Theres Writing and Me - Essay Example

There’s Writing and Me’ Student Name Date Institution Name ‘There’s Writing and Me’ Many books have transformed the world in the course of history. Writers have changed the way people see themselves or each other. They have inspired revolution, debate, war, and dissent. Through writing, writers have outraged, comforted, enlightened, and provoked. They have also improved and destroyed lives. The works of great radicals, visionaries, thinkers, and pioneers whose concepts shook civilization motivated me into becoming who I am. In particular, I derive my inspiration to write from the works of Joan Didion, George Orwell, and Stephen King. My motives for writing exist in different degrees and these have always changed from time to time, depending on my atmosphere at the time. I strived to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard out of “pure egoism, political purpose, historical impulse, and aesthetic enthusiasm. Let it be clear that even though my writing motives are completely public-spirited, I do not intend to leave that as the conclusive impression. Similarly to other writers behind my motives for writing lie the mysteries of vain, laziness, and selfishness. Provided the prompt 'There's Writing and Me', from my creative writing class, the following creative non-fiction essay represents my inspiration behind my writing. The essay comes in five parts. Why I Write “I strive for excellence, faultiness. I am my own servant. I pursue truth, emotion; I drive my lies turning them thin. I beat myself up because of being a perfectionist. I get carried away, drowning in the language of literature. I write to establish the gaps in my ideas, to experiment. My hobby is writing. I write for the pain, for the pleasure, for the mind-numbing desolation from failure and the wonderfully stunning grounds of success.” One I have no specific reason for writing. Sometimes an image comes to my mind, an image that cannot be just shaken away. At other moments, I write merely because there is no better way of expressing my beliefs. Nevertheless, every time I write, I engage myself, and whenever I write I feel proud, but most importantly, writing is the reason why I sometimes ‘cover over my head and beseech the world for a few more minutes’ as Stephen King puts it (King, 2000). Before writing, I was and still a reader. I read to cure boredom, to find inspiration, to enjoy a story or simply to escape. I read about writing, and the goals people have in writing. I read to the point that I encounter something, which pulls me back to reason, “Wow. That looks very good. I should do that.” The first time this experience occurred to me was during my initial years of elementary school. There was a storybook of a mouse, which lived on a certain island, and every mouse on the island had some kind of illuminating crystal rock. Towards the book’s climax, it gave its reader a decision and provided two differing endings; the pages of the books were cut along the horizontal middle, leaving it to the reader to decide whether to read the bottom ending or the top ending. Through this, I gained a new comprehension of how narratives worked. The second was my experience with Joan Didion essays (Didion, 1976). Joan states that he writes entirely to discover his feelings and to find out what he is looking at, what he sees, and what it means to him. His essay “On Self Respect” is about his writing during a dry season in which he wrote in huge letters across two pages of a sketchbook that innocence ends whenever an individual is stripped of the delusion, that the individual likes him or herself...” (Didion, 1976). It has been long since I read something, which invoked so much of ‘something’ in me. I reacted to the words and resolved that this is what I wish to achieve through writing. I want my writing to stimulate people; I want my letters to draw feelings in them. My wish is that my words mean something to the individuals who read them. Astonishingly, the third experience was a piece a creative fiction I had written. Normally, whenever I embark on old writing, I normally flinch in disgust and swiftly remove it from my vision. However, when I recited this I felt that it was great. As such, pride in my own writing is regularly something that I normally take note of. “I start all sentences with 'I'. I pinch away everything, which is good in your life, anybody else’s, and mine and I drape it up with little coats of my mind. I snub characters who compliment me; I may not believe them, but I like to think I am better. I get to the top of my great horse every time I talk about my writing. I do not perceive anything other than the sparkle of my stars and the admiration for my work.” Two Many writers have described the procedure for creative writing. Many more authors have narrated stories of distant galaxies, of adults striving in their adulthood, or of teenagers seeking their identities. But why should I be anxious? My teacher of creative writing in high school told me that if our whole class was provided with ‘Harry Potter’s’ synopsis, and asked all of them to write it, all of the students would return to twenty completely different versions. Some of them would be enhanced than others, some would be lengthier, some would have reduced casts; some might even remain half-done in the student’s computer files for many years. My hope was to try to ensure that my story was told in the best way possible, with the most developed cast, with a reduced volume of plot holes, and a storyline worthy following to the end. I expect to outstanding... in a