in it's direction every time. "The worst years of my life" I always say but I guess it was a learning experience, all happening for a reason- a cliche I know, but for now, A cliche is what I can start you off on and I promise I'll be more specific.

I didn't like the way I looked in middle school. An assumption of many was that I was a nerd even though I was just as average in school as many of my classmates. Boys didn't really notice me and if they did, it was for the usual commentery. I would always know when someone was thinking something. And even when I wasn't being criticized, I still felt insecure about my looks. My biggest enemy was the mirror and how I would try so hard to look a certain way, to fit in even in the slightest way. I hated my bangs. I felt like I had a small animal resting on my forehead. I snapped one day when I took out a hairbrush and pressed the wire bristles against my think bangs, just enough to feel the pain on my forehead as my crying turned into a raged scream. But getting a haircut just made me feel worse. I cried the whole way home. My guy friend at the time called it my bang operation. I remember coming home from my haircut and crashing onto the kitchen floor in tears. My thick bangs turned into a few strands. They eventually grew out but I was completely devastated going to school that way.

Highschool was when I came out of my shell. I got voted 'most changed since freshman year' when I graduated. It was different in highschool- Major changes occurred the start of my junior year when guys were actually interested in dating me- a few of the ones in middle school who seem to forget I existed. I didn't make much of a fuss over them though even though I liked the attention. I had my group and I classified us as the weridos. Any way I could stand out to prove how I didn't give a shit about what others think, I did. I dressed up like a guy one day and another day I wore crazy makeup on my right eye. Me and my best friend at the time called it our freaky fridays. I was happy with how I looked after I got contacts, got rid of my bangs, and my braces came off. Funny how that works huh? My Sophomore year in high school, before my "dramatic" change, I came into homeroom with my hair strengthened and I felt pretty. My teacher noticed my change and adressed that all I needed to do was get contacts and have my braces taken off. She compared me to the girl in the movie Princess Diaries- you know, the girl who has the big makeover and became a knock out. Oh yea, that's great for my insecurity. Eventually, another peom came forth. This one is called immerged beauty. It will always stand out as my favorite for what it represents in my life.

When I was 16 years old- the summer before my Junior year in high school, I fell in love with a boy from Italy. This seemed like a once in a life time kind of thing. An unbelievable first time experience that gave my life a heavy spin. He came to America for english lessons and I met him through my family. The sense of loss afterward left me in complete devastation. The next summer I went to Italy with my Uncle and his family to spend three with with him. I often think that maybe I imagined the whole thing. Maybe it wasn't real. How could I be so happy? But I was happy because I didn't think about our ending. After our three weeks were over, I had to go back home to reality. It wasn't long after that we both broke apart I tried to fight for him back the beginning of my senior year but I realized something- When you know what it's like to touch a form of pure happiness and then try going back and living without it. It is impossible. For a young girl who never experienced something like this before, it was brutal. We didn't want to go back to phone calls and emails. My only way to deal with it was through poetry. Poems after poems were written and it eventually healed me. I would gaze out the window as the weather grew colder, clutching on to a notebook, and a collection of poems grew.

Where did all my other poems come from? I often call myself the dark poet because I don't write about happiness. Rarely I recall life's fruitful moments. Whenever i experience something, I just need to get it out as fast as possible before I lose any sort of explanation. The same themes kept showing up through my work- death, change, depression. Writing has always been a part of my life. Trust me, I am not a miersbale person but that's where my inspiration comes from and I feed off it. We all have our own style.

I remeber in the 6th grade, I had to do my first writing sample. I don't remember the topic but I wasn't nervous because I didn't learn anything about this before and I wasn't informed that it was a type of assessment. Maybe I just wasn't listening which wasn't totally rare for me but when I received my assignment in front of me, I just wrote what I thought- anything that came to my mind, I wrote and it was fun for me to just invent. My english teacher read this paper in front of my class that same year. I felt so proud. Sitting there and listening to a teacher say to my peers that they should possibly wrote more like me? Ok, so maybe she didn't say it quite like that but she used my paper as an example. This was the same teacher that made me see I had a talent for wriitng, that creativity defiantly dwelled inside me and I thought- yea, you know, I do like to write. I love it. She urged me to keep writing and I tried to keep in touch with her after middle school but she didn't return my email. I still carry around her advice around though.

