Creative Writing: Backward-Personal Narrative

My writing experience started in high school. I was part of the high school yearbook. I was business editor as a freshman up to being the editor my senior year. I also participated on the newspaper staff. I had some experience in college, but I did not finish college. I then did not have any more experience until I started work as a leader at Nisco. I finally started college classes again.

My writing experiences have been minimal. So far I have only learned the basics of writing, like forming sentences and forming sentences to put into paragraphs. I can tell that my writing has improved throughout the years. I hope to improve in writing essays, paragraphs, stories, and speeches so that I have no errors with editing and creating the final product. I predict that I will be a well rounded writer when I graduate from Newman University.

My experiences as a writer have been both very engrossing and strenuous. I have learned a great quantity on both reading and writing, though, I continue to struggle on things that I have learned by this time, making the same mistakes that I do not even realize. Sometimes things are not so easy to understand when reading information, especially if the wording of an article is difficult for example. I love the idea of learning new things everyday. These past years as a writer have been very interesting, and I have learned and grasped many concepts I have been taught along the way.

“You’re telling me that you’re giving up. There is no one else that has a greater chance to cure my son besides you. You must do something!” She shouted.

“Their lives are not yours to sacrifice.” She turns hot on her heel and walks away from him, stopping when she reaches the entrance to the tent and turning back to look at him- a pitying expression on her face. “Just look at what you’ve become.” With that she exits the tent in one swift wave of the curtain, leaving Koga alone once again.

I sit in front of Sarah, a body covered in a large yellow sheet. I asked her Why Sarah? Why? I knew in my head she was not going to answer this, but my heart was still convinced that we could have one last

“No, you can’t, I-I didn’t do anything wrong. Please!” my voice rose, full of terror and regret. I looked over at the royal family, to the girl in the silver and purple dress, as if she could help me out of this situation. She simply blinked back at me. Rage churned in my stomach.

Slowly she began to back away toward back door; she pressed her back against the fly screen and wrapped her hand around the door handle. Footsteps made their way toward their door and a fist banged against the wood, the door ricocheting off the fist and wiggling. Her mother then gasped and slowly walked to the door, wrapping her hand around her belly she opened the door and Djinda darted to hide in the kitchen.

A family consisted of a mother, son and daughter. A man who seems to be the father lays motionless on the ground, blood spills from him, as a man wearing the enemy's armor threatens the family with a bloodstained sword. She pleads, shielding her son and daughter from the man. "Please spare my children, I'll do anything you say!"

Thinking about our first writing assignment, one of the suggestions focuses on the comparison of writing to running, it became apparent to me that this is something I would enjoy writing about. I am a long time running advocate, competing in marathons, and a neophyte writing student, and I find many similarities in both endeavors.

There was an eerie silence for a minute or so. I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. I couldn’t process what was happening. I just stared at her. A faint white blur in the distance growing smaller. I wanted to go to her. To protect her like I promised I would do, but I could only float away. I couldn’t bring myself to look back at her so instead I turned to look at the fading wreck that had once been our ship.

As I handed a glass to her, she sat up and thanked me. She gulped down the water as I walked around the bed to sit next to her. I lied down and she did too. My heart began to race again like before, but this time, I knew why.

"I don't want to die!" She rasped out as the flames consumed her. The Puppet stared as the both you tried to escape and he flashed you a small smile before the flames started to melt him away. Debris started to fall down which made Springtrap switch directions multiple times due to the sizzling fire. "There's the exit! Don't give up, (Y/N)! I need you here!" You couldn't respond as Springtrap found an opening between the walls and pushed you out first before following

My earliest experience with reading and writing were traumatizing especially when I was in the first grade. I still recall the experience I went through to this day. It made me really hate myself because the other kids were making fun of me.

Taking the hem of my shirt, I tear a part of it and snatched her hand. I tied the piece of clothe to her arm trying to avoid the poison from spreading. That thing itself isn't enough to prevent the toxin. I didn't want to do this but I had no choice she saved my life. Now, it was my time to rescue her from dying.