Creative Writing: My Scar-Personal Narrative

Writing is a key in everyday life, whether it is going unrecognized or not communication is largely dependent on writing rater then face to face relations. Growing up writing an essay or a story wasn’t always as important as sending that one text out to a friend. Many times instead of working on an assignment people tend to text, and write on social media instead. Although by doing this in the end, you are still writing, although for some it doesn’t count as that text maybe something they are passionate about unlike their assignment. The concept of writing then goes unacknowledged and isn’t looked at as a fun activity for many. This tends to happen after submitting assignments and not receiving the grade you may

Stepping out of the car I analyzed the environment around me. A gust of fresh air flowed swiftly through my hair and caressed my face. The temperature outside was mildly warm and humid. Rays of sunshine blazed down upon me and begun to heat up my black t-shirt. The black and rough asphalt crumbled beneath my feet as I walked. I could tell that it was recently paved because of how smooth it was when I slid my shoe across it. Sweat collected on both of my palms because of the anxiety I gathered prior to my visit. Everything on my body seemed heavier at the time. The necklace dangling around my neck. My phone and wallet that rested in my pockets. It was the result of all of the built up tension within me. I had no idea what to expect.

My writing has improved greatly over the years. Now, I am able to write much longer papers, my writing is more detailed, my writing is straight, I am able to write in different styles, and my letters aren't shaped weirdly anymore. All and all, my writing has improved a good amount. I still do not enjoy writing that much. I am really enjoying math and science right now. The writing that I do like, is writing about a subject that I choose with no guidelines. My past writing pieces that I have done, have been the personal narrative (in 6th grade), and the researched based writing project (also in 6th grade). Both of those projects I did not enjoy that much, because we worked on those two projects for a long time. Even thought I do not enjoy writing

Eyes struggled to open, the world around me blurry, dark, spinning. “Danny, Danny, are you alright?” I heard my mother ask frantically. Confused, startled, feeling like someone was trying to hammer a nail through my head, a warm and sticky fluid running down the side of my face, my eyes gradually converging on my surroundings.

This is the 25 minute writing challenge, where I’m not allowed to use the backspace button on my keyboard or edit what I’m typing. There are probably going to be many typos in this small paper, but that’s apart of the challenge as I can't edit anything. I honestly have no clue what to write about, but atleast I’m 3 minutes in right now.

One of my strong points in writing is coming up with ideas and knowing how to get started on a paper. I guess you can say I am a free writer. Whatever in my head ends up on paper and I could write about a lot of things that matters to me or upsets me and feel passion when writing it down, but there also a weakness that I can’t overcome because my inner critic come along with it. Which makes me completely change and overshadow my own writing. I have a problem with revising and not being able to see the flaws in my writing, but that’s not it. I overpower one topic with another one in other words I would mash up two topics that is the exact opposite of each other which contradict my whole paper. The other problem is shorting up a sentence as well

As I read the comments on my Instagram post, I laugh. I had posted a picture from when I was little, so of course, my friends had to make sarcastic comments on it. While I was reading them I noticed words like “lol”, “tho”, and “bc”. I was five in the picture and I was not taught to write like that. No one was. We were taught to read beyond our level, write grammatically correct, spell right, and speak clearly. Well at least that was what my sister, Riley, taught me when we turned her bedroom into a classroom and played school. Riley is two years ahead of me in school. When she would come home, she would teach me what she learned that day. I loved playing school and it gave me an appreciation for reading and writing because we did it for fun. This also allowed me to strive for more than average since she was teaching me things the others wouldn’t learn for a couple of years.

With the population of exactly twenty five thousand people, the city of Corpus was never over populated. Neighborhoods were packed with just the right amount of people and there was always just enough to go around. Aiden had only turned two when he lost his older brother, Landon. It was not because he had been in an accident or unfortunately got passed a cancer gene. However, the reason for his death was never revealed to Aiden for he was too young at the time to understand. Ever since, he was an only child to two chemical technicians, Quinn and Brooklyn Stevenson.

Writing for me is plain and simple, I rush forward through any ideas or questions that may cross my mind. The item that matches a description like this is a tank, and this is because I have a tendency to run through things and crush walls. An example of this would be that whenever I have any form of writer's block, I am able to push straight forward without hesitation. Other barriers such as questions, or my need to possibly rethink my writing is not considered until it has been finished. The cannon of the tank is something I relate to particularly well. I have also formed the habit of thinking ahead as to destroy future barriers like a missile being fired into opposing objects. It also has the use destroying any enemies, or when it comes to

My name is Yris Guzman and I’m a senior at Perry High School. I’ve always struggled writing essays. The things I struggle the most with is grammar, spelling, coming up with a thesis, and organizing my thoughts onto paper. I hope by the end of this semester I become a better writer. We all have strengths and weaknesses.

I felt a warm heat behind me, I couldn't breathe. I knew something had gone wrong, I went through the window cramped up like a ball. As I got out of the house I could finally breathe, I turned my head and all I could see was flames. The man had done something harrowing. I could see it in his eyes dry yellow eyes.

She reached for the bulky remote control attached to the wall and lying at the top of her mattress. After she called the nurse, she pressed the power button off and watched as the picture faded to a tiny dot in the center of the screen of the outdated television. She stared at the dot until it, too, faded into the darkness of the screen. She lay back on the pillow and closed her eyes, trying to decide whether to ask for more medicine. She fought the nagging feeling that she really didn't need the pain meds as much as she wanted the pain meds. Well, I deserve it, she thought. Maybe I can take a nap if they give me more medicine.

Have you ever been given an assignment where you say to yourself, “how the heck am I going to do this?” or maybe, “what am I supposed to write about?” Well that’s exactly how I felt, thought, and did with this writing journey. Coming up with something to say about my writing journey has been difficult. I would be bold enough to say nearly impossible. So impossible it’s like trying to get a camel through the eye of a needle. Okay that might be an exaggeration, but it has been difficult. The idea that I have a writing journey I understand. But thinking of an event or something that has made my writing the way it is has been difficult. So, what I’ve decided to do then is to write about my writing journey writing this paper.

I could hear her weeping from the other side of the door now. My mother’s loud crying was only interrupted by the broken speech she tried to spit out between her sobs. The dimly lit, cramped waiting room mixed the sounds of despair with some poor rendition of Chopin that blared intrusively from the perches of a pair of cheap speakers in the corner. On a short wooden table there sat a couple of magazines advertising the new happenings within the lives of people I did not care about. Next to that was one of those children’s play toys with colorful metal pathways for wooden shapes to glide across; bead mazes I would later learn that they were called. I crossed my legs in my chair and sighed as I let the sounds assault my eardrums. This was just

A pair of chocolate brown eyes stared wistfully through the thick glass pane of the large window, watching the rolling green hills and quaint farmhouses flashing past. They locked onto a windmill, its wooden petals rotating slowly as it churned the grain stores inside the barrel underneath the tall legs of steel, reminding her of the life she was leaving. The life she had grown up in. The quiet, laid back, easy going, calm life she was used to.