After that year I didn't do quite as well on other writing samples even in highschool. I felt more pressure on those days and it was difficult for me to just start writing. The first time was just plain me. Sure the punctuation sucked but it was me. How was I supposed to say what I want without worring about time limits, rules, and oh no, was I off topic?

I felt that school sometimes made you think too much into writing instead of feeling it- stripped you down to the bear minimum. School can take the realness out of you. Rules can sometimes constrict you and make you doubt yourself- thinking that you can't possibly get your writing a certain way. You can't let yourself think outside the box- the true irrational thinking I now surrender to all the time, was more suppressed. Creativity is hard to come by when your told to write a certain way. Even today, there are those teachers or professors that want you to write their way. They see great idea and what you wrote just wasn't it so you change your paper completely around. Why? Many times, this is where the doubt begins to form even more.

How many times did i doubt myself in college? I never stooped. I started out in writing and i swtiched to early childhood eduation because of my fear that i wouldn't get a future job. "I'm just going to be a teacher and write on the side," I would constantly say. But teaching was just not for me. I remember telling a certain professor at school of my conflict inside my head. She told me a lot of people pick teaching and regret it later on. I realized right then and there I'm just going to go back to what I really want which is writing. My third year in, I switched but its ok- I'm graduating this year- not bad after five years. My mom does bombard me with questions of my future. "What are you going to do after school?" "You need to pay off your loans and you need health insurance! " Most of the time I'm quiet, taking it all in, trying to distract myself with something. But it hurts. Especially when I'm scared too. "Mom, i'll get a job, ok. I might have to work to get where i want but ill do it." Nothing comes easy- i know this. I can't begin to describe the times i cried believing my work won't even be close to being published or even recognized. I just want to insprie the world- help others through my writing and in some way connect with them.

I call writing my love/hate relationship. It drives me crazy. I can never get what i really want to say out. It's all lies! And many times I think to myself- maybe i don't want to write, maybe theres something else out there. Then why do I keep going back to it? No, no. It has to be for me. For the first time, I'm going to except it. You can't deny who you are. It just sucks because unfortunately, you can't control doubt either and you can't force a career upon yourself no matter how much passion dwells inside you. I can see myself working for a magazine somewhere in NewYork City carrying a long my dreams in my right hand.

I told the same friend I was eating with how rational I think his mind is. I know he hates this but its true. He sees things for what they are. I go beyond. You can explain rational thinking I always tell him. It's the irrational kind that's hard. I think back to my science class- a class I need for graduation and only the past two classes I been actually forcing myself to pay attention to. Always the same routine. "Bing" the elavator sounds to the third floor. It's so quiet when I reach the top- no one is around. There are specimens of scientific evidence all around me- explantions, facts, and theorys. I notice maps, and certain rocks and minerals in showcases along the route to my class. I don't belong there. I find a seat in class and my mind begins it's drift session until I tell it to concentrate.

A guy from one of my english classes yesterday said that he think of himself as a fraud as a writer. He said it with a laugh and I knew he was only half serious but I often feel the same way. But really, when we compare ourselves to other writers without getting anywhere near their talent, it's normal to feel like a fraud. I joked back and eventually said that with writing you can never be perfect. What's the defintion of that? You can keep getting better and better but you can't write up a version of complete perfection. The Greek Philosopher Plato saw writing as a form of imitation- far away from his idea of an "ideal world." Writing can never perfect, but you can come close to describing a feeling of perfection and the beauty around you. Writing gives you that ability. It's beyond expression. I feel that you are putting a form of yourself into the world. In science or mathematics, we can get to where we can find out the answers. It might not come easy to some of us such as me, but it's something we can learn through practice and study. Many people might go down that field because it is possible. If you don't have it in you, you can't learn it. Writing is based upon what you want to say and how you want to say it. It depends on you- the individual. And no one can ever steal your style. I didn't think there could be anything that can take away some of the doubts and fears I been facing, but then I recently learned about Longinus. He is a greek, rhetorician that believed in the acquired knowledge and rules you can learn to get better at perfecting your skills and connecting with your reader , but ultimately he saw writing as a natural, innate ability. Some people have it and some people don't.

