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.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The Beauty of Technology
Friend or Foe?
Too many times has the technology deceived me; masquerading as my friend, my communicator, my lifeline and then turned its back on me. Too many times has the scenario played out where I have text a friend an important message and eagerly waited for what seemed like an eternity for a reply back. Thus, my eagerness grows into impatience and then anger as I think to myself, “Is she mad at me? What did I do wrong? Are we in a fight now?” The convenience of not responding back immediately kills me in such a time of need and doubt – stupid face-to-face communication.
First Time User
I can remember when I received my first cell phone. I was in the sixth grade and one of very few friends who had one all those years ago. Nowadays, such an idea of carrying a cell phone around at that age is not so unusual. But I did not use my cell phone as I do now. Texting, sending and receiving emails, picture messaging, internet access, Instant Messaging, and Bluetooth did not exist eight years ago (as far as cell phones were concerned). Back then, the only reasons I had a cell phone were in case of emergencies and to call my mom everyday when I arrived at school – she wanted to make sure I got there safely as I walked to and from school on a daily basis. I can remember the exact spot I made that phone call from: right next to the brick wall located behind my technology classroom with Mr. Lemieux. I drive by my middle school from time-to-time and whenever I do, I always pass the spot where I made those routine phone calls and can’t help but chuckle to myself as I reminisce about when I was a kid.
When the Student Becomes the Teacher
When my Dad updated his cell phone from a 10-pound brick with an external antenna and a black/white screen to a high-tech Blackberry, he asked me if I would teach him a few things about the applications on the phone. “Did Hell freeze over? ” I asked myself; for my Dad is always the teacher, never the student, as he never asks for help. “This is my time,” I thought. “I’m finally going to be the authority over my Dad!” I excitedly believed. Yet, I guess that whole “wait until you walk a mile in another man’s shoes” saying is right, because all I got out of this situation was a headache and an angry father. It took about 45 minutes of step-by-step repetitive instructions before my Dad understood the basics of texting. Furthermore, he couldn’t figure out how to adjust the different light settings, color schemes, and layouts on the camera-phone application no matter how many times I explained the processes and provided him with a demonstration. By the end of my tutorial, two hours time elapsed and I was ready to pull out my hair. I now know that when a parent or elder adult asks you to help them with an advanced technology in which they know nothing about, the smart thing to do is to just say, “NO!” and walk away.
Too many times has the technology deceived me; masquerading as my friend, my communicator, my lifeline and then turned its back on me. Too many times has the scenario played out where I have text a friend an important message and eagerly waited for what seemed like an eternity for a reply back. Thus, my eagerness grows into impatience and then anger as I think to myself, “Is she mad at me? What did I do wrong? Are we in a fight now?” The convenience of not responding back immediately kills me in such a time of need and doubt – stupid face-to-face communication.
First Time User
I can remember when I received my first cell phone. I was in the sixth grade and one of very few friends who had one all those years ago. Nowadays, such an idea of carrying a cell phone around at that age is not so unusual. But I did not use my cell phone as I do now. Texting, sending and receiving emails, picture messaging, internet access, Instant Messaging, and Bluetooth did not exist eight years ago (as far as cell phones were concerned). Back then, the only reasons I had a cell phone were in case of emergencies and to call my mom everyday when I arrived at school – she wanted to make sure I got there safely as I walked to and from school on a daily basis. I can remember the exact spot I made that phone call from: right next to the brick wall located behind my technology classroom with Mr. Lemieux. I drive by my middle school from time-to-time and whenever I do, I always pass the spot where I made those routine phone calls and can’t help but chuckle to myself as I reminisce about when I was a kid.
