How To Become A Writer

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.

Good Evening Everyone! I am McCall Radavich with USA Today. Although I am currently located in New York, I was born and raised in Arizona. At a very young age, I found my passion in writing and photography. I have literally been writing my story for as long as I can remember. When it came time for college, I chose one of the best journalism schools in the United States, the University of Iowa. I started small, taking pictures for the school’s newspaper, The Daily Iowan. I soon worked my way up to being an Opinions Writer, then a Metro Reporter, and finally my senior year, an editor. After graduating with a double major in journalism and geography in 2005, I got a yearlong internship with National Geographic. You know how you look back on moments of your life and think, that’s when it all changed? Well, that was it for me. That was my moment, the year I found myself. Writing isn’t an easy thing. Actually, I would say writing is the hardest thing a person can do, putting your self on display for any and all to see. Writing is the truth, and the truth hurts. I had always thought that was what I did when I wrote, tell the truth, but that wasn’t the case. I hadn’t learned how to write without boundaries until that summer, when I had no other option. I hadn’t known how to write like everything was on the line, because I had never had anything to lose. Now, it’s the only way I write. It is the only way I can. When my year was up, I didn’t know what to do with

In my first “Who I am as a Writer” paper I stated how one of the areas that I needed to improve was writing. I went into more depth talking about how my writing is not descriptive enough and how I cannot grab the reader's attention. Even though I still need to continue making improvements, I have gotten better in both of these aspects. Compared to my papers in high school my introduction paragraphs have improved.

This semester involved many writings that challenged my process in ways big and small. The variety of prompts each had their own details that required me to change perspectives as well as research topics to test my abilities as a writer. The topic that I felt helped me grow as a writer the most was the Personal Narrative. This essays caused me to think in its own way and only after completion was I able to effectively use the methods it taught me in my other assignments.

I don't mind sharing the details of my recent vacation, or cute stories about my childhood. I don't mind talking about my dislikes, or even my imperfections, but right now I seem to be focused. That energy is directed on writing.

I set down my computer not knowing what to write about. It was almost time for school and I was exhausted. I looked at the alarm clock it was 6:30 a.m. Just then my mom walked into my bedroom and said, “Time to get up Spencer. It’s the last day of school for you, before we move to Malibu. How long have you been awake?” I thought for a moment. “About an hour, but I can explain. I needed to think of ideas for the book I’m writing.” I said. She looked at me with rage, “Spencer! A growing girl needs a lot of sleep!” I stood up from my desk, and went to my dresser. “I’m going to get dressed,” I said as my mom walked out of the room. I opened my top dresser drawer, and pulled out a white tank top with black polka dots in it. As I put my new shirt

The notion of being a writer for me was a highly romanticized one. My vision of the writer was a person, who would sit in his pajamas and write in long hand from morning till afternoon, and then read whatever he liked until late in the day, of course he was still in his pajamas. There were no difficulties, obstacles or whatsoever - a perfect way to spend your life. A few months after starting the blog, I realized, my vision was blurred, my notion far removed from reality, and that I needed an appointment with an

I know the feeling all too well of how life seems to move too fast. When I was in High School, I spent most of my summers at writing camps, and internships. By the time I knew it my senior year was beginning. It was the time for me to apply for the serious scholarships that would get me into prestigious colleges. So for me this was an opportunity I could not screw up, but in the back of my mind I knew I would never be a senior in high school again. The idea of all this troubled me for the beginning of my senior year.  When the submission date of my scholarships came near, the stress was eating me alive. So with most issues people try to face themselves, most end up asking someone they trust. The person I trusted the most was my mentor, and Father. Who

Hello everyone my history as a writer is something odd, but I know for sure my age will grow and my history will as well. Whenever I have ever felt the need to write on my own I like to write what I am feeling even if it doesn't make sense. I like to think of myself as a person who sees life in a good perspective. I was interested in creative writing because I love to write about anything where I can show my creativity. So far I am enjoying this class. What I want to get out of this class is new writing techniques and to look at things differently. I enjoy writing about how I feel sometimes it can be about something good and something bad. I began to write when I was younger I came to this country 22 years ago as a very young lady. Who knew

I was awoken in the middle of the night by loud knocking at the door. Mom turned the lights on and dad suspiciously opened the door. I saw the silhouette of two workers standing there. One handed him a paper and the other gave him a flashlight and batteries. Dad thanked them and they left, moving down to the next room. I watched him as he read the paper, furrowing his eyebrows together before handing it to my mom. She read it with a horrified look. All she could muster out was, “Oh my god,” before setting the paper down. “Let me see it,” Chelsea demanded, sitting up. I leaned over and read it with

With a sigh, Joe nodded. “I’m very restless at night. I wake up off and on.”

It’s almost two to two after midnight. As the moon casts its light through the wooden blinds, the flickering shadows and boisterous snores of 20 other individuals with whom I share my room keep me wide awake. Nana, a kid who frequently has night terrors, seems to be reliving his own version of Dante’s Inferno -- in about three seconds half the room would be up. One, two, three … out of Nana’s mouth comes an alarming shriek. After the mumbling and grumbling from my rudely awakened roommates, a tense silence fills the room and my body eventually gives in to exhaustion. Grateful for the ear-splitting scream that had awoken the rest and offered a brief moment of respite from the incessant snoring, I finally close my eyes -- only to open them again in what seemed to me like a few minutes. The very roommates who had kept me awake through the night now ruin the few hours of sleep I can get as they scramble to get in line to take a shower at the only bathhouse in the tumbled down structure in which we lived. I shake the rheum off my eyes and head toward the bathhouse. It’s still dark and gloomy outside but the cock crows constantly remind me it’s morning. After showering, I eat a light meal and begin my 30-minute trek to school. My day had just begun and I was already deadbeat. It was under these stressful conditions that my resolve to shape my future and that of others living in similar conditions was forged.

"Two weeks, I 'll call your mom and ask her to come pick you up." My principle, Mrs. Webb spoke irritably before turning in her chair and digging out my mom 's number. An exasperated sigh escaped my lips as they talked for a few moments before she hung up and left me alone on the black, leather couch. I laid down on it, staring at the blank white ceiling. I knew I was trouble, but I couldn 't lie and say I didn 't like the chaos. It 's a bitter feeling, which happens to be favorite.

“What am I doing?” I thought to myself. I was in the middle of my yellow painted wall room. The atmosphere was unsettling. I sat on the brown textured carpet, tenaciously pulling at it; the left side of the bed was against my back. I look to my left to see the window. It was getting dark. I could (Tense is weird) hear little children outside yelling and playing. They did not know what was going to happen. I took the iPod I had from the top of the brown wooden nightstand I had to my left. I put in one of the earplugs in my left ear and started listening to music. I tried to placate myself. I sighed a deep breath. “This is wrong, but.. I don’t know.” I said to myself. I viewed my purple and blue bookbag under the midnight black colored chair across the room. I reached out for it and extracted out the many folders and notebooks it had. I needed to do homework.

“Should I be doing this?” I asked myself, as I packed my book bag up with all of what I thought were the essentials of living. My mind was tearing itself apart. “I’m tired of him,” I ruminated but my conscience interrupted, “But what about your Mom and Jalaun. You can’t leave them alone.” I then made the decision that I couldn’t leave my brother, Jalaun, in this battle with our father. I couldn’t let him endure it by himself. After giving up on leaving I stood there wondering what it would be like if I would have left, however I began slowly lulling myself to sleep.