The Tragedy And Joy Of Writing

Writing is a powerful tool for communication and connection. As an extension and expression of the mind, writing is as much about the mental processes of the author as it is about the final marks laid to paper. As we write, we hold in mind our own thoughts on the work, anticipate the reader’s thoughts, and think both in concrete and abstract ways in order to accomplish the task at hand. Whether an academic research paper, a novel, or text message to friends, writing seeks to engage, persuade, or impress concepts upon an audience. Like language and other art forms in general, the practice of writing is ever-evolving and is subject to cultural and contextual influence, expectations, and conventions. Each writer holds a theory

Prior to my development of routine introspection and, consequently, maturation, I wrote not to encapsulate my ever-growing discomfort towards life, but rather to gain praise and acknowledgement for my efforts in writing. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I sat on the floor of my kindergarten classroom criss-cross applesauce-style as my teacher, Mrs. Glickman, asked the class to write a short story and to provide an illustration to accompany it. With smudged and disorderly speckles of graphite sprawled across my paper, I managed to write a story in my signature chicken-scratch handwriting. The story was relatively simple, about a girl who had thought she was a hideous monster until she looked into a river reflection and realized she was beautiful. I even drew (or attempted to draw) a beautiful girl for the second part of the assignment. At the next school assembly, Mrs. Glickman granted me a sky-colored paper, reading “Award of Recognition: Kiana Lucin, for her creative writing and exemplary drawing skills.” From this point on, I prided myself in writing, and excelled

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.”

I 've always liked writing. Even before I knew how to write I would make up stories and pretend to write them down. Each year in high school I 've written a multitude of essays on varying topics. I have selected three of these writings from each of my years in high school to examine as part of this rhetorical analysis of my writing history. As I 've grown older, my writing style has changed and I 've learned more about the world and developed my own personal writing voice more and more.

Writing is a practice that most of us were taught when we were young. We were taught the basics of grammar, how to form a sentence, conjunction words, how to write paragraphs and more. Although we have learned this skill while growing up and have used the skill every year after entering kindergarten, this does not mean our writing process will ensure the best work. The authors that I chose each encourage their audience to excel in the art of writing in their own way to help with the writing process.

From the early beginning of the school year to the current day, my writing skills and knowledge have improved and broadened over time. If not drastic, the change is noticeable nevertheless. For almost an entirety of eighth grade, assignments of varying difficulty challenged me to a degree. To be frank, some seemed as though they were beyond my comprehension and ability. However, determination amalgamated with knowledge obtained in advance helped me to overcome my doubts, for I exceeded my expectations; surprisingly good grades and comments are a delight, owing to the fact of that I don’t tend to think of myself as being proficient at writing. Consequently, the assignments given to me this school year shaped me into who I am as a writer.

Throughout the course of freshmen year I have developed different skills and opinions on writing. I feel I have created a more mature style of writing and a better understanding of literature. I have changed my view of writing over this semester and acquired a strong liking for it. The importance of writing has become more visible throughout the past few months. Writing is crucial in many aspects of a person’s life. I have grown to be a more powerful and well built writer throughout this course.

I’m not a notable writer, nor have I really wanted to join the writing industry. However, I have been interested in other people’s writing. From their deep meanings, content, and different formats/styles. It’s a wondrous creation made from within our imagination and experiences. It has inspired me to write too. I’ve been writing most of my life that it has become a necessity. And now from my past experiences with writing, I try my best to improve my skills as a writer for the future.

I am similar to the novelist Anne Tyler because she once said “If I waited ‘til I felt like writing, I’d never write at all.” This is me all too well because if I also waited until I “felt” like writing I would not ever write either. Writing is not something I do for fun; it is like a chore. In this paper I will discuss what kind of student I am, how strong my formal English writing skills are, any special needs I have, my major, and dream job.