When the Student Becomes the Teacher
When my Dad updated his cell phone from a 10-pound brick with an external antenna and a black/white screen to a high-tech Blackberry, he asked me if I would teach him a few things about the applications on the phone. “Did Hell freeze over? ” I asked myself; for my Dad is always the teacher, never the student, as he never asks for help. “This is my time,” I thought. “I’m finally going to be the authority over my Dad!” I excitedly believed. Yet, I guess that whole “wait until you walk a mile in another man’s shoes” saying is right, because all I got out of this situation was a headache and an angry father. It took about 45 minutes of step-by-step repetitive instructions before my Dad understood the basics of texting. Furthermore, he couldn’t figure out how to adjust the different light settings, color schemes, and layouts on the camera-phone application no matter how many times I explained the processes and provided him with a demonstration. By the end of my tutorial, two hours time elapsed and I was ready to pull out my hair. I now know that when a parent or elder adult asks you to help them with an advanced technology in which they know nothing about, the smart thing to do is to just say, “NO!” and walk away.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Focus for Five
It’s 11:30 and I have five minutes to observe.
As I focus on the surroundings that lay just past the screen-covered window, I notice that same old green beat up Honda, parked adjacent to the sun-colored fire hydrant. It belongs to my neighbors; the ones to the left. I remember when they first bought that car. Once-upon-a-time it resembled the same characteristics of an emerald jewel: pristine, in mint condition, and captured the rays from the light in such a way that you couldn’t help but stop and stare in admiration. Now, however, it just sits on the side of the street, motionless as it gathers up grime and filth from the other vehicles that pass by. The chunk of metal shamelessly reveals a large, rigid dent on the front bumper of the driver’s hand side; a perfect indication of just how my neighbors take care of their belongings.
As my mind begins to drift to thoughts of my unusual and lackadaisical neighbors, a red van advances by, unbeknownst to the driver that I am watching them from my window. The brightness of the sun is reflected onto the speeding red engine, causing my eyes to tear up and burn. I can no longer focus on the van. I look up. The sky is pale blue and the sun is steadily climbing, as if it were ascending a staircase in the atmosphere. As it attempts to reach its highest point in the heavens, I become aware of the time of day – nearly noon. An unexpected shadow suddenly and swiftly flies into my focus. As I follow the object to eye-level, I soon realize that it is but a bird – a finch to be exact. It lands on a cluster of Sedum Sieboldii bushes that guard the front of my house. Searching for food, it can find none; for the leaves are beginning to turn a tint of brown, indicating the coming of summer. Upon the realization that he cannot find nourishment in my front yard, he prepares for take-off and soars away.
With the absence of what little entertainment the young bird provided me, my mind begins to wander. I think about the serenity that exists just beyond the glass in front of me. The outside world is ever-so-calm compared to my state of mind. What feels like thousands of thoughts scamper throughout the pathways in my brain; constantly in a desperate attempt to escape the walls that imprison them, but I won’t let them go. I can’t. Things don’t feel right, I don’t feel right if I’m not worried or stressed about something, anything. I force myself not to think about all the homework I must get done today, the exams that are right around the corner, the obligations I have made to family and friends.
“Snap out of it!” I think to myself. I glance at the clock on my cell phone that rests gently upon my chattering knee. The numbers reveal a bold “11:35” in white italics. My five minutes are up.
As I focus on the surroundings that lay just past the screen-covered window, I notice that same old green beat up Honda, parked adjacent to the sun-colored fire hydrant. It belongs to my neighbors; the ones to the left. I remember when they first bought that car. Once-upon-a-time it resembled the same characteristics of an emerald jewel: pristine, in mint condition, and captured the rays from the light in such a way that you couldn’t help but stop and stare in admiration. Now, however, it just sits on the side of the street, motionless as it gathers up grime and filth from the other vehicles that pass by. The chunk of metal shamelessly reveals a large, rigid dent on the front bumper of the driver’s hand side; a perfect indication of just how my neighbors take care of their belongings.
As my mind begins to drift to thoughts of my unusual and lackadaisical neighbors, a red van advances by, unbeknownst to the driver that I am watching them from my window. The brightness of the sun is reflected onto the speeding red engine, causing my eyes to tear up and burn. I can no longer focus on the van. I look up. The sky is pale blue and the sun is steadily climbing, as if it were ascending a staircase in the atmosphere. As it attempts to reach its highest point in the heavens, I become aware of the time of day – nearly noon. An unexpected shadow suddenly and swiftly flies into my focus. As I follow the object to eye-level, I soon realize that it is but a bird – a finch to be exact. It lands on a cluster of Sedum Sieboldii bushes that guard the front of my house. Searching for food, it can find none; for the leaves are beginning to turn a tint of brown, indicating the coming of summer. Upon the realization that he cannot find nourishment in my front yard, he prepares for take-off and soars away.
