Looking Back...

Raeta Daniel

Raeta’s blog posts reminded me very much of a diary as they consisted of personality, spunk, humor, and to-the-point honesty. I found it to be very courageous as she never seemed to be afraid to voice her opinion and what she truly thought about an issue. As I am a woman of great detail, as is reflected in my writings, I found it surprisingly interesting when I couldn’t help but become all the more intrigued at the simplistic tone found within Raeta’s stories. I found it, for lack of a better term, very real and honest as I admired the fact that she never tried to make reality seem more glamorous or beautiful than it is; for sometimes, life just plain sucks!

Although her blogs can seem somewhat simple at times, Raeta knows when to be serious and how to touch her reader. She is able to come across poetic when she wants her reader to take her subject-at-hand seriously and she does so in such a beautiful manner (for an example of this, read her blog “High Above” and “My Parents’ Most Tragic Day…”). Raeta is a very talented writer and has much to offer the world.

My Favorites

One of my favorites would definitely have to be “So, it came in 3’s…” I absolutely love the personal and yet, concurrently distant writing style of the author. I love how Raeta gives us a sense of what’s important to her and what’s going on in her life while not giving us too much detail or focusing too much on one topic. I felt teased as I was reading the blog, as though she was stringing me along as I yearned to uncover more about her life. I think this is a great writing tactic as it keeps the audience interested and longing to read more.

Another one of my favorites, if not my most favorite, would have to be “High Above.” Personally, I loved writing this blog! I think it opens up a whole new sense of creativity in which many of us probably didn’t even know we had. I think Raeta did a fantastic job with this blog! I feel as though the productivity and technique in her writing was highly expounded upon. It’s funny how simply taking five or so minutes out of your day to just relax and look out a window can trigger so many emotions, thoughts, and topics to discuss in great detail, which is what I can tell happened to Raeta. Throughout the entirety of this blog, she discovered secrets of life and of herself: how to manage her stress, how to survive the roller-coaster ride of life, how we, as humans, are all connected, and how our problems pale in comparison to those of others. This blog was inspiring, poetic, well-written, thoughtful, and beautiful. I felt connected to it and to the author; a true sign of a great writer.

“My Parents’ Most Tragic Day…” was another great post. So rare is it that an author has the capability and the writing technique to create a masterpiece which touches his/her reader. Even before I read this blog, only the title, I knew that the subject-at-hand would be a very serious one, as she did a great job in reflecting an unknown tragedy to come. Throughout the blog, I couldn’t stop reading, though at times, I wanted to; for I didn’t want to reach the end, as I knew what laid ahead. My eyes swelled up in the middle of story and tears slithered down my cheeks as I came to the final few sentences. My heart goes out to you and your family, Raeta. I cannot even begin to understand what you and your parents went through. All I can do is commend you for your bravery and willingness to share such a personal topic with complete strangers and say that I am truly sorry for your loss.

Michelle Nulliner

Michelle’s blog posts remind me a lot of Raeta’s; not so much the subject matter, but rather the writing style. It is very honest, full of personality, uplifting when called for, serious when needed, and inspiring when it was meant to be. I can’t help but say that it reminds me very much of a female college student’s diary. Throughout many of her blog posts, I felt as though I was standing behind her, looking over her shoulder as she jotted down her personal experiences.

I love being able to read each blog and having the ability to understand what is important to her and how her experiences have helped shaped the person she is today. Michelle is clearly very driven, passionate, loyal, hard working, and creative – and her writings reflect exactly that.

My Favorites

Michelle’s “Braided Essay” blog post was definitely one of my favorites. As a reader, I felt connected with her; for I too can be a pessimist at times and set myself up for failure. As a classmate, I felt proud of her for being brave enough to admit a weakness and tell a story in which she prevailed over her fault. It was beautifully written and came full circle with a beginning, middle, and an end.