I was talking to my best friend on the phone when I first switched my major to English. "I don't know if I'm good enough. There are a lot of great writers out there," I said in a voice that sounded more tense than serious. He held my optimism. "Yea, but you're a great writer," he replied back. "There's a lot of great writers too," I rebuked. "Well, the world can always use one more." His last sentence made me pause. Writing has always traveled with me throughout life and I think I just started to realize that now. Do I have a set focus? No, but I want to write and that should be enough. It took me this long to figure this out but I think I'm stronger. You can't hide from your shadow. It's a part of you and follows you wherever you go. I'm not saying the road ahead will be easy. As a matter of fact, it won't be, but it is important to remember one thing. You can't runaway from who you are. Accept it, embrace it, and give it to the world.

Blog # 10 Focus for essay 2

2009-10-14T08:47:00.000-07:00

Ok, Well, I totally avoided writing this for a while because I honestly didn't know what to write about. And then yesterday at school, I came up with an idea of writing about middle school. Now, those three years were not easy for me and I honestly went through a lot- which I learned from. But now that I'm thinking about it, I don't know if I'm ready to unleash all those personal stories, especially if it has to be something I might publish. As I am writing this, another idea came to my head. Writing means the world to me. My next essay will incorporate just how much it means to me- how I may have doubts at different times about my future job or even my writing capabilities itself, but it is who I am. It always has been. And I first realized this in the 6th grade which is one very good thing that did happen to me in middle school.

I will explain the poems I wrote and how they connected to different aspects in my life by addressing those experiences. And Throughout, I will show my views of writing and how strong they are- different from the rational world. I know it sounds a bit confusing now, But I been jotting some stuff down and I actually think this could work and in there will have remembrances of difficult times but not in a way where I can't write about them. My main focus: I can't runaway from who I am. None of us can.

Blog # 9 Revising

2009-10-06T13:25:00.000-07:00

Revising my essay is actually not an easy thing to do. I already started to change paragraphs around and wording that can hinder the flow of this story. I really want this to come out great since this story really means a lot to me. I never told it fully before and it also gives myself the opportunity to get it all out without having these memories remain inside me.

First of all, I am unsure about the opening. I wanted to introduce it in a way where it wasn't so direct. The symbol in my story is the claddagh ring and from this ring comes memories of my grandmother. So I thought it would be important to mention this first. The paragraphs I wrote are either in the present time or the past and how I am able to see this same experience from different times. I think I put down all the things I would like to write about. This was a challenge for me in the beginning but the information i want to say is all out there. The only problem is, I hope it is presented in a way where it is easily understood. I want each paragraph to flow well. And I want the reader to be able to feel connected, even if it is in a small way. Maybe their own experiences came up while they read my story. I hope my writing will be able to depict an image or truth.

I tried listening to a song that that helps me remember the experiences I wrote about very well. And instead of focusing on proper wording, I just wanted to get those memories out there and then work on that. This seems to help because, otherwise, I am worrying mostly about the final outcome when I am not even close to being finished.

Blog # 8 My Personal Essay- The Claddagh Story

2009-10-04T19:25:00.000-07:00

My Claddagh Story

The beautiful irish ring worn today by many people encompasses a great symbolic meaning and it seems that mostly everyone who wears one possesses their own story. With its accented and pronounced radiance dressed up in silver or gold, the claddagh ring stands out as a very powerful symbol. Whether it is worn with its intended meaning or as a treasure, it is very much valued by its owner.

This ring always intrigued me and I became captivated when I eventually learned of it's meaning. I absolutely loved when I saw others around me wearing the ring and I would automatically start up a conversation about it. When I got older and bought my first claddagh ring, I followed this traditional custom. It wasn't until 2006 when I started using the ring's meaning in my own way, that I truly saw its profound significance and importance in my life and now it never leaves my finger.

