“Oh, do not ask, What is it? Let us go and make our visit.”- T. S. Eliot.
This quote illustrates the individuality of writing, especially in the course of creative writing. Although this quote immediately seems to only portray a motive of a tactile lifestyle, it also is extremely relevant to the idea of writing your own ideas and beliefs. Instead of just comprehending or accepting the concept of other writers’ ideals, I always try to make them my own. Most of the time, trying to start from complete scratch with just my mind and a blank page.
This is especially why I loved the independent pieces, which enabled me to promote my unique style, motives, and experiences. Even when we were given tasks of trying to imitate amazing writers such as Hemingway, Vonnegut, and Fitzgerald, I always tried to throw my own twist, or concept into the piece of literature. I wanted to “make my own visit” in to the story, and derive my own skills from it as I attempted it. If I tried to follow the model too much, the creativity of the literature, and most important, the class, was gone.
In class, sometimes I might search through other’s blogs to view their ideas and style, but I never tried to follow. In my writing, I want to be in complete control, just like a dictator in a totalitarian government. Certainly there needs to be influences, because that is, in my view, the main purpose of writing to begin with, but without creativity and individuality, literature would never live free; never progress.
My influences, without a doubt, come from my past experiences, which, even at my age, seem endless beyond belief. From learning to ride my bike, my lives piece, to just hanging out with my friends, to even going on vacation, I could write about almost anything. However, there has to be meaning. I feel a story is nothing unless there is an ideal, motive, reason, desire, philosophy, or just something that the piece of work has been built off. With my poems and independents, I tried extremely hard to put forth an internal meaning, that the reader could interpret in their own way, just like I did, independently and creatively.
Creative writing has certainly helped me grow as writer, and helped my grade along the way. I never thought I was a great writer, good at best, and I still don’t, but I surely have had more experience and forward seems the only place to go. If I focus more on writing, I have the will power to hopefully reach many accomplishments in the field, even if it’s just better grades on my essays. I feel I’ve gotten the most out of my writing through the course, and am very thankful I chose to stay with it.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
Independent Piece # 6
The bright numbers on the clock read 6:30 AM, but Maxwell didn’t want to waste a minute of his short weekend vacation up in Maine. Maxwell struggled, but successfully pushed himself out of bed and into the shower. He quickly whipped up some eggs, since the cabin lay 25 miles from any sort of necessities or civilization, and packed for his daily quest. This would be the last of his three-day weekend because, unfortunately, Monday was back to the office and the monotonous life that had imprisoned him. However, for now, he was still free, and with his large backpack, hiking boots, and hunting gun he was on his way.
The second Max stepped out the door; he knew there was a troubling day ahead of him. Even though it was incredibly bright as usual, dark clouds lingered towards the west. There was probably only a few hours left of sunshine left before the rain poured in, but Maxwell ignored the eventual disaster and jumped on the all-terrain-vehicle in the driveway. Max rode vigorously along a steeping path, making sure to keep the creek in sight at all times for navigation, until the woods became too overpowering to drive through.
Maxwell jumped off and began walking through the terrain; cliffs, ledges, swamps, waterfalls, the landscape had it all. After struggling along for a couple hours, Max looked for a good place to set up camp for the day before he went on his hunt. Setting up camp in the wilderness for Max was as easy as counting numbers, and the tent, just incase there was any rain, went up within seconds. Next was the fire pit and crumpled up newspaper he would need for the fire. Firewood was the only thing missing, so he picked up his rifle, just incase he saw dinner lingering around, and traveled west.
Since the previous days had been extremely dry, good wood was easy to come by. Within 50 yards of the campsite he obtained more than enough for the day, but he didn’t want to go back yet. He kept walking along, but unlike the previous adventures, he had never been in this part of the region. However, nothing in nature phased Maxwell; he felt as powerful as the president when he strolled through those woods with his expensive boots and loaded rifle.