Another favorite of mine is one in which actually lacks a title, but was written on Wednesday, February 25 of this year. As softball is the subject matter for most of her blogs, it comes as no surprise that this one was as well. However, what I found intriguing about this essay was her gratification and pride in an award in which she had received while on the ASU softball team. I admire her for receiving the award of “Most Improved” player of the 2008 National Championship Softball Team. This alone allows the reader to obtain an understanding of the type of person Michelle is: hard working, driven, and persistent, among others. I found this blog post to be somewhat of a mechanism for positive reinforcement. Sometimes we are more likely to target and write about our flaws and I found it uplifting that Michelle did not choose to do so in this case.

My favorite story would probably have to be one of Michelle’s first posts, titled “Speechless.” For this blog post, we were required to briefly mention and discuss three topics in which would be extremely hard for us to write about. I can remember reading this blog when it was first posted and feeling honored to be probably one of few people who know such intimate secrets as well as feeling proud of her for being brave enough to share such personal subject matter to a class of strangers. My feelings have yet to change. I can’t even imagine having to deal with some of the experiences she has been thrown into and I commend her for being able to cope with them, let alone being able to write about them. I found myself inspired and overwhelmed with a sense of admiration for Michelle as she did not take the easy way out of this assignment, but rather went forward with it head-on and unafraid as to what her classmates might think about her and/or her family. She did an amazing job on this blog and I am so happy for her that she was able to discuss such difficult topics.

A Struggle to Continue

She lays at the bottom, motionless, unable to move ahead.

Broken.

Damaged.

Battered to pieces.

The hounding pressures of the waves smother her from every-which-way. Decades of rust and turmoil devour her every inch, slowly ingesting her from the inside out. Sea creatures of all kinds, shapes, and sizes come to feast, eating away at her remains.

Dark and cold, she yearns for the life she once had; for the sunshine that warmed her so, and the gentle breezes that gave her life and reminded her that she was still alive. Yet the only sign of life left in her is signaled by her ability to feel the pain from her battle scars.

Oil weeps from her core as she recalls the losses she has suffered. “Where did things go wrong? How did I get here?” She thinks to herself. But thinking only causes her more misery.

Each day is a struggle to fight and the nights are not any better.

Although beat down, she is not beaten. She endures the severity of her surroundings.

She is strong.

Made of steel.

Built in a suit of armor.

They cannot destroy her, only render her momentarily paralyzed.

So there she waits, at the deepest part, in the blackest ocean. At the bottom she resides, afraid and alone. But she knows she must persevere. One day, someone will find her, will track her down. They will raise her from her watery prison and she will once again be able to see the light.

Undecided is a Way of Life

In the beginning I was independent and decisive. However, what once seemed so easy was now so hard.

It was a day like any other. I went through the normal motions of my routine: woke up, went to school, arrived home, took a shower, drove to Zack’s, completed some homework, went to rent a movie, and ate dinner. This has become customary to my every day. But each day, the simplicities of life grow increasingly more difficult.

There we stood, just him and me, in front of an entire plethora of choices. Drama, action/adventure, horror, comedy, romance; I wasn’t sure which one to choose.
Overwhelmed with uncertainty, I cowardly turned in to him and muttered, “Which one do you feel like?” Unhappy with the usual, “I don’t care; whatever” response, I let out a sorrowed sigh in frustration. “Just pick one!” he snapped, as he too was becoming more and more hostile from my inability to make a decision. “Fine! Let’s just get this one,” I groaned as I hurriedly clawed at a comedy in dire hopes to lighten the mood.

As we left the store I felt relieved in, what should have been a simple conquest at Blockbuster; yet my feelings of satisfaction and eminence were struck down when he then asked, “Okay, now what do you want for dinner?” Once again, the uneasiness of not knowing what I wanted crept its way back into my stomach. The knot that formed in my throat left me incapable to answer him. “Ummm…” I managed to stutter. “I don’t know. What do you feel like?” “Here we go again,” I thought to myself as I knew this would only ignite an annoying round of back-and-forth irresolution. “Why don’t you pick, Zack, since I chose the movie?” I figured that this would be an even trade, but I soon found out that I was wrong. As soon as I said that, I was immediately answered back with, “Kaylyn, I’m not going to pick for you. You’re the one who’s hungry. I really don’t care what we eat. Just choose, please!” Out of compulsion and hastiness, I quickly countered with, “Someburros.”