I was first introduced to the claddagh ring when i was a little girl and my grandmother took me to a jewelry store where rows of rings stood before me. My surroundings were hazy and unrecognizable looking back at that moment but I now see it must have been important for her to buy me this ring. I watched her pick up a small, silver, claddagh ring, finding the right one to fit my finger and I carelessly took care of it, in adoration of the object itself like a child often is with a new toy. Now I see there was a reason this time was highlighted and a special memory was formed and a link was created. From that day on, I saw this symbol as our own- a special bond we shared of her irish background she passed down and from all the love she bestowed. She always wore a gold claddagh ring on one of her fingers and I always admired that ring and would gaze at it, unspokenly, knowing it represented a connection we had.

I tried numerous times to find the ring my grandmother bought for me but it was impossible and I think it will forever remain lost. If i would've known how much that ring would mean to me in the future, I would have never taken it off, just like the one i own today. This one has a black heart. And I am conscious of it's presence on my finger in fear that this too shall slip off and veil itself from my sight.

My grandmother died November 17th 2006 due to a sudden aneurism in the brain. The phone rang in the morning as I was in the bathroom toying with my hair in preparation for school. I froze as my mother picked up the phone and began screaming. My grandfather told my mom a blood vessel burst in my grandmother's brain and was being taken to the hospital. But yet I held on to a sense of optimism that eveything was going to be all right. It had to. My grandfather, her best friend in life, remained by her side, trying to talk to her until her last words turned to slurs and he watched as she slipped out his life. On the way to my Grandparents house to meet my uncle, my sister was driving as me and my mother began a conversation about Thanksgiving and how we want to cook this year for the first time since my grandmother will be too weak. When we arrived, our optimishm turned into a reality we weren't ready to embrace. "She's not going to make it" my uncle said so fast- too fast, but quick enough for him. My mother immediantly fell to the ground, her eyes rolling up towards the sky. As everyone tried to help her up. I began screaming "Nana!" "Nana!" My uncle grabbed me and while I began to cry in his arms, he starting breaking down. Realizing it, he stooped and said we had to go. It wasn't long after before I realized she died on the way to the hospital, this i know, even though a machine was keeping her alive until we all decided it was time to let her go.

It was the year of death. Rich and Tony- their names still reappear in my mind never letting me forget. A car accident that started it all quite like the big bang theory. One was my best friend's ex-boyfriend and the other, a friend of my boyfriend. Life sucks and the difficult moments will always stick out in our minds the most in effort to distort it. Bad things could happen and they will. This was the main thought that dwelled inside me- found a place to live and stayed dormant ever since. My relationship with my boyfriend at the time began to falter, a complete turnaround from the ideal relationship I thought we once had- a relationship that focused on perfection- change was incomprehensible. The third death was my grandmother. I tried to make him see that their is no competition but our usual fighting consisted of who should be more in pain. I wasn't able to let him grieve and his pain wasn't in relevance to mine. The next instance of death after my grandmother, my boyfriend just gave the only response he could. I felt the coldness of his words rise goosebumps on my skin. "Everybody dying," he says to me without glancing at my face. This time we were walking figures- so distant, not able to save each other. Death became the norm and support for each other couldn't be found.

I sat in the waiting room not far from where my grandmother's body was. There was several amish people there and I remembered the amish shootings (note) that occurred that same year. I felt connected to them. Someone was there talking to one of them about the situation. "Do you think there is hope she will make it?" I asked one of them in hope they would give me some type of spiritual response. The woman looked at me and said it was possible. A small amount of optimism came back and I prayed that maybe this time God can let my family have a miracle. I recall very clearly the first time my other uncle clung onto me outside the room. We both broke down together. He said the last time he saw his mother was at halloween when they all took my cousins trick-or-tricking. "What was Isabelle for halloween?" I tried to stay consistent with the converstaion. He paused and forced the words out. "She was the grim reaper."

Later on that day while looking at my grandmother inside the room, I remembered the claddagh. My eyes shifted around the room and stopped when I reached her belongings. Her ring was somewhere in here and I wanted it. It needed to be with me. Before we left, I kissed my gradmother's forehead whispering "I love you nana," - my unreturned goodbye. My grandfather sat lifeless in the chair, refusing to believe what was surrounding him, only focusing on his own strength he said to me, "I'm sorry kiddo."

