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Eng 1101 - the Good and the Bad

Essay by   •  December 2, 2018  •  Creative Writing  •  1,065 Words (5 Pages)  •  76 Views

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Mycah Howell

Sarah Geil Bramblett

English 1101

September 9, 2018

The Good and the Bad

Sometime between the ages of 13 and 18, I realized how different I am compared to all my classmates, friends, and family. As of now, I have accepted those differences from the way I view situations to the way I write or write at all. I always had a fascination with writing and the style of it but in my own way and form. I did not understand why others could not find the same pleasure in reading and writing that I experienced. That is until I realized my type of writing style was something schools didn't teach a lot of or at all and I almost let it take my love of writing away from me. Through my whole experience, my passion for writing did weaken, but I still return to writing when I need a source of emotional release.

My real taste for writing didn't begin until I was in 8th grade. In English, Language Arts at the time, all the students were given an assignment to write an ending to a story with an abrupt stop. At first, I didn't know how I wanted to finish the story or what to write at all. My writer's block was not the only reason weighing me down. The thought of allowing someone else to read my story was nerve- wrecking to the core. Until this one idea about letting the character realize that she was the monster, she has been running from, all along popped into my head. A few days after I turned in the paper, the students from the class were informed about how the class had its own website that features some of the best story endings from the assignment before. When she showed us the website, my story was right there for everyone to read and see.  

Seeing my paper on the site, for everyone to see gave me mixed feelings, but the strongest out of all of them was satisfactory. Writing became a drug for me. I became obsessed with writing, and had to continue, even if it meant keeping my stories to myself. For a few more years, I started to write stories that were stuck in my head. Every day, I would add more stories to my collections, almost resembling my little journal with hidden secrets.  

As I moved up levels in education, the taste of writing began to fade. The taste and texture of writing were no longer sweet or bitter; it was just writing. The activity I once loved so much became more of a requirement, only to be done a certain way and could not stray far from a path of perfect formation. Every time I wrote, I felt more like a robot than I did as a human.

I began to believe that my connection with writing would disappear and that frightened me. I did not know how to stop this feeling, and the stress of school did not help either. That is until I stumbled upon a Creative Writing course in high school, taught by a teacher whose second home were books. Mrs. Vincent knew the taste of writing, it gave off a sugary, but true taste. She wrote by observation of everyone around her. She could uncover your personality from how you walk into the ocean, and she did.  

As a class, we wrote every day about what we wanted to say, but in different forms. I would write poetry, memoirs, narratives, a stream of consciousness, and more; and talked about what I wanted to say in any way I could. I had control over my writing and my thoughts. In the class, I met unique people who helped shaped my understanding of life and writing. I watched and read their writing, observing how their writing style improved.

As Creative Writing came to the end of the year, I craved more. I wanted more ways that I could write about anything I wanted. My senior year, I joined the journalism class, mostly known as the newspaper. Instead of the fictional stories in my head, I wrote about the stories that happened in real time. It was a shift from what I did before, but I loved it just as much as creative writing. At first, I struggled because I kept my voice silent and never tried to raise it even when I should have. Over the course of the months, journalism got easier. My voice got louder; some would say my voice got too loud.

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