Later that night, when my stomach felt as though it was being turned inside out and the movie was so dull that we were forced to turn it off, I knew that I should have chosen pizza and a good, old-fashioned horror flick. Serves me right to be indecisive, I guess.

Comfort in Him

The Test

It is the eve before the big exam and I cannot sleep. My mind is restless as hoards of thoughts scamper throughout their imprisoned walls in my head. I can’t help but to think about my failed attempt at the last exam, nearly a month ago. I devoted several days, two hours each day, to the excruciating studying for that exam; but it did me no good. All the more, luck was not on my side the next day during my time of need. As beads of nervousness dripped down my jaw line, I nibbled at the octagonal sides of my pencil with only one thought in mind: “I wish he were with me. He would calm my nerves and take away my fears and tell me that everything’s going to be alright.”

The Stress

Two weeks pass and heavy wave of stress topples over me and devours any hint of calmness left in my body. My stomach is in a tangle of knots and my breathing is delicate and fast. All I can think about is how the hell I’m going to make it through the week without having a nervous breakdown. My eyes can focus on nothing but my agenda that lies before me. I want to look away, to focus on anything else but that damn agenda, but I can’t. I look up, but my eyes immediately shoot back to the endless pages of the book, covered in bold, red and black writing, with scribbles and notes and exclamation marks and arrows every which way, as if in a manner so tactical as to drive me to the depths of insanity! It is working. I can think of nothing, see nothing, and feel nothing but those damn pages of my agenda lying heavily under my frail fingertips. It’s almost as if I can feel the weight of my workload in my hands. I force myself to close my eyes and think of something, anything else. I immediately think of him. “Where is he?” I repeat to myself. I need him now; for he is the only one that can make things better.

The Disappointment

Dawn soon approaches as does the appointment. My mom and I are in the car and an awkward silence overcomes us. In an attempt to break it, I tell my mom the good news. “I got a 96 on my composition for Spanish….” But she fails to join in on the celebration of my good fortune. “That’s great,” she replies in a monotone voice, showing absolutely no emotion. “What’s wrong?” I forcibly ask her. “Nothing,” she responds, once again with a sense of lifelessness about her. However, I know exactly what’s on her mind. “It’s my weight, isn’t it?” I think to myself and then question aloud. This only makes her angry as it does me. Any time this topic is brought up, it only brings disaster and heartache as I must listen to the disappointment in my mom’s voice as she talks about my appearances and my weight. My eyes soon glaze over as a cluster of tears form and then pursue their downward advance on the sides of my face. I tune out the negative comments coming from my mom and focus on him. I need him now more than ever. He is the one and only person that can comfort me and put a smile on my face in a time like this. He will tell me my mom is wrong and that I am beautiful just the way I am. I yearn to see his face and to be in the comfort of his embrace. “Soon,” I think to myself. “Soon enough.”

Imagine

If someone were to ask me, “Where do you see yourself in 10 years?”

I would draw a picture of a crystal ball. Inside of the pristine, traslucent glass would be a house located on the top of an endless oasis of green pastures extending far beyond what the eye can see. The quant home upon the California hills would possess four bedrooms, a three car garage, and a white, picket fence. In portrait fashion, there would stand a mother, a father, and two children: one boy and one girl; the girl being the younger of the two. A chocolate lab would kneel at his master’s feet; no barking, no growling, simply enjoying the simplicity of life. The sky would be a light blue in color as the sun would hang at its highest point in the atmosphere, signifying that noon was fast approaching. A cool breeze would blow through the thin air and the aroma of oranges would float effortlessly off the leaves of the trees adjacent to the house, consuming every ounce of breath inhaled and exhaled.

If someone were to ask me, “Where do you see yourself in 10 years?”

I would imagine up a fairytale. Inside the pages of my “happily ever after,” I would sing melodious harmonies all day with a smile upon my face. My house upon a hill would only be located 15 minutes from downtown L.A. where my P.R. business would thrive. Concepts such as stress, unhappiness, and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder would not exist, as I would not possess a care in the world.

If someone were to ask me, “Where do you see yourself in 10 years?”

I would think back to my life a year ago.

A year ago, Torie and I were still best friends.

