Descriptive Handbook Narrative

To truly understand a great novel and its author, the reader must dig deep inside the life

When I took off the top to that white box on that calm Sunday night, I was instantly transported into this astounding library, that seemed to come out of a movie scene, rows upon rows were piled up with Verne’s, Dumas’, Stevenson’s, and Melville’s. Each week I would open this box and choose a new book. It wasn’t long until weeks turned to days, and I began to greedily treasure my Stevenson’s, truly value friendship with Dumas, prepare for an adrenaline rush with Verne, but most importantly, it was my single Melville that brought me the pinnacle of happiness.

Damp orange leaves stuck to my shoes as I trudged my way toward the back entrance of the school. A chilly wind whooshed past me, spraying my face with vapor. It felt good, almost numbing. Shoving my hands into my jean pockets, I then began to think of the red book. A tingle of warmth spread throughout my body as I recalled the way my fingers had glided over the embossed gold design on the cover. The gold always seemed to glitter when it touched the light; it was worthy of admiration, praise. As if suddenly slapped across the face, I came to my senses. Daydreaming about a book, especially one that was that was supposedly inherently evil, was not normal behavior. That was such a random thought, think about something else Jared, I scolded myself.

As the era of literature slowly declines, the expert critiques and praise for literature are lost. Previously, novels were bursting at the seams with metaphors, symbolism, and themes. In current times, “novels” are simply short stories that have been elaborated on with basic plot elements that attempt to make the story more interesting. Instead of having expert critical analysis written about them, they will, most likely, never see that, as recent novels have nothing to analyze. Even books are beginning to collect dust, hidden away and forgotten, attributing to the rise of companies such as Spark Notes. An author deserves to have his work praised, no matter how meager and the masses should have the right to embrace it or to reject it. As

After, I drove home and brewed a large pot of Starbucks Pikes Place Coffee. I selected comfortable attire to wear, and poured myself a giant mug of coffee. Took the book off the shelf, and curled up with a soft, fuzzy blanket in my favorite spot. From my favorite leather chair situated in front of the fireplace in my living room, I opened the book and became engulfed in the rich world the author created. I had never heard of this author, nevertheless, the book captured my attention in the first chapter. I simply inhaled the rest of the trilogy.

My lungs filled with oxygen as I drew in a deep breath. I gently closed the book in front of me as my eyes slowly refocused on my surroundings. I felt like I had been drowning for hours and could just now come up for air. Except I didn’t want to. The water that had confined me flowed from a completely different world which I had no desire to leave. I could imagine myself as a part of that world’s adventures and playing a role in the story’s unfolding. A connection had formed between me and the characters, as if I had stood with them and their experiences had become my own. In the moments while I read, nothing had the ability to distract me from their struggles and their triumphs. In chunks their world consumed my time, my emotion, and my thinking.

In recent times psychologists have taken studying the connection between empathy and literature It is of some note that “people who read well written fiction may come to understand and sympathise with other people more.” (Knapp, Schwanenflugel, 2015) This is what the mat is for, to collect those subtle feelings sculpted and moulded by the author to be feed to readers, to let us soak at the end of a novel, or story and consider what we’ve read, the journey so far. There is something delicious about reaching the end of Joe Landsdale novel and longing for more, or reading a TS Elliot poem such as The Hippopotamus, or The Whisper of Immortality and mulling over the words, decoding the meaning. That moment of fulfilment and the exhilaration that makes one cry out, “that’s it! I want to make people feel like

“If you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.” No one could have said it better than J.R.R. Tolkien. Often, I get “swept off” to a place called my bedroom where I read too many books too many times. I read stories of adventure in hopes that one day a wizard in a gray hat will show up at my home and tell me I am needed for the company burglar. Or maybe I find a droid. Maybe this droid contains an important message that must be delivered to someone so I have to take him to that someone. I do realize life is not an action-packed adventure like those books portray. However, life is an adventure in itself, just not one filled with mythical creatures and people. When I read, I lose track of time

EVERY GOOD BOOK CONTAINS A WORLD FAR DEEPER than the surface of its pages. The characters and their world come alive, and the characters and its world still live on. Conversation Starters is peppered with questions designed to bring us beneath the surface of the page and invite us into the world that lives on.

The marvellous thing about stories and books is the ability to travel to different places in this universe, fictional or not, without leaving the comfort of your bedroom. The musk of the brand-new or worn-out book is something I have come to enjoy. But in the action of reading, I love turning the page. The rough, sometimes soft, edge of the brittle page holds the secrets of the character on its face and hides many more behind it. What will happen next? What will this character do? Turn the page. Suddenly the secrets, thoughts, actions, pour out of the page and engulf your mind with feelings that only the reader of those words can feel.

I gaze down at my half eaten pencil threatening to fall off the edge of my desk. Did I care? Not really. With my sketch pad placed directly in front of me with a half finished picture of a rose, bits of eraser scatter across the desk.

As I turn the page of the book my eyes dart towards my clock and I realize I’ve spent hours reading. Soon I can feel my eyes yearning for sleep and I close my book. As I lie in bed I think of the countless ideas that were unraveled as I was reading. The thought of being in the main character’s shoes fascinates me. As all of these possible outcomes run through my mind, I am welcomed into a deep slumber.

I was making my daily trip to the library. But today was different and I could sense it from the start. Usually I go into the section titled Young Adults but today I went to the Mystery section. On an ordinary day, I usually am very fastidious about my books. Today marked a new day, a new day when I would start to expand the genres I read. I pranced throughout the pervasive bookshelves looking at the Nancy Drew books which have received great notoriety but none of them seemed to catch my eye. I thought to myself "I want to read something different! Some sort of phenomena!" Having been interested by the books, I lost track of time. Somehow I managed to miss the announcement saying "Everyone evacuate the

I had waited 6 months for this day. The day we went to the beach for my 13th birthday. California beach specifically. We had to leave at 6 o’clock in the morning to get there on time so we could get in our hotel. It took us 7 hours to get there. When we finally got there it was beautiful. Me and my brother were jumping up and down in our seats at the sight of the beautiful clear blue water and the whitest sand i’ve ever seen.

Tears cluster in my eyes. My heart pounds violently in my chest as I stand frozen–not able to think about anything except for the three words my dad told me. I am very close with my grandparents, Right now they don't live with each other they actually have not lived with each other for lord knows how long, but they still see each other my grandpa comes down to her apartment room for when he needs to take his medicine because he has diabetes. A typical weekend for me is to on friday afternoons I get picked up by my mom from school, Then my mom drops me off at my grandma’s apartment room. As soon as i walk in the door the smell of coffee fills my lungs, but it is not like the coffee with creamer it is black coffee it tastes like hot water with a bitter aftertaste, My grandma is watching ION like usual she is watching a crime show. I sat my things down on the couch and sat down with her she asks me if i want a PB&J sandwich and a pepsi of course like always i agree and excitedly wait for my food to be prepared, While i eat my food i hear a knock at the door i race to the door and ask who it is it is grandpa i swing the door open and hug him tightly i close the door behind him.