Creative Writing: Sectional Exercises

I ran, my feet bloodied and aching, my ankle unsteady and shrieking in pain. I ignored it, gasping

Writing varies from a text message to a novel. Writers often have a difficult task in creating a piece of work that truly identifies the meaning of good writing. Every good writer usually starts with the basics such as genre, audience, rhetorical situation, and reflection of the piece. Throughout this semester, we have gone through all of these key terms in great detail with each new assignment that has come our way. In doing this, not only as students but also as writers, we have come to create our own theory of writing. Every writer has a different theory of writing though most are very similar. Now, at this point in the semester after doing countless journals, in-class exercises, and final assignments, I think I have figured out my own

Writing can be a daunting task for students in any grade. Teachers have to implement new basic components for those struggling to write. Finding new methods and being able to execute them requires teachers to design lesson plans that help

3. Which one of the following sentences or phrases is most likely to be considered a cliché?

"Wake up, partners," the trail boss, James called. I sleepily looked up , shivered, and saw I was the only one not up. "Here," James said, giving me the horses' bridles and saddles. "Take these and get the horses ready. We have a long day today." I groaned in reply and set up the horses for the day's long drag. I was the horse wrangler and this was my everyday job but I still couldn't get use to the idea of waking up before the sun and working. We drove the cattle into open plains against the winter's cold wrath.

I glance over at the clock it reads 3 AM, my mind buzzing with stress makes me stay awake.My eyes dart around my bedroom, trying to find something to focus on and go to sleep. My mind runs over the long, boring conversations of the day and what I should have said at what specific time and keeps running on, the only thing breaking me from my stress filled thoughts is a sound unfamiliar to me. It sounded like a creak in the floorboards, which happen 24/7 but it still left me baffled.

Turning off the TV, Andrew grabbed his keys and rushed to the garage, angry for not being more cautious. Driving down the street as fast as he could to get to the cleaners, he said, “I wonder if Margaret has her phone. I will call it,” he said, pushing the buttons, he waited, and said, “Oh, no; it went directly to voice mail. She must have turned it off, but why would she do that?”

I don’t know why I’m doing this, but this senseless woman or as she says ‘psychiatrist’ said the only way I’m going to get over these past couple of days is to recap. So here goes I guess

There was a sense of impeding doom that turned my stomach. Although I couldn't bear to look at the mask I held outreach to you, my eyes were tempted to look to you. I side-swiped a glance at you before you took the mask. My eyebrow arched as you looked at me, visibly distraught. My eyes did a double take, and my gaze fell curiously back on you. I sensed a feeling of unease from you, and became immediately confused. “Your master never teach you Torture 101, Mr. Ren?” Although I was mocking you, there was a sense of concern in my voice, as I looked over to the Dug and then back at you. “You look like you've seen a ghos-” Holding out the mask in front of you, I watched you intently as your eyes fixated on the item. My eyes narrowed at that reaction, and suddenly, it made sense to me. Perhaps you had seen a ghost. Fully educated in the many various connections within the Force, I wondered if in this moment you had seen anything. If in this moment, his darkness had fallen on you. I pondered the horrors you had witnessed... and if any one of those horrors was my own. I wondered if it was pain you experienced, and even... if that pain was my own.

When I was a kid, about 5 to 8 years old, my hands would always get cold whenever the surrounding air is chilly. My dad would always tell me to rub them together, like you would in order to make fire. And so I did it. I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed. My fingers grind against each other from the tips of my little fingers to the base of my palm, but none of this worked. My hands still are cold, stone cold. Then my dad said after watching me rub for a whole 3

It’s December 2014 and it’s Christmas time in Newcastle. As usual the grey sky lays like a cozy blanket over the city. Somewhere around the Christmas madness a boy is walking around. Among the smell of cinnamon and food from the Christmas market, the sounds from people, cars and buses. Little noises are heard from pigeons fighting over a piece of dirty bread. As the boy navigates trough the crowds of people he is completely unaware of something life changing that is about to happen. This wonderful boy has sandy blonde curly hair that is partially covered by a grey woolly hat, he’s wearing a black cozy warm jacket with grey sweatpants and worn out vans. Wrapped under his shirt the wires from his headphones are just hanging loose on his chest

My writing process is like a baby learning how to walk. During their first year, the baby is busy developing coordination and muscle strength in every part of their body. They will learn to sit, roll over, and crawl before moving on to pulling up and standing. From then on, it's a matter of gaining confidence and balance before they start walking. They will fall over and over again but likewise, they will try over and over again until they’re off and eventually running. High school for me was like a baby’s first year when it’s preparing to start walking and this quarter in EWRT 211 was when I gave the first baby steps. With more practice, I’ll be walking with ease in no time. I believe I will be successful in EWRT 1A.

“You are welcome Mr. Frenchi but why was I called here? Why is my mother here?” I asked in a tense voice.

I would like to take the time to tell you the most awesome news ever! Mr. Matthew Moore has the highest 8th grade GPA out of all the other 8th graders at his school. He will be receiving a special award from Commissioner William Fennoy of District 1 on 5/19/16 at his honors day at Hornsby Middle school at 10 am. If you can make it, I would love to see you there, but if not I understand.

“What do you mean, People didn’t know better?” Savannah quickly came back at me derisively and with a soured, disgusted look taking over her face as if she’d just watched her dog eating its own turd. “Of course they knew better. They knew better then as they still know better now. Things don’t change. People don’t change. They knew exactly what they were doing. Just like how they know exactly what they’re doing to you and your mother. Just like how they knew exactly what they were doing to your Grandmother Lyanna, the way they tormented her when she was alive. And, they knew exactly what they were doing to your family members that had come before her.”