The articles for the week, Shermer’s “Why Money Can’t Buy Happiness” and Hustvedt’s “My Mother,” offer perspectives on happiness informed by theories of evolutionary psychology. Shermer and Hustvedt examine what it means to be happy and how our brains can fool us into believing we enjoy something when we actually don’t. These readings come at a crucial pinnacle in the semester for me when introspection is often ignored. While other classes seem to be on the downward slope to finals, I feel I haven’t quite summited this writing course. There is obviously a purpose to the flood of open ended reflections and fast paced deadlines between articles. If the goal has to been to break a writer down, then it has undoubtedly been achieved. Instead of the demands of the class sharpening my pen and fine tuning my words, I’m starting to see my words as a jumbled mess of incoherent thoughts. My papers have become an alphabet soup I try to arrange to convey my thoughts and link the themes I see. But the more I write, the less letters there are to choose from. I’ve desperately wanted to learn how to improve my writing, but the more I learn the more I realize the affliction I have with the process entirely. The two chapters this week have revealed less about the process of good writing for me, but more on my own affliction with writing and its affects on my aspirational career as a social scientist.

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.

After a 40-year career in which the need to write has always featured prominently, I still find the prospect of committing pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, a daunting experience. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike writing. On the contrary, I derive a great sense of satisfaction from completing any writing task or assignment. Indeed, a lifetime of writing leads me to believe that writing well and enjoying the experience, like most worthwhile endeavors, requires preparation, hard work, and an unyielding commitment and desire to succeed. Furthermore, I have come to realize that in the words of the ancient Chinese philosopher, Lao Tzu, “A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.” At the outset, I feel that every writing project is like a thousand-mile journey, and I know I’ll get there in the end - if only I have the courage take that first, single step - if only I can find the right words.

Usually the happy ending comes on the last page; however, I am so happy that I couldn’t save that happiness for the end. I am happy for what I have achieved as a writer. Now that I am living in the after moment, I fully enjoy and appreciate the academic success I have earned. Couple of years ago, if someone asked me to write some fifty pages on any topic, I wouldn’t even think that was possible. During my two-year study in the United States, I have gone through many stages, all challenging, yet downright useful to my academic and personal life. I must admit that I had a zero impulse to write, but I was lucky to meet and work with real world-class writers who inspired me and helped me to be a good writer. Despite busy schedules and stressful mind, I took up the challenges and rode the tide. I always kept a notepad or journal beside my bed to write down my thoughts and memories that appeared in the middle of night. I would get them down on paper and reviewed back in the morning. In those days, the morning for me started at 11:00am as I usually stayed awake the whole night to read, write and, of course, worryingly check news back home. While my brave fellow citizens, Peshmerga, fight the ISIL in the frontlines, I feel I fight psychologically side by side Peshmerga with my singular vigor through pen and paper. I didn’t find a better time to write than past 10:00pm after my two gorgeous and mischievous daughters go to bed. I then enjoyed the calm of the night where all

This should answer my view on writing, my experiences and identity through writing. One can deduce my strengths and definite weaknesses.They started as letters. The first day I met her, I wrote her a letter. She faux-pouted and then smiled at me, my words no longer important or meaningful compared to the look in my eyes. That was the first letter I ever wrote to her. The next forty or so, I haven’t a clue what they were about anymore, and they’re just as well lost to the wind; but I’m now convinced beyond any doubt that they were what endeared me to her – these stupid, silly letters, one every day, most of them filled with whimsical dreams of Europe and love, of root-beer and summertime: like I said, stupid, silly things. We were both really young, and arrogantly, hopelessly naive. We had no idea the kinds of things awaiting us; but back then, really, it didn’t matter so much. We were in love, so it goes, and when you’re in love, you think you’re invincible, you think you’re endless, you think you’re forever.

Throughout this semester, I have grown enormously as a writer, thinker, and person. At the beginning of this semester I was a meek and simplistic writer. However, I now make a conscious attempt to be as exquisite and detailed as possible. Now, after much practice, I am much more sanguine in my abilities and adeptness. This growth I have experienced has been a significant improvement of my writing, as well as artistic, abilities in a way that words can not quite accurately describe. The wide range of pieces we have written have rounded out my ability as a thinker and writer as well as opened my eyes to the many forms of writing available to express synonymous content.