Max’s incredible knack for hunting would prevail again as Max, out of the corner of the eye, got a glimpse of a few deer loitering in the distance. Max got his rile ready and began to jog, making sure to avoid the crackle of leaves. However, leaves crackling would not even be close to the thundering noise of the ground suddenly collapsing under Maxwell. It felt as if the ground, like wood, just broke from under him. Max fell at least eight feet, and this time, he could not avoid a cracking sound.
Max lay in the ditch, ankle broken, with no way of escaping this imprisoning whole. Max felt water drip down his face and saw the enormous black clouds that lay overhead. Max tried to get his mind off death, think of his great past, but it was meaningless – every time he looked up, he realized death was inevitable.
The second Max stepped out the door; he knew there was a troubling day ahead of him. Even though it was incredibly bright as usual, dark clouds lingered towards the west. There was probably only a few hours left of sunshine left before the rain poured in, but Maxwell ignored the eventual disaster and jumped on the all-terrain-vehicle in the driveway. Max rode vigorously along a steeping path, making sure to keep the creek in sight at all times for navigation, until the woods became too overpowering to drive through.
Maxwell jumped off and began walking through the terrain; cliffs, ledges, swamps, waterfalls, the landscape had it all. After struggling along for a couple hours, Max looked for a good place to set up camp for the day before he went on his hunt. Setting up camp in the wilderness for Max was as easy as counting numbers, and the tent, just incase there was any rain, went up within seconds. Next was the fire pit and crumpled up newspaper he would need for the fire. Firewood was the only thing missing, so he picked up his rifle, just incase he saw dinner lingering around, and traveled west.
Since the previous days had been extremely dry, good wood was easy to come by. Within 50 yards of the campsite he obtained more than enough for the day, but he didn’t want to go back yet. He kept walking along, but unlike the previous adventures, he had never been in this part of the region. However, nothing in nature phased Maxwell; he felt as powerful as the president when he strolled through those woods with his expensive boots and loaded rifle.
Max’s incredible knack for hunting would prevail again as Max, out of the corner of the eye, got a glimpse of a few deer loitering in the distance. Max got his rile ready and began to jog, making sure to avoid the crackle of leaves. However, leaves crackling would not even be close to the thundering noise of the ground suddenly collapsing under Maxwell. It felt as if the ground, like wood, just broke from under him. Max fell at least eight feet, and this time, he could not avoid a cracking sound.
Max lay in the ditch, ankle broken, with no way of escaping this imprisoning whole. Max felt water drip down his face and saw the enormous black clouds that lay overhead. Max tried to get his mind off death, think of his great past, but it was meaningless – every time he looked up, he realized death was inevitable.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Pop Culture Piece
How to successfully ruin every single chip shot in a round of golf
My drive was tremendous; perfectly straight, at least 200 yards, twenty yards from the hole, and only ten yards from the green. I grabbed the lob wedge and studied the terrain. I got in my stance and tried to just swing and let the club do the work, but the outcome wasn’t pretty. The ball soared on the ground, bounced twice on the green, and deep into the woods beyond it.
Chipping: It looks easy, sounds easy, but it’s certainly my worst skill in all of sports. Everything could be going superb, and then the chip shot comes along. As I reach for that club with a P, or some random degree number, I’m already disappointed. After the shot, disappointment usually evolves into frustration. As many of you probably know, golfing and frustration never go too well together.
Now it makes sense that if someone keeps practicing the same way to chip shots, they will eventually succeed. But without the patience, time, or even the money, I have completely refused to attempt this method. So I turned too advice and tried to get as much as possible.
When I finally decided to give up on finding the ball in the woods, and take a drop, another chip shot lay ahead of me. “Keep your arms straight…” my friend yells from the green. I take my swing, my arms as stiff as possible, and the ball moves about 2 feet. Maybe I just didn’t get under it I thought and I immediately swung again. This time the ball soared high in the air and for a second I thought it was a great shot, but not in this world. Again, I was right where I took my first chip, twenty yards from the hole, and ten from the green.