never way never felt before. Instead of slipping into an entire recital of the Pokémon melody song, I will share with you about my predominantly Orwellian ego: whatever that I write is good, and it is always good. There is a quote, which is well known regarding art and it goes, “great artists are the crap artistes who never gave up” (Orwell, 2014). I believe this quote applies to my writing. Previously, I was a crap writer- essentially, in practicing things, sometimes I tend to think that maybe I am still a crap-writer. Nonetheless, I will never give up, and I believe that this renders me a good writer in principle. But of course, it also makes me selfish as a writer; to be so much immersed in my prose, to expect an audience for my work, to quote to people, as Joan Didion’s words, “listen to me, appreciate it my way, transform your mind” (Didion, 1976). Didion and I share that selfish yearning to make our voice heard. I love the idea of other people referring to me as a good writer, and that my audience can inform their friends of my good writing. I have a big egoistic wish: expecting people to connect ‘good writer’ with my name (Didion, 1976). Luckily, it is commonly conceded amongst writers that part of writing is a purely selfish activity, but it is never certainly settled upon outside of ‘The Reasons I Write’ essays. Therefore, maybe we are not selfish after all. Maybe our intention is just to share several things with the universe, offer something to them, and this quite possibly represents the opposite of our selfishness. Am sure that when I commenced writing, I did not expect to be recognized for it. I wrote my narrations for other audience, and I still do. The aim of my public writing is to make other people to feel naturally that I want it to be liked well. Of course, if I excel in that, I will expect to be egoistic. Therefore, I think people have it the wrong way. Writing is not a product of my ego; at least my ego results from writing. Am not yours and I do not know why you are here. You do not attract me, you are bothersome. You pester me to be used but I do not have any use for you. I do not know where you originate. I do not want you. Eventually you will fade, but that suggests your demise. I will assist; I will look home for you, before you succumb into nothing. Am optimistic that you will find where you fit but I will not be very concerned if I do not. Three Didion and I moreover share a propensity to steal other writers’ pieces. Of course, not in the form of plagiarism, -stealing with consent (this is a writer-particular characteristic). Heedlessly, Didion discloses to stealing her heading for ‘Why I Write’ from George Orwell’s ‘Why I Write’ (Orwell, 2014). I do a similar thing: I have an incomplete novel entitled after a song, ‘The Academy Is….’ (Didion, 1976). Most of my dialogue is derived from overheard discussions, most of my imagery is just stretched cliché, some parts are founded on things I perceive, and it does not stop there. Sharing is not exclusively between reader and writer, it can also occur between thinker and thinker, reader and reader, or writer and writer. I have a writer colleague who I share my sentiments with. We know that our thoughts are not always intended for us, that sometimes the world makes a mistake and you end up sticking with somebody else's ideas. One particularly discrete moment, to describe this, occurred in 2011. All day a story rang in my head; a life and a character having a history, but no title, no name. In the entire day, my colleague made a phrase to describe the character, appropriately in titular form. Nevertheless, she did not have to use it. By the end of the day, she said to me: “the bone-Thug.” I reacted: “Hyphenated. Bone lacks capital, but thug does.” She asserted, “Yes. It is yours.” Writing spheres have unexpressed understandings regarding some things. Many writers are aware that whenever somebody asks ‘if I use that does it matter?’ what they really imply is ‘I wish I would think of that’, and at other times they were thought to but their reasoning accidentally got lost a bit (Smith, 2002). We are also aware that the suitable response is ‘yes’, because we do not want it, and we possibly just noted it down to remove it from our minds so that we could reason clearly. Therefore, my writing does not merely concern sharing sentiments, it also concerns finding thoughts, sharing what I think, what I love, and even though this renders me and my friend egoistic colleagues, it additionally makes us better writers. I have an unhealthy affiliation with words. My words are revelations of my reasoning and I am bothered by my thoughts. I think of them as stars and note down never-ending poetry about counting down, thinking, rising up, taking decisions, making words, inventing lies, living inside the box, outside of the box, over the sky, where I wish to be. Ever falling downwards, never-ending, searching, lost in fire, my ire need, cosmic liar, rhymes with desire, carrying on with coloured darts, including all people known to me. Four I like referring to my writing as a 'journal of creative writing.’ Nonetheless, I find it more appropriate in naming it a 'thoughts journal', even if that makes it seem like a psychological recommendation, or some lyrical correspondence of ‘dexamphetamines’ (Rowling, 1997). I write down all that fascinates me and fill pages with rules, thoughts, ideas, or concepts, or absence thereof. Journalist and writer Rowling taught me this in her series of ‘The Writer’s Reader’: I note down what angers me, fascinates me, interests me, and I document it for myself. As Rowling (1997) asserts, it is a safe haven for my thoughts, until it can constitute a public writing, and until other people get to appreciate it. Before the moment, my journal was a confusion of tangled musings and crosshatched thoughts. Therefore, I write because it is a better way of organizing these beliefs. I cultivate them from messy and tangled youths, through their awkward teenage years, into completely grown, structured, and independent narratives. Thoughts from such people are bothersome in their start. They are barely coherent, and they somehow manage to get something sticky to fall in. As they develop, they are molded by the universe around them, and in return change the shape of that universe. They cultivate separate personalities, and individuals form varied perspectives of them- but where do they develop? How are they brought up? I have never been sure. I have acquired ideas from all types of experiences and activities, with no any particular explanation or prior warning. There are two regular approaches to this: the main one is waiting (Smith, 2002). I will wait to be blown upon, for the stimulation to creep its way in, for something indubitably appealing to catch my eye and get a plea to write. The next is idea hunting: which, for me, comprises taking a lot of coffee, having unending endless exercise of reasonable writing, and the infrequent sugar-stimulated nightmares. But, I always end up getting what I wanted; a character, a resolve, and an adorable one-liner such as: “I will never abandon musing on the magnificence of thought,” adds this up quite well (Rowling, 1997). Reasoning is terrible, a beautiful but boring burden, and to me words are the most stunning beasts to ever occur: apathetic, picnic, language, synchronicity, lethological, autological, truth, ephermal, crimethink, directionless, haberdashery... George Orwell maintains that there is an artistic value ib the order of words, and I cannot help but support him. Words are only attractive in a list (Orwell, 2014). On figuring them out in sentences, they look different. At other times, I write for no other motive than to find arrangements, which work; to make writing appealing (Orwell, 2014). Apparently, there are many bad things out there; therefore, I write to give alternatives to the unstructured ugly nonsense; beautiful, reasonable options. Stephen King in his essay on ‘Why I Write’ tells his audience to ask themselves regularly, "Am I having fun?" According to him, that response does not always need to be yes (King, 2000). However, if it is always no, then it is time for a new career or a new project. I perceive voices whispering in my ears. They tell anecdotes, stories. Sometimes they are sad, at other times, they are funny, sometimes they are extremely frightening, but the most stunning thing is that they never cease. Maybe that is what makes me wild, but I love to believe that it merely makes me creative. Five As Rowling (1997) says, because there is a chip of ice within his heart, it prevents him from drawing sympathy whenever he lands on a great story. I share my sentiments with him. Writing is excruciating; writing is exposing your soul, beseeching to be loved, disagreeing with oneself, assaulting them in the back, and narrating a story. Therefore, if the only means of coping with that is separating from my emotions, I will be compelled to go ahead. Whereas someone can tell me about a horrible tragedy that they have experienced, there may be a small part of me contemplating a suitable description for your grief. See, there are voices belonging to people in my head, and the same stories have to be told. Am not very sure about how the voices came into me. Maybe Stephen King is right and they came subconsciously. From the world at first, and then I interpret them into stories and subconsciously send them to my storytellers: images of reasoning as stars, consequences of my egoism, stories concerning people doing things, living in a people universe. However, it does not quite feel like intuition, it feels like Am trying to hide my vices. Because they do not merely tell stories, they also make funny commentaries when other persons make fools out of themselves, they spittle out interesting one-liners, which make me laugh at wrong times, they mock callously and judge unsympathetically (King, 2000). Whenever I sit down, ready with a paper and pen, and people telling me aspects in their lives; about the plots they resolved and the people they met (King, 2000). This is the only moment they are truly calm, truly silent. The only moment that I can listen without interruption, comprehend without assuming, or hear without talking is when I am writing. I feel compelled to discover other motives for writing as shared by popular authors. These passionate and honest declarations provide a cherished view into their philosophies, processes, and their humour. Therefore, I write to silence the babble within my skull. I write because other people’s agony is delicious. I write to give a beautiful product. I write to rearrange my thoughts, to identify with them, and share them. I write to be the greatest. I write because I am a writer. References Didion, J. (1976). Why I write. The New York Times Magazine, 5. King, S. (2000). On writing. Great Britain: Simon and Schuster. Orwell, G. (2014). Why I write. London: Secker & Walburg. Rowling, J.K. (1997), Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, United Kingdom: Bloomsbury Smith, S. (2002), Journals and Notebooks. In The Writer’s Reader: A guide to writing fiction and poetry, Australia: Halstead Press Read More