With the absence of what little entertainment the young bird provided me, my mind begins to wander. I think about the serenity that exists just beyond the glass in front of me. The outside world is ever-so-calm compared to my state of mind. What feels like thousands of thoughts scamper throughout the pathways in my brain; constantly in a desperate attempt to escape the walls that imprison them, but I won’t let them go. I can’t. Things don’t feel right, I don’t feel right if I’m not worried or stressed about something, anything. I force myself not to think about all the homework I must get done today, the exams that are right around the corner, the obligations I have made to family and friends.
“Snap out of it!” I think to myself. I glance at the clock on my cell phone that rests gently upon my chattering knee. The numbers reveal a bold “11:35” in white italics. My five minutes are up.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Daddy's Little Girl
He was always there for me; all 190 lbs of him. Six-foot on the dot, with proportionately broad shoulders that delicately cradled my head and, on various accounts, sponged up my salty, snake-like tears. His brawny arms, relative in length to his stature, were never unprepared to embrace me if ever I fell. The whites in his eyes, due to the unyielding years, have now begun to dim into an ivory-amber hue; however the hazel, blue-green of his irises never cease to calm and comfort me whenever needed. The subtle vibrations in his speech are humble, as they have always been, and suppress any oncoming anxieties, forcing me to reminisce about several experiences we’ve shared in the past.
Ever since I was a little girl, possessing evidence of my baby fat, and sporting Disney-character outfits and bleach-blonde pigtails, I have been one to worry – about anything, everything, and even nothing. I constantly found myself tripping over the same thoughts as if I were a broken record, going round and round in dizzy circles, getting caught on the same meaningless words. In fear that I could not handle my problems alone; I reached out to my dad for guidance – he never failed to reach back. He gave me light when all I could see was darkness; instilled in me a sense of perseverance and told me to just keep going even when I passionately felt like I couldn’t; but above all, he gave me something and someone to believe in at the times in my life when I didn’t believe in myself.
As I am several years older (and as I like to think – wiser), I have, for the most part grown out of my repression of resorting to my dad to reassure my thoughts and solve my problems. Now that I am 19 and according to society’s standards – an adult – I make a conscious effort to work things out on my own; ever so seldom do I find myself confronting an issue in which I feel that I cannot handle. Yet I understand that I am human and realize that I will make mistakes and, on occasion, need to ask for help. Thus, when these times present themselves to me, I know that I will always be able to lean on my dad and know that he will be there, with his all-too familiar shoulders and his ever-embracing arms, willing to talk me through things every step of the way.
Ever since I was a little girl, possessing evidence of my baby fat, and sporting Disney-character outfits and bleach-blonde pigtails, I have been one to worry – about anything, everything, and even nothing. I constantly found myself tripping over the same thoughts as if I were a broken record, going round and round in dizzy circles, getting caught on the same meaningless words. In fear that I could not handle my problems alone; I reached out to my dad for guidance – he never failed to reach back. He gave me light when all I could see was darkness; instilled in me a sense of perseverance and told me to just keep going even when I passionately felt like I couldn’t; but above all, he gave me something and someone to believe in at the times in my life when I didn’t believe in myself.
As I am several years older (and as I like to think – wiser), I have, for the most part grown out of my repression of resorting to my dad to reassure my thoughts and solve my problems. Now that I am 19 and according to society’s standards – an adult – I make a conscious effort to work things out on my own; ever so seldom do I find myself confronting an issue in which I feel that I cannot handle. Yet I understand that I am human and realize that I will make mistakes and, on occasion, need to ask for help. Thus, when these times present themselves to me, I know that I will always be able to lean on my dad and know that he will be there, with his all-too familiar shoulders and his ever-embracing arms, willing to talk me through things every step of the way.
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