I Am Uncomfortable With Verbal Expression Essay

Marian Evans Lewes relates to aspiring writers by subtly elucidating her own anticipation in order to draw attention to the common misconceptions young people possess about writing. Lewes quickly states how “exultation is a dream before achievement and rarely comes after” (Lewes 8-9). By creating a short and concise sentence, Lewes quickly informs the reader of how in one’s youth, triumph and elation are expected results of one’s work. Yet the reality is that these are attributes that scarcely accompany one’s achievement. Lewes immediately juxtaposes her previously succinct point what that of a lengthy conclusion she has developed. She determines how after one has completed a piece of writing they feel as though their bodies became the system in which writing “develop[s] and grow[s] by some force of which one’s own life has only served as a vehicle and that what is left of oneself is only a poor husk” (11-13). Lewes contrast in

I remember distinctly the first time I was exposed to how writing, and specifically my own words on paper, could compel another person to feel emotion. How they understood what I was feeling and thinking, simply by the words I wrote. I was in eighth grade and my English teacher was giving me praise for a paper I had written on my parents’ divorce. For the first time, writing wasn’t about getting an “A” or following a five paragraph system; we had been given minimal guidelines for the paper and I’d thrived. As my teacher, Ms. Palmer, had put it I understood how to “present a factual story while keeping the reader's’ interest.” She suggested that I submit it to a special essay contest and I was thrilled. I gained so much that day, more than just

I remember the beginning of my newly found interest was like a fresh of breath air; original, I know. I spent endless hours writing, and writing about whatever it may be that came to mind. It was an addiction that costed my sleep and meals. What began as a hobby to satisfy my loud mind became daily scribbles on a notebook whenever an idea popped up during class. I am as proud as proud can be of my writing alter ego because it was something that manifested when I sought out to find something in me. It’s mine, purely me in every word. Amateur I may be, but this fiery passion that burns in me every single day is what keeps me going.

Almost everyone seemed to be trying not to drift into a deep slumber while the teacher continued to lecture on English grammar points for the day, oblivious to the fact that her students were not paying attention. It was a rather quiet afternoon, which is quite unusual when you have forty-eight young ladies in the room. I was sitting on the corner in the right side of the room, drifting into thoughts of writing. This was the day that I first started writing, I did not know what I was doing. All I knew was that I had pent up emotions that I needed to write through certain characters that I made up in my mind. Emotions that I was not able to let out. I had tried to write on a journal, but it only depressed me. Having to recount all the bad things that happened day by day was too much for me. As Toni Morrison, a well-known novelist, editor and professor had said, “If there’s a book that you really want to read, that hasn’t been written

In the course of a school year I had written more than thirty stories. Every story I wrote I learned more about myself and how I could express myself using my words, every story showed me how much I could tell others about my life and struggles without having to use my voice. As a third grader I was taught the lesson that, using only your words you can tell a story, make a new world, or even change a person’s life. “Apple Stories” changed my life forever, and continue to effect it as I continue to use what I learned from writing

Writing is not for the timid. Writing is not for the faint of heart. Writing is not for the strong-willed or the cowardly. Writing is not for the beautiful or the weak. Writing is not for the fierce or the mild. It is not for the admirable. Not for heros or villains. Not for the lazy. Not for the boastful or fragile. Not for the perky or the afraid. Not for the graceful or gloomy. Not for the young or aged. Not for the good or the bad. Not for the tall or short. Writing isn’t for audiences, readers, writers, or editors. Writing isn’t for anyone.

Strangely enough, as a young preschooler or kindergartener, anything and everything I wrote was cute and a masterpiece. My parents proudly applauded my works with words of praise and amazement. At the same time, I had a veil of oblivion that allowed me to overlook minor spelling errors, for example, “of” and “ov”. While wearing that veil I could write anything everything without fail, without flaw, and without the pressures to write in utter perfection.

I started writing about six years ago, but I never seriously thought of becoming a writer until last year. When I was younger, writing was always more of a hobby, something I did that other people said I did well, and I thought, “Cool, let’s run with this.” I liked writing, but I thought I needed to feel something more than “like” to be a real writer. But now that I’m older I’ve found that the act of writing isn’t the most rewarding, it’s the stories that have tethered me to this profession. Whether they’re my own or others’, the finished concerto is what buzzes in my chest. Hearing strings of assonance, the harsh grate of dissonance, the vibrant characters, the sunlit settings, the raw truths; every time I’m left speechless and heartbroken by someone else’s story. So many people can’t see the beauty. But I know it’s there, and it’s something I will spend my whole life pursuing.

