Creative Writing: Makenzie-Personal Narrative

Confidence isn’t everything, right? Wrong. Okay maybe it’s not EVERYTHING, but I believe that confidence is something everyone needs. Being able to appear strong and content with yourself to just about anyone and everything out there is key to even the slightest bit of success.

Having to write about my own literacy is hard to do, first of all it’s hard to recall things that happened when you were a child let alone when I started to read and write, I remember going to school playing, the teacher reading to us, making vowel sounds and learning to write my name; I recall the teacher giving out the spelling list and taking it home to practice before Friday’s test, I would go to school hoping and praying that I would not misspell any words; as usual I missed a couple of words and I knew what that meant.

I personally think that in personal narrative a literacy work has more of an impact. I believe this because it can convey more details than a movie based on the literacy work. Both I believe are good ways to portray the sense of time but in different ways. In a movie you see more of how the directors see things instead of being able to imagine it

When it comes to writing I have a mental breakdown, I get nervous, overthink, and emotionally stressed. These three words describe me as a writer. In high school I would have a difficult time starting papers, often times my weaknesses was grammar and sentences fragments. How I feel about writing is how I feel when a love one dies. It's like as if I'm at a funeral and my paper is the one being funeralized. I think the reason why I am how I am about writing is because my college English teacher in high school was so harsh on my papers, and ever since then I've been traumatize to write papers.

Thank you for your helping with my case. I am so glad that I don’t need to add another reading and writing class in this semester.

Hello, I'm Jennifer Croney, and I am a student in your Writing for Communication course this semester.

The writing process has been a difficult process for me for many years. In high school, I did not do well I struggled with coming up with Ideas on how to start my writing. After finishing high school, I worked in the healthcare filled and I was required to chart daily activities for my clients. I found myself constantly misspelling words and writing improper grammar, so I decided to enroll in college and take Composion 1. Writing a complete sentence requires a subject and a verb and has to express a complete though. Also, brain storming was difficult for me to create, I would have my first clue then get lost on what to do next. Over time after some proper tutoring my writing improved a little. I would say writing takes time and what would

Ever since I was a child, I have always had the inclination to pick up a crayon rather than a pencil. From learning how to write my ABC’s to dreading over typing eight page papers, learning how to progressively read and write has manifested into a rollercoaster within my life, emotionally, that is. But don’t get me wrong, writing has slowly inched its way into my being and will continue to stay for my journey through academia. I honestly feel that there’s some sort of creature within my mind that prevents me from deriving happiness from english-related material. Though in the midst of all the chaos, I have developed an alternate outlet to express myself. An outlet where I wouldn’t have to think about forming sentences or using words that I don’t know but use anyway. An outlet in which I find solace and truly shows who I am as a person. The outlet of art.

The sound of Carmine’s snoring from across the hall forces its way through my closed door and into my room. It wakes me before my alarm this morning. I’m not sure what time he came in last night, but I must have been in a deep sleep. Slowly, I go through the motions of my morning routine. Taking care not to wake Carmine, I finish getting ready and leave him a note to tell him I’ll be at the library all day. Just as I finish checking my assignments and pack my book bag for the library, I hear my phone ping with a new text message.

was driving home from physical therapy for my knee. It had been aching for the past few days. I had never felt a pain like it before, so I played it off as nothing. As soon as I hit the highway, I went underneath the Lowry Hill tunnel. I lost reception on my radio and I soon realized that it wasn’t just the tunnel that was making me lose my reception. A massive storm had loomed over my head. The sky was green and looked like it was turning sideways. Rain splattered against my windshield. Not just droplets of rain, but the ones that look like they had been shot out of a paintball gun. I immediately felt the wind blow my car to the right. I had to swerve hard to the left to avoid clipping a jeep that was next to me. Boy, were they in trouble. The jeep had it’s

“Thank you.” The classroom is stiflingly quiet except for those two soft words. We clap as she returns to her seat, fumbling with her phone to stop the timer. A lull settles as we wait for the next victim. My hands are already trembling when I realize that I’m next on the chopping block.

A familiar yet annoying sound snaps me awake. My alarms going off, time to go through another day. I’ve got a math test in 7th period. That reminds me. The last day to send the email has come. Today is the day. All the work I have done will finally pay off. All I must do is send the email. That is all that is left, sending an email. An email is all that is left.

Sunday. I live right next to the old town Pasadena, so I guess it is better for me just walk to the old town, and to do my writing class assignment. I grabbed my white shirt, black cap and most importantly, my notebook. I started walking from my apartment.

My eye’s were soaked in tears , I didn't think anything could revive this pain in my heart . As an idea pops in my head . The paw , the paw will bring my son back . I tried to wake up my

Finally, I arrived at the property, eager to get in the woods. Jumping out of my truck, I dragged out all my clothes. Pants and a jacket were appropriate on the warmer than usual, October morning. My precious bow leaped into my hands as if it had a pet mentality, with arrows included. Off I went, into the woods full of mysterious creatures that I could not see. Under my feet, the rocks groaned as I beat them down and the the raggedy, old train tracks scuffed my LaCrosse rubber boots. After what seemed like an hour, I reached the entry point that