The Importance Of Writing Methods In Short Stories

The five basic rules of narrative writing can be applied to any report writing situation and will allow for the successful completion of any investigative report. Many of these reports were established to help investigators achieve in their writing and allow them to complete the writing task as quickly as possible so they can get the information. In addition to the five basic rules of narrative writing the investigator can do other things as well to develop the report and improve its professional quality towards the report.

Everyone knows what writing is to one extent or another, but we all have different definitions of how it should be done and varying degrees of seriousness about the art. We all have a process of writing, but each is unique to ourselves and our own experiences. Annie Dillard and Stephen King are two well known authors who have published many pieces, two of which describe how they view the writing process and let their readers get a peek of what goes on through their minds when they write. These two pieces are Dillard’s The Writing Life and King’s “What Writing Is.”

What’s the first thing you do before getting started on writing a text? Is it turn on music, get yourself alone in a room, turn on the TV? Whatever it is, everyone has their own writing process. Elizabeth Wardle and Doug Downs state, “…it would seem that if you want to become a more versatile, capable, powerful writer, you need to be pretty aware of which activities, behaviors, habits, and approaches lead to your strongest writing-and which don’t”(170). The writing process has a major effect on the effectiveness of the paper it’s got to do with what it takes you to get the best on paper. My writing process consists of all paperwork, which is related to the writing and music that’ll help me focus.

My alarm rings, I push open the wooden window shaders to see the early commuters honking and speeding past. The smell of the street bakers and restaurants ready to open for the locals. I get ready to head outside for another busy yet wonderful day. I head outside. I see cars, mums taking their kids to school, elderly at the bakery buying this week's bread and many, many tourists flooding the streets. I feel the hot air on my skin as a light breeze passes by me and the hot sun covering me.

The Writer’s Process combines proven practices of successful authors with cognitive science research about how our minds work. When you learn to work with your brain instead of against

​In the beginning of my educational career, I detested anything that pertained to writing: paragraphs, fill-in-the-blank sentences, and especially poetry. However, a 10th-grade English class changed my perspective on the necessity of conveying my thoughts onto paper with effectiveness, and writing became the cargo boat of my thoughts- the manifestation of my progressively maturing mind. I began to write daily- approximately 4 pages per day- and I developed a writing skill that my friends envy and a unique eloquence that their tongues could only wish to formulate on their own. As an extension of my 11th-grade AP English class, I read additional works of writers we learned in class from different periods- Emerson, Twain, Fitzgerald, and Thoreau-

Again, the dark laughter echoed in her head. Shit, shit, shit. She was so damn stupid, so bloody arrogant. In spite of the sunglasses she wore to lessen the risk of overstimulation to her senses, the lenses were no safeguards against the weighted stares of the people on the bus, and Tung wasn’t here acting as a buffer.

The strawberry blonde sighed as she maneuvered through the bustling cafe, wanting nothing more than to go home and sleep for five to sixty years.

“Just get me off this cliff now, and get this over with.” Ichabod snapped his fingers and mumbled a few words. Then a rope with a calabangerattached to the end appeared out of nowhere. I was astonished at its appearance _______. He let the rope down and I grabbed the hook with my free hand to carefully attach it to my belt.

My whole body shakes with the effort to contain my sobs, the hand holding my phone stings with the force of my grip. Determined figures type at it's screen, their progress slowed by the tremors running havoc and my terrified body. The irritation is present, but fleeting, chased out by the desperation currently clawing it's way up my chest.

Most people underestimate the power his or her surroundings has over their writing. There has to be a specific location or object that help ideas flow out of his or her minds and appear on the paper or screen. It could be a lucky pen, a bedroom, a cup of tea, or even a pair of yoga pants. Whatever it is, it has to be present, so they can get their point across clear and precise. These are called writing rituals. Everyone has at least two that help them write; however, not all are the same. Keeping this in mind, how can one know the right rituals to use? The best rituals to use are to sit in the darkest, coldest corner of the room and to have a giant soft teddy bear within arm’s reach. Sitting in a dark, cold corner and having a huge teddy bear nearby is very important because it keeps a writer relaxed and provides a sense of comfort and security; the perfect environment for accommodating to any creative needs.

When I start to write essays, or even paragraphs, I become stalled by my own doubts. I begin to forget what I do know, and I feel like I don't have anything to write about which leaves me at a standstill. I forget who I am writing to, or who my audience is. I overload my paragraphs with large words and strong vocabulary, not realizing that I am not conveying a story to my readers. "Ten Ways to Think About Writing" gave me a new thought process on the beginning of a story, essay, or even just a simple blog post. I should approach writing with an attitude geared to my audience. I should think first about what I know, and be able to tell those things well, instead of just jumping into all the things that I'm not sure about, and eventually trailing

Izzi looked around her. Everywhere were colors. The trees with their dark bark and ever changing leaves. The blue of water flowing in a nearby river. The pinks, purples, and oranges of the flowers beneath her feet. She looked down at her feet. And she saw nothing. The wind was all she was. She didn't stand out in the world filled with beauty, all she did was blend in, drifting in the breeze. It made her want to cry. Izzi longed for color. She longed to belong in this world. She wanted it more than anything. She sat in the grass for hours and braided flowers into her colorless hair made of wind. They wouldn't stay in long but she didn't mind, as long as she could have the colors for a moment. Eventually the sun began to set and she headed home.

I was standing in the middle of a field, smiling at a beautiful girl. She had blue eyes like the morning sky, her lips were like two tulips intertwine, and her nose was a short yet straight like a river, the kind of nose that catches your attention. She had wavy brunette hair, as if it was part of the field. I couldn't help but smile, knowing she was all mine. She motion me towards her and as I near, she slowly moved away, as if moving towards something. I saw a big oak tree appear, standing behind her, giving off an intimidating stance. I follow her to it, and as we held hands, I felt the cold wind blow against my cheeks. I leaned in to kiss her, only she didn't do the same. I opened my eyes and saw the look of horror on her face. Next thing I knew, she fell onto the ground and a pool of blood seeped out of her white long dress. I held her close and cried, her hand rested on my cheek and whispered:

One day a long, long time ago Alena was the only teenage girl of her tribe. Belonging to the Ponca tribe she was expected to do the most by the chief who was also her father. One afternoon she goes on a walk after she does her daily jobs of picking berries, cooking and gathering. She starts to realize that it's getting pretty late and she should probably head back before dinner call or her father will worry. The Ponca tribe lives on the east side of the middle land right below the clouds where the sky spirits live therefore someone is bound to notice if she's gone. She looks around and doesn't recognize anything, for her this is very unusual because being the only younger girl in the tribe her father made her learn direction and defense before anything. She continues in the direction she thinks is going to lead her back home, eventually she comes across the snake of the woods and she asks for advice on which direction to go, snake says “Keep straight on this road and when you see two pathways go to the left.” There was one thing Alena was forgetting, her father always told her to never listen to the snakes they only care for themselves. She keeps straight on the road as the snake advised her, a little further she runs into timba tiger trying to hunt an innocent frog and thinks it would be a good idea to ask which route to take from the tiger just to make sure the snake knew its way around. Tiger tells her the same thing so she thanks him and continues as it's getting darker