Towards the book’s climax, it gave its reader a decision and provided two differing endings; the pages of the books were cut along the horizontal middle, leaving it to the reader to decide whether to read the bottom ending or the top ending. Through this, I gained a new comprehension of how narratives worked. The second was my experience with Joan Didion essays (Didion, 1976). Joan states that he writes entirely to discover his feelings and to find out what he is looking at, what he sees, and what it means to him.

His essay “On Self Respect” is about his writing during a dry season in which he wrote in huge letters across two pages of a sketchbook that innocence ends whenever an individual is stripped of the delusion, that the individual likes him or herself.” (Didion, 1976). It has been long since I read something, which invoked so much of ‘something’ in me. I reacted to the words and resolved that this is what I wish to achieve through writing. I want my writing to stimulate people; I want my letters to draw feelings in them.

My wish is that my words mean something to the individuals who read them. Astonishingly, the third experience was a piece a creative fiction I had written. Normally, whenever I embark on old writing, I normally flinch in disgust and swiftly remove it from my vision. However, when I recited this I felt that it was great. As such, pride in my own writing is regularly something that I normally take note of. “I start all sentences with 'I'. I pinch away everything, which is good in your life, anybody else’s, and mine and I drape it up with little coats of my mind.

I snub characters who compliment me; I may not believe them, but I like to think I am better. I get to the top of my great horse every time I talk about my writing. I do not perceive anything other than the sparkle of my stars and the admiration for my work.” Two Many writers have described the procedure for creative writing. Many more authors have narrated stories of distant galaxies, of adults striving in their adulthood, or of teenagers seeking their identities. But why should I be anxious?

My teacher of creative writing in high school told me that if our whole class was provided with ‘Harry Potter’s’ synopsis, and asked all of them to write it, all of the students would return to twenty completely different versions. Some of them would be enhanced than others, some would be lengthier, some would have reduced casts; some might even remain half-done in the student’s computer files for many years. My hope was to try to ensure that my story was told in the best way possible, with the most developed cast, with a reduced volume of plot holes, and a storyline worthy following to the end.

I expect to outstanding. in a never way never felt before. Instead of slipping into an entire recital of the Pokémon melody song, I will share with you about my predominantly Orwellian ego: whatever that I write is good, and it is always good. There is a quote, which is well known regarding art and it goes, “great artists are the crap artistes who never gave up” (Orwell, 2014). I believe this quote applies to my writing. Previously, I was a crap writer- essentially, in practicing things, sometimes I tend to think that maybe I am still a crap-writer.

Nonetheless, I will never give up, and I believe that this renders me a good writer in principle. But of course, it also makes me selfish as a writer; to be so much immersed in my prose, to expect an audience for my work, to quote to people, as Joan Didion’s words, “listen to me, appreciate it my way, transform your mind” (Didion, 1976). Didion and I share that selfish yearning to make our voice heard. I love the idea of other people referring to me as a good writer, and that my audience can inform their friends of my good writing.

I have a big egoistic wish: expecting people to connect ‘good writer’ with my name (Didion, 1976). Luckily, it is commonly conceded amongst writers that part of writing is a purely selfish activity, but it is never certainly settled upon outside of ‘The Reasons I Write’ essays.

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