I could avoid the chip shot as much as possible, but on the fourth hole I was at it again. This time, even shorter, as I carefully counted the yardage: two from the green, eleven from the hole. “Open your stance this time man. That’s all I do,” the best golfer in our group advised me. His ball had dramatically placed itself a foot from the cup, after a perfect back-spinning chip. All I wanted to do was put it on the green, and tried his idea.
The ball merely dribbled two feet and I immediately began continuously smashing the pitching wedge into the ground. Through out the rest of the round, I heard sayings like “just chip it like it was soccer”, or “swing harder”, and when I did, “don’t swing as hard”. By the end of the eighteen holes, I had roughly taken a total of fifteen chip shots, and miraculously one had turned out right – I would even par the whole.
Why can’t I just imitate what I did on that shot, well I couldn’t tell you what I did. It was the last hole of the day, and I patience and confidence had been not just thrown out the window, but burned to a crisp. I just swung my club and the ball took the perfect bounce and somehow rolled in.
I guess chipping comes down to an art like a soft touch in basketball, or throwing a curveball in baseball. No matter how many times it tries be taught, everyone has to learn within themselves the technique to success. Unfortunately, by the time I get good at chipping, my putting skills will probably have disappeared.
My drive was tremendous; perfectly straight, at least 200 yards, twenty yards from the hole, and only ten yards from the green. I grabbed the lob wedge and studied the terrain. I got in my stance and tried to just swing and let the club do the work, but the outcome wasn’t pretty. The ball soared on the ground, bounced twice on the green, and deep into the woods beyond it.
Chipping: It looks easy, sounds easy, but it’s certainly my worst skill in all of sports. Everything could be going superb, and then the chip shot comes along. As I reach for that club with a P, or some random degree number, I’m already disappointed. After the shot, disappointment usually evolves into frustration. As many of you probably know, golfing and frustration never go too well together.
Now it makes sense that if someone keeps practicing the same way to chip shots, they will eventually succeed. But without the patience, time, or even the money, I have completely refused to attempt this method. So I turned too advice and tried to get as much as possible.
When I finally decided to give up on finding the ball in the woods, and take a drop, another chip shot lay ahead of me. “Keep your arms straight…” my friend yells from the green. I take my swing, my arms as stiff as possible, and the ball moves about 2 feet. Maybe I just didn’t get under it I thought and I immediately swung again. This time the ball soared high in the air and for a second I thought it was a great shot, but not in this world. Again, I was right where I took my first chip, twenty yards from the hole, and ten from the green.
I could avoid the chip shot as much as possible, but on the fourth hole I was at it again. This time, even shorter, as I carefully counted the yardage: two from the green, eleven from the hole. “Open your stance this time man. That’s all I do,” the best golfer in our group advised me. His ball had dramatically placed itself a foot from the cup, after a perfect back-spinning chip. All I wanted to do was put it on the green, and tried his idea.
The ball merely dribbled two feet and I immediately began continuously smashing the pitching wedge into the ground. Through out the rest of the round, I heard sayings like “just chip it like it was soccer”, or “swing harder”, and when I did, “don’t swing as hard”. By the end of the eighteen holes, I had roughly taken a total of fifteen chip shots, and miraculously one had turned out right – I would even par the whole.
Why can’t I just imitate what I did on that shot, well I couldn’t tell you what I did. It was the last hole of the day, and I patience and confidence had been not just thrown out the window, but burned to a crisp. I just swung my club and the ball took the perfect bounce and somehow rolled in.
I guess chipping comes down to an art like a soft touch in basketball, or throwing a curveball in baseball. No matter how many times it tries be taught, everyone has to learn within themselves the technique to success. Unfortunately, by the time I get good at chipping, my putting skills will probably have disappeared.
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