I Am Guilty Of Being Creative

However, most of the time I will despise writing and try to avoid it as much as possible. The reason I do not like writing is, because I frequently have so much to say and I cannot grasp a way to organize everything. When I write for enjoyment I will mainly write about the thoughts in my head and nonchalantly caring if it makes sense or not. It’s like the difference between a doodle and a drawing. A doodle is just a “whatever” picture. It is just randomly drawn and it won’t matter if the lines are straight or not. In a drawing everything has to be perfect and neat. I enjoy to “doodle” write and just write my thoughts out about anything, I am afraid to publicly say. I’ve been taught to write by having teachers just tell me what they want me to write. The part about me learning to write I kind of have taught myself using some of the knowledge that previous teachers have given me. Not only, but I also, face several challenges as a writer like the lack of creativity and writing descriptively. When I write, I like to just state my point or main idea, but I struggle with describing it in depth and explaining my main idea as specific as possible. Some writers make a drama and explain everything so clearly and their emotions, however I am not that type of

Writing became a way for me to express other feelings throughout my young years, but I always ended up writing in notebooks about how I was lonely and felt that I was the source of everything wrong in my life.

I used to be proud of who I was. I used to be free, but I’ve fallen, slowly stripped bare of all I was and could have been. I resent them, those who gruesomely ripped me from my haven and shackled me beneath their feet. I resent the world for abandoning me in this hell, leaving me to suffer. I resent who I have become, a puppet, used only for their entertainment. The devil only grows within me, plaguing my mind during the sleepless nights. Feeding images into my mind. Images of their blood splattered across the walls of their beloved blue and red (tent). My teeth sinking into the fatty flesh of their neck. The horror painted on their faces as I gleefully avenge the loss of my sanity. And I detest myself. I loathe the satisfaction that I feel fantasising about their murder. I fear myself, and what I have become under their control. I yearn for the days I spent in my

My first interaction with literacy began with a piece of chalk and the sidewalk. Drawing and writing quick quips with my friends allowed me to develop a friendly relationship with words, word play and the the classic” roses are red, violets are blue” stanza structure. When it grew cold outside and the snow covered the streets, indoor games reigned supreme. The alphabet game inspired competition amongst the kids and cheating using the knowledge of the adults around us. Writing at the age of nine encompassed my world and my password journal housed all of my stories both real and fake. I wrote about my day, my family, my problems, my insecurities, my imaginary friends, made up worlds, and everything else that came to my mind. Writing in my journal became almost therapeutic, it provided me with a best friend that I could confine in without the fear of judgment or rejection. Keeping my journal to myself allowed me to create my own world that I was able to escape into at whim. This idea of privacy within literacy remained close within me, until one day I lost my journal in church. When the next Sunday came and it was time to claim my journal, I realized that though no one knew whose journal it was, everyone knew what was in the journal. Horrified, I left my journal unclaimed and began my distrustful relationship with writing. Though I

things I'm trying to scream out for all to hear. I have flickers of hope when I write. Hope that maybe one day my mind will drag me to this computer to type about how much I changed. How I love myself now and all my insecurities have faded into a dark abyss. But that isn't the case, is it? When I write, or type, it's always the same. The same meaning but only with different words. The same call for help but with a different tone. Every time I tell you nothing is wrong something is, but why would you care? I'm fine. Right? I'm okay. Nothing can hurt me if I don't let it, right? But it can and it will. It will drag me so far down you won't be able to hear my screams, you won't be able to hear my pleas for help. But maybe that's for the best. Because I'm sorry but I don't want to let you in. I don't want to let anyone in. I want to suffer until I explode and just dissipate. Because I don't want you to worry. I want to be alright, and I will be. One day soon, or maybe not so soon. I'm lost in such a vast ocean of thoughts. It's like my vocal cords are my bucket but I have hundreds of gallons to remove. One measly bucket is enough. But writing? It holds thousands of gallons of my unspoken