The last day she was alive, I was fighting with my boyfriend which was habitual at the time. My mind, half absorbed over a merry-go-round of a problem which I usually started, focused on whether I would get a call from him soon. My Grandmother was still alive that day. We all sat in the dining room talking, just my grandparents, my mom and I and I remember staring at her gold claddagh ring but this time I told her how much I liked it. I lifted up my hand to show her mine. They looked so happy that day. My grandfather showed us his new wedding band that my grandmother recently bought for him after he lost the previous one. Jokingly, she said that this was going to be his last one. After a while into the conversation, I decided to walk downstairs to watch TV in complete thought of my boyfriend and feeling slightly guilty but I didn't yet understand why. i looked upstairs and saw my grandmother looking back at me. When she left, I ran upstairs giving her a quick goodbye and I wish now it was longer. But it was enough for me to remember her scent and feel of her brown jacket with the furry hood brushing up against my face. That day I didn't wave out the window until the car drove out of sight.

It will be three years next month since her death and the season's return drags in extra memories. He doesn't wear his ring anymore now and even though I don't fully understand, I realize for him it is something he needed to do. I broke up with my boyfriend that first summer, realizing it was something that had to be done. Even though I think about being in a relationship, I can't imagine myself taking that chance again just yet. My grandfather lives alone. He takes a women out for breakfast on Sundays. My mom says it is just for companionship. But I wish that woman was my nana. I picture her sometimes at the house, walking in her slippers, revitalizing it with her presence and returning that feeling of contentment as soon as you walk through the door.

My mind always drifts when I'm driving and I often wait for a good song to come on the radio to match the mood I'm in. "How to save a life" by the fray comes on occassinally- A depressing song that I used to not be able to listen to and I watch my mind replaying the same scenes. That long drive to philadelphia knowing what we were about to do. It was the second day there and the last. My brother was driving so I was able to stare at the window in complete orbit trying to form her face in the passing clouds. I felt the pain more when this song came on. Now I turn the song up, almost full blast so it can penetrate througout my body erasing everything else that could distrub this time. I can almost hear her speaking to me. "I need you Nana" I begin to say out loud as several tears sometimes build up in my eyes.

I stared at my ring and rubbed the heart so roughly that the ring become wet from the sweat of my finger caused by severe pain surrounding my entire body. I clung on to it, pressing it against my finger, like a memory I didn't want to forget. At this time the heart was facing outward but when I was sitting there at the hospital, I didn't want to think of him as my finger caressed the ring. My only thoughts were of my grandmother and this ring was what she gave to me- not the one I lost long ago but the meaning, the power, the love that will remain with me forever. I took the ring off my finger and slide it back on with the black heart facing towards me. My grandmother was gone but she wasn't permantly gone from my life and I know she will always be with me. I am taken. It is a hidden secret resting upon my finger connecting to my soul. But now I own something even better. My grandfather gave me her own, gold, claddagh ring that she always wore and this means more to me than anything. I always owned silver, but now I have gold.

Claddagh Citation: The center piece displays a heart of love surrounded by hands of friendship and on top rests a crown of loyalty. The old custom and tradition of this ring can be worn to represent if a person's heart is available or taken. If the ring is worn on the left hand with the heart facing inward, it means that you are married. But if the heart is facing outward, you are enaged and will soon be wed. If the ring is worn on the right hand with the heart facing inward, you're in a relationship with someone and your heart is therefore taken, but if the heart is looking the other way, then you are still in search for love and your heart is open.

Oh, Aquamarine

The finest of blues
Born with the color flowing throughout my blood
Dripping from a claddagh of memory
So permanently attached upon my finger
A magnet to my grandmother
The link connected to a blue heart
Coloring my world as a constant reminder
The blanketed sky where she watches
Like a river reflecting the sky in soft ripples
Not to disturb their unity transforming to one
A desire to swim with the water splashing over me
A continuous rejuvenation of memory
An understanding of a fish’s dependence on water
Our shared Piscean souls
The color resting beside diamonds, rubies and pearls
Value more often to catch the light
A gift left for me
And the golden treasure dressed in blue
That walks beside me always

Blog # 7 The "Truth" in O' Brien's War Story

2009-09-30T16:55:00.000-07:00

First of all, I thought this was a very amazing story. Yea ok, amazing is not the word I was looking for and actually I was pondering for a while of a word that would fit but nothing came to mind because essentially, it's something I feel. I read through it as though I understood what exactly he was trying to portray. He doesn't come out and say it but through the different stories that built up this entire piece, the truth he was trying to depict became known and O' Brien tried to channel this numerous times. When you can't say a story in the same way, it is hard to really say it is the absolute truth. It is an emotion you feel- completely apart from what you see. Your eyes alone can't tell the story. They help you remember events likes photographs or images but it is what you feel from these moments that make the difference. He describes the death of Lemon and I tried to imagine this image in my head but from what I read and what he actually experiences- the two truths are so far apart that one almost seems like a lie.

