Creative Writing : Personal Writing '

As a creative writer, I stand apart from the rest. When I was a child, I never found reading fun or an activity I would do on purpose. The thought of reading different combinations of phonetic symbols for hours on end didn’t sound like an ideal Saturday afternoon. I found excitement in creating stories and breathing life into characters, but not through the writing medium. As a child, like most writers, I wrote books. Except, I had an emphasis on the art quality rather than how words can manipulate

I hadn’t slept in thirty-one hours. In front of me, my laptop screen cast a pallid, taunting glow over my face. On the table, caffeinated-chocolate wrappers and hastily drawn flowcharts lay nestled among a jungle of power cords. Even my loose ‘E’ key was prompting me to give up for the night, jiggling weakly as I typed. I turned to the three other members of my team. “It would be a miracle if we successfully finish this in time.” The words echoed amidst muffled snoring coming from another team nearby

I searched-looking left, right, and then back at my clock-repeatedly until I saw the rectangular piece of a paper held by an unfamiliar face that read “Mina Poppas”. I made eye contact with this unfamiliar person and approached cautiously. The unfamiliar face smiled slightly and asked if I was in fact, Mina Poppas. I replied with the nod of my head and quickly glanced downward avoiding further eye contact that would engage in more conversation. Despite my best efforts of minimal conversation

and a white masquerade mask. Eventually, she walked up to Alex. “Hey, Sadako,” Alex said. “Hi,” Sadako said. “That tuxedo looks very nice on you.” “Thanks. Ready to go inside?” “Yes.” Alex, Sadako, and Jennifer sat at a table. “Can I ask a personal question,” Sadako asked. “Sure,” Alex said. “Can you explain what being bigender is? Like, can you really explain it? I don’t understand it.” “Half of the time, I’m comfortable in my body. But the other half of the time, I feel like I was born

Click-cli-cli- click, the rapid sounds coming from Mark’s keyboard were frantic at best. He was inside his small cubicle, stacked by all of the others in the office building. His hand shakingly reach for his cup of coffee, and brought it to his mouth, cold. He didn’t care, he didn’t have time to get a new one. “Hey,Mark I’m going to need you to get this report done before you can continue on your project, ok” said his boss who only got the position because of family connections. “Uh… Mr. Jones

a time… “Too generic,” I thought, erasing it bitterly. I wrote again: She shivered bitterly in the cold, turning back once more to the house behind her. There he stood, leaning in the doorway with a gun in his hand. Her heart stopped. I stopped writing. “I can't write about something like this!” I thought. “The teacher might think this, or something like it, happened to me before.” I brushed this irrational thought away, but erased it anyway. Bitterly. The doorbell rang again. “Mooommm! Doooor

English 1140. Luckily, after the first few weeks of class, I felt encouraged because I realized the class was a supportive learning environment with the professor and classmates helping to build my creative writing and critical thinking skills, such as, the use of counterarguments, evaluating sources, writing for different audiences or subjects, creating flow with good transitions and adding interesting words. Throughout life, I have felt comfortable talking and explaining my views; however, supporting

“Hey, I noticed we haven’t been talking as much recently. Is everything okay?” I reread the text I’m about to send to Ash three times before I click send. I roll over onto my back and sigh, phone still in my hand’s grip. Where did it all go wrong? Is there even anything wrong? There has to be. It’s been almost three weeks since the last time Ash and I last hung out. She’s away at Washington for an internship, but even distance couldn’t hold them apart. Ashley came down to Atlanta without

I panicked, I didn't know what to do. "Uh..." he was just staring at me with a big waiting smile on his face. "Niall," "Yeah?" A big smile spread across my face, I really liked this guy, why shouldn't I go on a date with him? There was nothing stopping me. "Isn't too early for that?" "Yes, but we could always take things slow?" He smiles with mischievous eyes. "Okay then, I'll go on a date with you." I hadn't finished the sentence when he was already engulfing me in a big tight hug once again

hey tom, i figured i might as well write back something. something more composed and put together. something better than just a bunch of emotions poorly leaking out through cheaper words. you hurt me tom. and ill always wonder why. yeah yeah, i know. youre an impulsive guy who doesnt think out his actions. but itll still be on my mind. and i dont know how ill ever be able to get it off my mind, sorry. if you cant tell yet, i might be a bit of a blunt asshole through my words here. though i normally