I started the rough draft for my book, and I knew I had to practice my handwriting. Mrs. Cox thought it would be more authentic and interesting if our books were hand-drawn and hand-written, so I had to make sure that my writing was impeccable (and, preferably, better than every other kid’s who was doing this). I didn’t spend too much time on my art during the rough draft process; I knew I wasn’t an artist, and I wasn’t planning on frustrating myself for hours on end because I couldn’t get the hand or the foot “just

It was when I first started to write again that I truly appreciated the beauty of a blank page. A blank page invites one to say whatever they want to say without the fear of judgment because the page cannot, in fact, judge. A blank page is the freedom to tell a tale, any tale, no matter how outlandish. Most people my age shy away from a blank page because they don’t know what to say, but that is, to me, the beauty of it. A blank page allows me to put words to what I could never speak aloud. There is no stuttering, no tripping over words on a page. There are only words, and the words are

I’d always enjoyed writing but I’d never been so vocal about it. For me, it happened quietly. My notebooks lie scattered over my bedroom floor; they had no place at the lunch table. And my writing survived on my acknowledgments alone, I couldn’t even imagine letting some else read it. This was due in part to my own self-doubt: I was embarrassed of my poems that never rhymed and my short action stories that never seemed to have any plot. But I

Rachel Wisner Prof. Nyland ENGL-102-75A December 8, 2014 Three Years of Permanent Ink I struggle with opening up my emotions when reading a story or poem. I stay bottled up because if I feel something for it, it just makes me think of a time when I felt worthless. The poem “The World Is in Pencil,” by Todd Boss opened me up and allowed me to feel vulnerable. Its length is only sixteen short lines, but those lines mean a great deal.

I use it frequently to express my innermost thoughts and feelings. Whenever I get frustrated or don’t know how to handle a situation or assignment I simply break out my journal, and begin aggressively writing and doodling. This practice has helped me not only in academic aspects, but has also helped me mentally. The act of expressing thoughts and feelings onto paper is immensely relieving. Writing down one complete thought after another, connecting them mentally and physically, can not only help with understanding the creativity needed within the writing process, but can also helps with most everyday

In my Mind I sat outside by the fire for a long time, staring into the warm tongues of flame as they wrapped themselves around the dry pine logs, wondering why I couldn’t write. Every time I picked up a pen or opened my laptop to place words where they should be, my mind would drift away, leaving nothing but a frustrating inability to produce any work and another long evening staring at blank pages.

Revise: My feelings towards writing have always been negative. I find writing to be very tedious and chose not to write unless it is required. I’m definitely not much a writer so the process I use for writing is very simple. First I start off by making a brainstorm on a piece of scratch paper ,usually they start with one big bubble then branch out. Next I bring together all of my ideas to make a rough draft that I write out. The first draft for me is just to throw all of my ideas onto paper into actual sentences. Last I just take my draft and type it up, and just fix my mistakes as I type.

I find that sometimes the most mundane trail of thought, the thoughts that just briefly cross my mind are the ones that surprise me the most with the amount of potential they have. More so, writing these streams of consciousness can be therapeutic as shown in our Week 11 class of Creativity, its have several benefits such as emotional clarity, management of stress and the ability to concentrate and focus. Dr. James Pennebaker proved this by conducting an experiment, known as “Writing to Heal”.

The melody of a music box filled the atmosphere as if it was oxygen. A lonely girl was situated on her bed with a sketchbook laying on her lap and a pencil resting between her fingers. The music box silenced and the sound of the pencil being dragged across the blank paper echoed across the room. The young lady erased every now and then and continued this process until the pencil flew out her hands just as she flipped the pencil to erase.

So you have decided you want to write. Perhaps you may feel you need to write. Sometimes this urge inside you is so sweet and urgent that you find yourself imagining the smooth feel of the keyboard beneath your fingertips. You can hear the tap tap of the keys as your fingers fly over them, forming words, sentences, paragraphs and pages of images that will flow from your mind to another’s in a bizarre and wondrous kind of telepathy. This desire may come to you as you are studying, attending classes, or working, making you yearn for the time when the tedious details of life might be abated, if only for a moment, so that you can finally work on your story.