The letter his friend Rat wrote to his best friend's sister about the death of her brother was probably indescribably difficult for him. He waited two months for a reply. He was trying so hard to depict the truth according to him- how he saw it. It may not be exactly what happened but the closest he can get is the story created by what he thought he saw and felt inside him. To put yourself out there without a response makes him realize even more that he can't ever get the real truth out there to people. That's impossible. When a person goes through a surreal event- a traumatic, painful, powerful, and unexplainable experience, it can make an immense imprint on that person's life, but to describe it and make others see it as you did? It then becomes two totally different truths.

I related to this story- not in the same way of course but when I write about dark moments in my life, The moments I feel impact my life- the ones I can feel throughout my entire body. These moments are sometimes so difficult to put into words, because the truth I know is not what I can portray- But I try because writing enables me to become close.

A Personal Story

2009-09-27T15:32:00.000-07:00

For a story to be personal, one would have to be willing to open up and reveal certain aspects of their life. I can write many stories. For my life as of right now seems to be a collection of doubt, confusion, and tribulation weighing on my life. I'm not saying my whole life is a series of problems but it's what I like to get out most in my writing- through poems or stories. However, I can't write about certain things so it is difficult finding a certain topic.

I love reflection pieces such as Orwells- with a powerful and moving story line propelled by his thoughts and feelings throughout. I also love the story Alive by Laurie Lynn Drummond where she gave her story and at the very end changed her perspective Schwartz was another person that because of a series of traumatic events in her life, she began to form a certain realization. Danticat's story was about a fire that absolutely was so horrific that it made him see things in a different way. These pieces are memorable to me and all revolve around certain incidences that are significant.

I would like to write a personal story with a series of incidents that impacted me in some way- that because of those circumstances and accumulation of situations, I am the way I am today thinking and feeling the way I do.

Blog # 5 "Alive" and "Westbury Court"

2009-09-23T20:46:00.000-07:00

When I was reading the story "Alive" by Lauri Lynn Drummond, I stopped over the section that said, "If I were still a cop, this wouldn't make my knee tremble. But I am simply a civilian. A female civilian." At this point, I realized that we had a disconnect. She was completely wrong with her theory and the real reason to feel secure and safe shouldn't be because of a position that makes you fit a certain part. She was a cop who wore a uniform and now that she was out of that position, she felt different? She felt she was once again just a civilian. And she emphasized that she is a "female civilian" which concludes that she saw being female as a weaker status along with common people such as civilians. People who stereotype that cops are in some way inhuman or prone to danger, who know certain tactics- people who are different from us, aren't acknowledging the fact that they are human beings. Basically this shielded, masked image saved her from being afraid. Now that she was in this frightening circumstance that she had little control over, she felt really scared. It wasn't until she was heading home towards Texas that she saw the sign for where the third victim was found. At this moment, a realization came over her that she felt vulnerable all along because she's alive. And leading up to this point was very suspenseful and the meaning could very well relate to everyone- giving us a truthful taste of life and actuality. At the end, this disconnect I once felt disappeared into an agreeable and understandable view I can easily identify with.