Whenever I felt a portion of my self was inaccessible and I desperately needed access to it, writing made my inner life come alive as a concrete manifestation. Writing has always been the crucial first stage in imparting all my favorite research discoveries and revelations, and over the years, I have realized that neglecting this step causes nothing but grief. I am going to traverse abandoned memories detailing how my craving for the written medium came to be. Throughout my life, writing has persistently remained my instinctual means for self-understanding and expression.

The first time I realized that writing was what I wanted to do in life was on the corner of Powell Street in San Fransisco. I had just ended a call with my comatose grandfather, telling him I loved him and goodbye. Standing in the middle of happening San Fransisco, I’d bid the longest goodbye to my best friend and all I could think to do was write out how I felt. I sat in the closest McDonald’s, drank copious amounts of coffee, and wrote for hours on end. While being a Jane Austen and Sylvia Plath lover, my bawling over a styrafome cup was less than romantic, but at the time, there was nothing stopping me. After befriending the 24-hour staff at McDonalds, I returned home and kept on writing. This story has always stayed with me as the day I figured out my coping mechanism, my love, and something that has shaped every aspect of my life. I often think that maybe I have known my whole life that I was meant to write through constant reading and writing, but it wasn’t until that day that I really understood what it meant to be driven to do something forever.

I remember the day so vividly. The bell rang. Students littered the halls like raindrops filling pavement cracks with water. Soon, a flock of weary-eyed individuals would make a beeline toward their next class. It was a remarkably humid day. Feeling the blaze of the sun bearing down on me, I sunk in my seat, melting like the Popsicle our teacher held in his hand. “Okay, class…” I heard him say, half-sighing. “Today, we’re writing an essay.” Groans echoed throughout the room. Even I rolled my eyes. However, he was not finished. Begrudgingly, my head lifted up to face him. “I know everyone’s not up to it, but I’m allowing you to write about anything you wish.” My lightbulb flashed. Once the final words poured from his lips, I got to work. The pen danced on the paper like a pirouetting ballerina and within fifteen minutes, my essay was completed. Our teacher came to stop me after

Writing is an art that improves through time with consistent practice and exploration of one’s skills. Prior to this class, I have always considered myself to be an efficient writer. However, my writing was limited in the scope of academic writing, due to the fact that throughout my high school career, that is the most of what was expected to be written from me. In this class I was able to dive further into my writing and explore with my skills in the context of creative writing, poetry, as well as fictional writing; something I had little to no experience in. With the correct guidance from you, my professor, and consistent practicing, I was able to create five pieces that I believe to be some of my best work in these particular genres of

At the same time, my creative writing teacher at MCC decided to get creative and actually assign us something with some criteria that we had to adhere to. It was a poem, much to my relief, but one about a traumatic experience that had occurred in our lives. It being so fresh on my mind from my college composition class, I again chose to write about the accident. Here, another crucial connection was made for me. Two forms of writing had been presented for me; one that I associated with emotional and spiritual catharsis, and the other that I associated with boring school assignments about people and things that I really could have cared less about. The

They enveloped me like the saltwater of the ocean, the words sporadically dragging me down. I had always excelled at math and science; however, when it came to writing, especially about myself, I was an ordinary student. I hoped that at some point, spontaneously, my ability to write would be revamped to match my skills in problem-solving. Unfortunately, that point never came, and I had to learn how to substitute many of the words I used with larger, more descriptive words. Even so, my struggle with writing persisted, and the assignments continued to pour in. Eventually, I discovered that my conflict with essays and other compositions was due, in part, to my displeasure of writing about myself and my experiences. My aversion to writing has always been natural. Although, I learned that this abhorrence is reduced when I focus on a topic that interests me or when I control my writing’s development and outcome. The only type of writing that I had ever produced in school was the overly structured essays that were focused on me/myself. I assumed that no other approaches existed; however, I eventually discovered which elements of the writing process that were the roots of my displeasure.

Ever since I can remember, I have wanted to be a writer. There is simply no greater sense of fulfillment than being able to move someone by the words on a page. I have found my greatest strength to be in brief journal entries, often times in response to things that make me happy, sad, or just downright angry. Still, I have always aspired to write a novel. A more ignorant version of myself even committed a whole summer to starting this much-anticipated novel. To make a (not very) long story short, it climaxed at chapter three. Soon thereafter, I resolved that my novel was missing a key piece to the puzzle: experience. Through the collected essays from the New York Times Writers on Writing Volume II, a number of well-known authors answered my call for help by explaining that with experience comes the inspiration that drives captivating stories. Many times, these experiences reflect hardships within one’s life, and only writing is the remedy that heals.