Mr. Westby Reader Response

In order to earn her degree in creative writing she needed to complete a novel or set of short stories. She intended to write her memoir but ran into some issues. The emotions about what had happened were still too raw and reliving her memories was too much for her to handle at that time. Instead, she wrote an autobiographical novel. The events that happened in the book all happened to her, but the presence of a fictional character to represent her helped create tolerable distance between her and her experiences. This novel prepared her to write her memoir. Writing her memoir allowed her confront her past in a new way. It required her to revisit her memories as a writer rather than as herself with all her entangled emotions. Examining her life through a different lens allowed her to heal.

Like most people, writing has made an impact on my life. I didn’t notice it right away, but once I did it changed my life forever. I consider myself to be a fairly decent writer and I would say it was the only thing that kept me going. I love writing that involves thinking and real emotion. Writing journals and letters have helped me get through a lot in my life and that is really something I will never forget.

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 want my audience to be emotionally drawn towards my writing. I want them to realize that certain things are not as important in life as they believe it to be or that certain things are more important and shouldn't be neglected.

Enchanted by her serene radiance, I did not disturb her. Suddenly she began to speak in a whispered hum that was more like a song, unique in a dwelling full of ranting outbursts. She spoke of years long past, swimming in the pond with her sister and dancing in the moonlight. I could picture all in my head, like I was watching a movie. Then she began repeating the story she had just told me, and I realized that she was merely talking to herself. Although this discovery disenchanted me at first, I soon realized that, although the woman was talking to herself, she still had so many fantastic stories stored in her mind. The residents of the home all had some life flittering in them and numerous stories to share; they just need someone to listen to them. After my experience at the home I knew that one of my goals in life would always be o help make sure that people were receiving proper treatment, and not merely stuffed away and drugged up.

I’ve never told this story before. Not because I’m ashamed or embarrassed. I’ve put off telling it for so long because it terrifies me. It is a story of a time I lost complete control. It is a story of loneliness and isolation. By not recalling it, or writing it down, it became just a string of events that happened in the past, meaningless and disconnected from the future. Putting it into words makes these past events the future. They become immortalized in writing, they become forever. But maybe putting words to my thoughts and feelings will alleviate some of that terror. Maybe I’ll be setting myself free.

O'Conner (2003) argued that the writer should focus on cultivating its reader by portraying their idea in an effortlessness manner. She argues that communication between the author and reader is an important goal, the author holds the sole responsibility to ensure that the reader is not left confused and can walk away with a meaningful connection. She adds that being a simpleminded may seem easier but if the author and reader in a conflicting relationship then it may be impossible to generate a soothing and touching experience.

The week before Anabelle and I moved out into the city, I felt the nerves, the jittering butterflies of happiness, and the warm hugs our parents gave us in the limited time that we had left. The week after we settled and moved into our new apartment If I had known what was to come, however, I never would have departed from my parents. All the good memories I and Anabelle shared throughout our lives, were taken away, all vanquished because of one night. Those hours of darkness that which we spent out, I wish so much that we could take back. It was supposed to be a night of fun, an awakening of our new lives as adolescents, but what happened instead was a tragedy. In the blink of an eye, I was gone. My soul, my body, my entirety, erased. And so was Anabelle’s.

this book faced, I was able to speak for the first time on the pain

It gave me more of an understanding of what incoming college students face when writing and what to expect in this more academically challenged environment. “What Is ‘Academic’ Writing?” by L. Lennie Irvin is a short story about how first-time college students and how they think to have these kinds of expectation figured out to write an academically correct paper and the troubles they face. He also mentions the Importance of developing a writer’s sense, the myths about writing, the three most common types of college writing assignments and talks about the complex literacy tasks in assignment students struggle with. I really thought his story compare to a lot of what was happening in my life. I was struggling as a writer and I thought I knew what the expectations were going to be heading into college, but I didn’t. The number one thing I would like to focus on and compare it to my life as a writer are the myths people have about

We hadn’t had rain in over 4 weeks. It was hot, humid. The heavy clouds were moving in now but right then all I could think about was how pathetic I’d look to Joe when he saw me all beaten up like this. The lace on my bra was torn (and I really liked that one). I brushed my blonde hair out of my face a little, only to see my runny mascara and red lipstick smudged onto the limp ends. I was a quarter of the way home by the time I noticed the blood dripping from between the top of my thighs, filling the holes where my tights were torn when that Horrible Man threw me out of the car onto the pavement. I had to stop and take a rest. I wanted to get home to clean myself up but my whole body hurt too much to keep going. As I sat down I was overwhelmed with fear and shame. I started balling like a baby, I couldn’t stop it. After the tear spell was over I stood up and I saw the rain clouds closing

Why me? Out of everyone, why me?!” I exclaimed. My eyes burned, my heart rate increased, and I felt the transudation of sweat down my back. Infuriated, I aimlessly tossed the pictures away from me. All these memories made me dizzy. My legs were numb. God knows how long I was sitting there. A state of stupor overcame me and I lay down on the cold, hardwood floor. Once again there was darkness. The echoing of the dripping tap jolted me awake. I noticed the minimal light that entered from the windows as the last hues of the setting sun mellowed my rage. I had bathed myself to revive my inner being and to clear my head. As I headed towards the lounge room, my gaze fell on two photographs, side by side. I picked them up and tears welled up in my eyes from what I saw. Although the two photos had different couples they both depicted the same thing: A drunken father, a traumatised son, and a lonely wife. The smiles were a mere mask to conceal the truth. How had I not realised what I had done? What I had become? I was just like him. Like my father! I gave Chris the very same treatment that I had despised as a child. I knew what I had to do now. To make it up to them was going to be a challenge…But it had to be done. I was truly sorry and they had to

It was a warm summer day in Salt Lake City, Utah where a little girl named Mona Johnson just 13 years old, was sitting in her last class before she went home. It was the class she had hated the most, writing class. Ever since she was a little girl writing stories were always the worst part of her day. Coming up with ideas were always so hard for her. She just didn't have as many ideas as everyone else. So she had always thought that it was torture but she never knew how bad it could be until the day when her worst nightmare came true. Which was today…

I got home and my niece wouldn’t look at me. She locked herself in her room and cried for hours. I could hear her through the walls like a ghost wailing at her murderer. As I lay in bed with my sister sleeping in the room adjacent to me, I thought of how my niece must feel. I knew that she knew. It was all for the best though. I had to keep telling myself.

Once I had closed the door after them we stood in silence, staring at the worn blue of the floor beneath our feet. There was nothing we could do or say to make this less uncomfortable. There was something unfathomable sneaking between all three of us and we knew it without speaking. If any of us were taken away then that meant we were hiding something from even our own family, and in our society that wasn’t well tolerated. Then again, if you came out as an oddity that could make a person’s blood boil just by looking at them then you had a tendency to fear those around you. I didn’t want anyone to be afraid of me, but I also couldn’t keep it from creeping into their psyche once the truth was laid bare for everyone to see. It would break my