I also liked the story "Westbury Court" by Edwidge Danticat and I was able to connect with this as well because I feel that certain experiences in life do shape our awareness and understanding- whether it changes us dramatically or a certain aspect of us, but if the experience is significant, it will have a profound impact on our lives. In this story, Danticat tells about his life growing up in brooklyn in his six-story brick apartment building. As children, many of us love where we live and consider it a secure, and comfortable place where no harm can come to us. Even though it may not be perfect, it's home. And a feeling of being invincible may come into play. He watched the show General Hospital everyday, and in this fictitious world, no harm ever really happened. However, this feeling vanished after a fire that occurred in the next apartment across the hall. Danticat and his brothers were the last to be evacuated- not knowing of the fire until two firemen knocked on their door. Two boys that started the fire had died and after that moment, an awareness of death seemed to overwhelm him. He recalled many other deaths that occurred after that horrific time in the same building. When his parents let him and his brothers come home alone to the apartment after school, he said "I would always listen carefully for our new tenants, so I'd be the first to know if anything went awry." This was a huge difference from what he felt and did before. This experience has truly changed his perspective on what he once thought. This fire began his awareness of invulnerability and death.

Blog # 4 "My Father Always Said"

2009-09-21T18:28:00.000-07:00

I really enjoyed this story and the ending really tied into the intenseness and feeling that Schwartz was trying to depict. But trying isn't the correct word in this context. To really feel like your journeying a long into a person's life as you read their story, is really a wonderful, captured representation of life and a way to show how free and beautiful creative nonfiction is. Just like if we were on our own voyage, we are learning and in a way entering into those scenes ourselves.

This story made me think of my own heritage of the past and the tribulations that many before me experienced and encountered. The story started out with Mimi Schwartz saying the same two lines her father would always say such as "In Rindheim, you didn't do such things!" and "I don't care about everybody!" He said these lines whenever his daughter would would do something American- completely different from his past lifestyle. He flew his family out of Germany before times got worse and his memories of his childhood up to that moment were so strong and vivid. But at the end, he had his time to silently say goodbye to the past and the numerous lives that were lost. At that moment, a realization came over him that wasn't there before of a different life he now has and he should appreciate it and be proud of that. Mimi saw what her father experienced and she began to realize what she couldn't before. At the end, she wanted her father to repeat the same lines as he used to but he never did.

Through Irony, we saw one view in the beginning but towards the end, we were allowed to see another view by this journey to her father's painful past. And in this experience, both the daughter and her father learned something on their own that they took with them- two different emotions than how the story first started.

I thought of one of my favorite authors throughout this story. Frank Mc Court wrote memoirs of his life through childhood into adulthood of his life in Ireland and America. I felt such a strong connection with Mc Court as he vividly and very emotionally described his painful experiences as a kid living in poverty while seeing so much hardship and struggle. Like McCourt's journey, I finished reading this story with incredible insight, discovery, and emotion.

Blog # 3: George Orwell and Michel de Montaigne

2009-09-16T09:20:00.000-07:00

I enjoyed reading the creative nonfiction piece "Shooting An Elephant" by George Orwell and it gave me a somewhat different perspective to look at. I read George Orwell before and I think his writing is incredible but this piece is the first I read of Orwell that is creative nonfiction.

This story is nonfiction because it is factual. It takes place in 1931 in Burma and Orwell was working as a white, sub-divisional police officer. He said that he hated his job and he was the one who usually got laughed out. "I was hated by large numbers of people- the only time in my life that I have been important enough for this to happen to me." But the story is, more importantly, creative nonfiction from what a reader is able to gain by reading it.

Like fiction story, I couldn't wait to keep reading to see what was going to happen and how it would end. There was reality all around him in this story but also inside him. Inside him was a conflict, a debate on what to do. His reasoning for killing the elephant was to be looked at differently. The decision was never about the death of the elephant. He wanted to be somebody. "And it was in this moment, as I stood there with the rifle in my hands, that I first grasped the hollowness, the futility of the white man's dominion in the East." And in that instance, he wasn't separated from the native people anymore. He was connected with them by this rifle and he liked the feeling of it. He wasn't afraid of the elephant, he was afraid of being laughed at.

I loved how this story brought up many multiple meanings and insights. The story ended with a sense of dissopointement but unlike the others, I was able to pull out several meanings. It reminded me of the story "Out There" by Jo Ann Beard but left more of an impression of a truthful reality. Even though it was a different time period, the same feelings and emotions still applies today. There was reality around him but this intenseness came from the emotional reality inside him that was portrayed throughout the entire story. To be an individual is not to wear a mask but to be different and stand a part from the crowd. It's about doing something you are truly proud of. If it is just for others, then you prove to be weak. And Orwell knew this and he did it anyway. He knew he was a puppet. "For it is the condition of his rule that he shall spend his life in trying to impress the "natives," and so in every crisis he has got to do what the "natives" expect of him.

