Personal Narrative : Creative Writing : Personal Writing

Seventh grade was a drag to my education. I was mentally unstable and extremely introverted. My academics never faltered during this time, and I never had problems with authority. Learning was my first love. It was passion for education that prompted me to experiment outside of school.

During this spring semester, I have grown in many ways as a writer, and a student. I have started to realize, and accept the flaws that I have created in my writing. In the past, I never looked into my writings and saw my problems, and if I did, I did not accept that they were problems. In my writing pieces in the past, I was very hard-headed about what I thought was correct versus what was actually correct. I have also become More familiar with different formatting options on Microsoft Word to create a more professional piece or writing. However, figuring out all the parts of writing and making them work together is the most difficult part of writing.

When it comes to writing I have a mental breakdown, I get nervous, overthink, and emotionally stressed. These three words describe me as a writer. In high school I would have a difficult time starting papers, often times my weaknesses was grammar and sentences fragments. How I feel about writing is how I feel when a love one dies. It's like as if I'm at a funeral and my paper is the one being funeralized. I think the reason why I am how I am about writing is because my college English teacher in high school was so harsh on my papers, and ever since then I've been traumatize to write papers.

Seated in my petunia pink room at my tan desk an excruciating voice rang through my eardrum. “Again!” the voice bellowed. I hurried to rewrite my work. I started at the beginning with printed letters. A,a,B,b,C,c… I wrote every letter of the alphabet capitalized and lower cased. “Now cursive!” snapped the voice sharply. Again, I wrote all the letters but in cursive this time.

There I was sitting in the guest room of my aunts house. It was hot, the AC was busted, and I have not even started my history project. “I knew I should have started this sooner.” I said to myself. Ten minutes pass, and I'm still writing the first paragraph, when all of a sudden I hear a voice. “Take a little break man; you’re stressing yourself out.” I tried to ignore it, but the next thing I knew my left arm began to reach for my phone. I stopped myself. “I have to finish this project.” I said to myself, but I was not strong enough to stop myself a second time. As my phone sent a notification about a new video, my left arm sprang up and grabbed my phone. I wasn’t in control of myself. I couldn’t stop myself. It felt like the drive to

A couple of years ago my English teacher assigned me to write a short novel. At first I wasn’t really thrilled about having to spend 3 weeks writing a book for one of my least favorite subjects. I thought it was going to be hard and not worth the effort, until I started to write. Once I had my topic and an outline the writing came to me very easily. After a while of writing I started to get into the assignment and it became more of a pleasing task. I firmly believe it was that assignment that made me realize I was a better writer than I thought and that if I put my mind into it could produce good writing.

Growing up my main focus was surviving it wasn’t until about the 3rd grade until I really learned how to read. When I was young I switched schools, went through foster care, and was homeless on a few occasions. After months and months of going from Grandpas to Moms to Grandmas. Getting lost in Foster care and getting taken away from my Mom finally something steady happened. 3rd grade came around and my Aunt and Uncle received custody of my younger brother and I. Finally I could build a focus towards school my two all time favorite books as a child were The Giving Tree and my Spiderman comic book. The Giving Tree became one of my favorites only because it was one of the only books I had. My God parents two granddaughters and

Hello, I'm Jennifer Croney, and I am a student in your Writing for Communication course this semester.

I wanted to write a poem. I knew that I needed some kind of inspiration to do that, which I will describe shortly.

Writing is something that I find relaxing and freeing. Whether I am overwhelmed with school, giddy about an upcoming trip, or just want to create a story- I always turn to writing. My mind becomes clear of the thoughts that were present before I picked up a pen and paper, and I feel as though I can create more than words… I am capable of creating a piece of art for those around me to read. However, I am feel like I cannot do this without silence and the serenity that is found only when I am alone at night.

The combination of excitement and loneliness that can describe the experience of beginning adulthood can also describe the experience of writing. Over the year a first Such tense always brings me back to what happened one year ago, when countless essays flowed in with, by then the most important and irritating decision-making process of my life, no, not what to wear for graduation ceremony, though I struggled for nearly the same time on that, the college application writings.

Today is the day, I told myself, as I walked into my room. Today is the day. Today is the day that I’m going to overcome my writer’s block and start writing my story. I placed my bookbag down on my bed and take out my laptop. I kicked my shoes off, grabbed some clothes, and proceeded to take a shower. After I took a good shower, I ran down stairs to grab a Pop-Tart and quickly dashed back upstairs to my room. I placed my laptop on my cluttered desk, and opened the screen. It doesn’t even have to be a paragraph. It can just be… a simple brainstorm… Just write something… Microsoft Word booted up. Just write something… I placed my hand on the keyboard. Just write something...

Bertram replied, “It was quite the tale. I never thought I would hear a athlete like you tell a story with such a Sci-Fi setting.” Bertram then went on to say “Alright, I'm going to get back to working on something for a club.” The bus went mostly quiet again. Chad was curious as to what this thing Bertram was working on, so he peeked over to see what it was. He noticed that Bertram was typing on his iPad.

My hands were trembling. I just could not do it. My heart was palpitating as my blood ran throughout all of my veins. Thoughts were racing in and out of mind. I imagined the worst case scenario. I just could not press the confirm button. My essay was not good enough. Maybe I can tweak it some more to make it better. I need a good grade, and this will not get me there. Self doubt filled my body as I sat at the computer desk anxiously trying to upload my short story to turnitin.com. Many people thought that the short story assignment would be fun and innovative. However, many students found it to be more of a struggle than a walk in the park.

As the long figure shadow appears beside me, my essay floated down from her hand. Immediately I saw my paper covered in red lines. I turned the pages to the last one where Mrs. Bradley left the grade. For some reason, the shock of receiving another C- got to me. This essay wasn’t like the rest, the ideas and arguments made in the essay were strong. How could this essay not get at least a B. Next to the grade she left a comment, “Please see me about your paper.” Other days I would have ignored it and just left after class but today my name was on the board. There was no escaping Mrs. Bradley.