A year ago, I was attending school in Tucson.

A year ago, Jim and Linda were still alive.

A year ago, my dog was still alive.

A year ago I was unaware of what was soon to come.

So if someone were to ask me, “Where do you see yourself in 10 years?”

I would respond by stating, “I do not wish to imagine my future,” and walk away.

Appreciating the Craft

To be a great writer, one must study the work of other great writers. I believe that by reading and studying the works of writers, one can gain a greater respect for the craft and obtain skills in which can be applied to future, personal writings. With that being said, thus far in the course, I have read two stories in which continue to make themselves prominent in my mind – the two being “Buckeye” by Scott Russell Sanders and “The Death of the Moth” by Virginia Woolf. Both stories begin with the smallest of objects which then lead to a greater idea then maybe what they intended for.

Virginia Woolf’s story begins with a moth. Throughout her story she observes this creature in a room, noting its behavior, movements, appearance, and so forth until finally, she becomes witness to its death. It seemed amazing to me how such a small and seemingly pointless creature could be the subject of such a unique and riveting essay. The manner in which she describes the sequences in her story captivated me and drew me in as a reader. Her technique and writing skills resemble that of poetry, as her imagery is phenomenal – a skill in which I admire and would love to expand upon and use in future writings myself.

In addition, Scott Russell Sanders’ short story begins with a buckeye seed in which his father used to carry around in his pocket, yet expands into something greater. The seed in which he now treasures and keeps safe in an oak box in which his father constructed for him allows for him to reminisce about the memory of his father; for he is now deceased. I was fascinated how such a small and seemingly insignificant object brought so much joy and life to him. This seed was his doorway to the past. It allowed for him to recall memories of him and his father spending time together: how his father – once a carpenter – used to work consistently on his projects and just how much his occupation meant to him. I think that this story provided me with the realization that every story I write does not have to begin and end with a big idea, but rather just needs to be written from the heart.

After reading both Sanders’ and Woolf’s stories, I finally gained a sense of appreciation for the little things in life. Sometimes the most insignificant things can spark some of the greatest writings – if only we take the time to stop and look.

Death in Nature

As I stare out the open window, a sense of calmness possesses me. I close my eyes and my senses heighten. I can feel a gentle breeze graze my rosy cheeks and can hear the whistling of the wind. The roaring engines of a 747 shake my eardrums from overhead. The melodious wind chimes from the house next door echo as they are carried throughout the air. In the near distance, a faint buzzing can be heard. It ventures closer and circles around in front of me but I cannot locate its source.

Within a few minutes a silhouette comes into view. It is small, about the size of my fingernail. As it mimics a zigzag pattern, it then lands on the windowsill. It is but a fly; a puny little creature that knows not where he is. He simply goes wherever the flight of the wind carries him. What a pointless life, if one can even call it that. I almost feel pity for the thing; for that’s all he is – a thing. He lives but a mere month with no tasks to carry out, no one to live for but itself. The fly is alone in the world with its only goals being to eat and mate – nothing more.
If only he had been born a bee. At least this insect gives back to Mother Nature; for it aids in the process of pollination. Not to mention the fact that it at least possesses some sort of beauty in its appearance as it body contains a bright yellow color. The fly is but a black blob. Ugly, frail, disgusting, pitiful. It is an insect defined by its name; for all it does is fly. The one in front of me must hear my thoughts; for he begins to prepare for takeoff. As he soars upward, he does not leave the enclosure of my room, but rather flits from corner to corner, wall to wall – that’s all he can do. After minutes of watching his useless entertainment, he returns back to the comfort of the windowsill. His body language illustrates the definition of pain. He tries to fly again, but his wings are no longer strong enough.

“What happened?” I think to myself. Yet asking this question is as if praying for rain in a never-ending drought – worthless. All I can do is watch and wait. As the pitiful fly rolls over onto its back, legs contorted in the air, I now understand what is about to happen. Death is upon him. He makes one last attempt to live, but that only sucks all the energy out of him and sends his body spinning in a clockwise motion. One of his legs fidgets. It is now over. He is no longer suffering from the symptoms of death; for he is no longer alive.