I found "That men should not judge of our happiness till after our death" to be a confusing and hard read and once I starting reading it, I wasn't able to gain meaning and relate as well as the other pieces but this is in fact, creative nonfiction. I happened to do a little researching on Michel de Montaigne and came across a website that briefly describes him. I was able to understand the reasoning for his writing with better insight for why this piece is connected to what we have been learning about creative nonfiction. In this biography it says that "He is searching for truth by reflecting on his readings, his travels as well as his experiences both public and private." This writing doesn't appear to be a story but a historical period of time in which he expresses his beliefs and opinions that appear to be significant for him. It seems that a lot of this writing is swaying towards Catholicism and the beliefs of death.

I also like to use what I have learned in the past as well as my experiences in my writing. A lot of it may be opinions, but I ultimately like to write what I think and feel in hope that others may be able to connect and relate to it as well. Inspiration can be absorbed in your life and by what you read from others.

The website I used is

http://oregonstate.edu/instruct/phl302/philosophers/montaigne.html

Blog # 2: The Power in Creative Nonfiction

2009-09-13T19:49:00.000-07:00

Bret Lott writes in "Toward a Definition of Creative Nonfiction" that "creative nonfiction is, in one form or another, for better and worse, in triumph and failure, the attempt to keep from passing altogether away the lives we have lived."
When it is written down, we can truly see our work as a powerful gift, one that shows truth and experience, meaning and beauty. Through his writing, we are able to understand many different definitions of creative nonfiction and there isn't just one type of creative nonfiction. Lott explains that there are memoirs, biographies, journals, and obituaries. So, with each work, I strongly feel that creative nonfiction is a gathering of many truths with different purposes- a beautiful exploration inside a life that may not be fully known until it is written down.

Kincaid's writing that started out with a photograph of herself wearing the yellow, cotton, poplin dress her mother made. This picture was a memory and from this memory came a truth- a truth of her life and what she experienced. She didn't even realize many things as a child because she was 2-years-old but as a 43-year-old woman she understood. Through Kincaid's writing, she recalled her life and restored it. Sometimes when you go through hardships in life or experiences, it takes time to understand the life we lived unless we explore it. Lott mentions that "what creative nonfiction is will reveal itself to you only at the back end of things, once you have written it." It is important to gather together your memories, what you know, painful or happy and just write. Kincaid did this in her writing and she will always have this memory stored. But it will always stand out a part from many other writings. It is the powerful truth in creative nonfiction that makes our writing known and loved and no one can re-create it and take that away from us.

Blog # 1: Creative Non-Fiction... What does this mean?

2009-09-04T07:40:00.000-07:00

Well, first of all, welcome everyone! I hope you will find certain writings on my blog that you like and will find interesting and useful to you. In fact, I think that's why I like writing the most. There is always so much inside me all the time- ideas, thoughts, or emotions I need to release immediately. I like to write what I feel and what I think and possibly in this way, it can help others get inspired and have something to relate to also.

Writing creative non-fiction is an expression of yourself and we all can be creative and write well if we let it out. We all have plenty of stories to tell. It's really who we are. Creative non-fiction gives us all the ability to explore our mind and soul and pour out what we truly feel, what lies inside us begging to be set free, or the every-day inspiration that we encounter. You'll be surprised, you don't know what your capabilities are until you really try and the best part is, there are no rules.

I'm sure everyone knows the song by Anna Nalick called Breathe. The lines I like most about this song are

"2 AM and I'm still awake, writing a song
If I get it all down on paper, it's no longer inside of me,
Threatening the life it belongs to
And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
And I know that you'll use them, however you want to"

I'm not a big fan of this song so if you don't like it, it's ok. These lyrics make me get chills every time I hear them because it's really how I feel and what can describe writing for me.

Another song that I can relate to is by Natasha Bedingfield called Unwritten. In this song, there are a few lines about writing that I like because it shows that inspiration is everywhere and sometimes it isn't always easy to find the right words. But creativity is all around... most of all, it is inside you. And you can't go wrong with the truth.

"Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find"