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Do to my life going nowhere fast, I have decided to try out many different career paths in order to avoid the military. Becoming a writer is not something I ever thought of shooting for, but fuck, why not?
Specifically, my issue is that I can write formally. I can write an amazing essay, an informative piece of journalism, or even a product review. However, that is the extent of my writing ability. I cannot write creatively. I have attempted to write fiction in the past, but I cannot seem to write in depth dialog. When it comes to creative non-fiction, all I can muster is an eye-catching first paragraph and maybe a witty title.
This is the closest thing to a piece of creative non-fiction I have written that I could honestly call anywhere near semi-decent. Help me by picking it apart and telling me how I could improve myself as a writer. Make the criticism as harsh as you want. I would consider anything helpful.
https://docs.google.com/Doc?docid=0ASrwPoxKyyxAZGNuYnByd185ZHByc2YzZGo&hl=en A Google Docs link to the same piece.
Specifically, my issue is that I can write formally. I can write an amazing essay, an informative piece of journalism, or even a product review. However, that is the extent of my writing ability. I cannot write creatively. I have attempted to write fiction in the past, but I cannot seem to write in depth dialog. When it comes to creative non-fiction, all I can muster is an eye-catching first paragraph and maybe a witty title.
This is the closest thing to a piece of creative non-fiction I have written that I could honestly call anywhere near semi-decent. Help me by picking it apart and telling me how I could improve myself as a writer. Make the criticism as harsh as you want. I would consider anything helpful.
Topic: 1. Write a story about your own life that follows one main theme through at least 4 different time periods (such as 1st grade, 8th grade, 10th grade, college- etc.). This part is a minimum of 400 words.
Kindergarten
For many kids, this is where they begin the long journey known as the public education system. I was apart of the population of children who were subjected to preschool. My preschool teacher, Ms. Kasandra, was similar to my mother. She was a hardcore black woman who was Hell-bent on making sure that I knew how to read, write, and solve basic math equations before I entered Kindergarten. Through the combined effort of my mother and Ms. Kasandra, I was able to read my father’s science fiction novels and solve basic math equations. I was also able to write structurally intact stories at a young age, which would unfortunately bite me in the ass through all of elementary school.
Yes, there was a time when I did enjoy writing. (Somewhere out there, Mrs. Clarke just fainted.) My stories in Kindergarten would generally consist of a protagonist with a simple name, such as Leroy or Henry, on some quest or adventure involving the killing of some antagonist with a motive to kill the protagonist because he was bored, or because the protagonist had encroached upon his land. (I liked reading about history about the time. Having a diverse heritage helped with this fascination. It also made the demonization of every race that I was very confusing in school, but that is a different story I am too lazy to write about.) Other stories would consist of the same thing, but from the antagonist’s perspective. Oh man, these stories were a hit amongst the students in my Kindergarten class; all thirty-five of them in fact. Even my teacher Mr. Woodward enjoyed them. Now, if only the other teachers and school authorities shared the same viewpoint. If you ever want to see adults panic quickly, just hand a child a piece of paper and a pencil. Over the course of a week or two, a couple of what I assume was Psychologists would come to class every so often (I assume because our school mascot was a Raccoon. That should tell you enough about the state of the school’s finances at the time) and issue me a test where I would describe what Jimmy and his parrot were doing each picture panel, which is just as dull and uninteresting as it sounds. “Aren’t your stories a little violent?” they would occasionally ask me during testing. “Only when the hero dies,” I would respond. Turns out that what I said was not the right answer. “While James is an advanced student, we feel as if he may be suffering from Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. Also, he seems to lack appropriate social skills.” This is what they told my parents. My mother promptly responded with, “James does not have ADD or lack social skills. He just doesn’t care.” (She was right. I did not care.) To make a long story short, my parents won. I did not have to take medication, though the school would keep a close eye on stories that I would write. This would lead to conflict later.
Kindergarten also had what I still consider to be the hardest spelling test I ever encountered in my life. The test was to spell “As, And, But, I (Kids missed this one, mind you), like, and we.” Like – The word that would cripple the minds of children to the point of tears. It is amazing how scary a simple four letter word can be in the hands of a teacher over-estimating the attention span of young children. (This is probably why I avoid using the word ‘like’ as if it is the Plague in my writing.) I for one was much more interested in playing with the car mat while Mr. Woodward was going over how to spell this juggernaut of a word. Woodward had a hanging plastic sheet with the words written on fat, white note cards in black ink. For the test, he flipped over the note cards in an attempt to make them unreadable. “Spell ‘like’,” Woodward said. He was met with the collective whimpers of all thirty-five students he had. (The word ‘like’ was worth half of the total grade, which was bullshit in my opinion. Why did the other words even matter?) I was sitting close to the plastic sheet at the time, and by the grace of God, I happened to notice that the text written on the back of the card was just slightly readable from where I was. This spelling test was my first A, and I had cheated for it. I was damn proud of it too. (My vision took a nose dive around this time too. I like to think that it was partially due to genetics and partially due to dramatic irony.) “Great, you got an A! Now keep it up,” my parents responded. To my parents, while I lacked common sense, I was above average intelligence. This test just rectified their assessment. This also followed me throughout school. It still does in fact.
First Grade
This whole year is a blur. Bomberman 64 had come out for the Nintendo 64, and was my favorite video game and writing subject. As the name suggests, Bomberman solved problems through throwing bombs at them. This is, and was a pretty accurate representation of real life, but the school was determined to demonize my stories. (Spoiler!: They were not successful until a year later.) Not much came of their attempts at the time. This was a relatively quiet school year for me, except for one event blown out of proportion: The mock Geology unit. For this unit, the students had to jimmy-rig some egg cartons with clothes-hanger wires and random rocks one could find outside of their house. At the end of the unit, Mrs. Dickson (Which is hilarious now. I know, immature.) decided to collect all of the rocks from the cartons for some reason. I do not know, maybe she thought we would throw them or something. Numerous students had rocks missing from their carton. I was missing two from my carton. Mrs. Dickson had has turn the room upside-down looking for these rocks. Someone with what I can only assume was a guilty conscience, decided to put a rock they had stolen in my desk-cubby. We eventually found the rock and all Hell broke loose. Arguments broke out on whether I stole the rock and whether I had it in me to steal. The teacher asked me if I had done it, and I responded with, “No! Does it honestly matter anyways? It’s a friggin’ rock.” She sent me outside.
Second Grade
Apparently, I had written one Bomberman story too many. The teacher called me in during a meeting during recess and attempted to show me the “error of my ways” and that “writing such violent stories was terrible as death is serious.” Responding with, “But there is a difference between a story and reality” was not a great choice. My parents were called in again, and I received an even longer lecture on how I should tone down my writing. At this point, I decided to just do that. I ended it all with one final story about shooting Barney, the purple dinosaur, with a gunshot to the head. It was a suitable way to end my style of writing at the time. The best part was when my teacher forced me to read it in front of the class, after I told her that I really did not want to. I had never heard awkward silence last as long as that moment until my attempt at flirting with a crush in high school. Out of those two instances, reading that story in front of my class was my favorite by far. I was never asked to read anything again in second grade.
Third Grade
I was again farther than the class in terms of education. Bored out of my mind, I had come under the idea that I was at a school for the mentally challenged, and I too was mentally challenged. I just had enough wits to realize it, was my idea. This was of course incorrect. It took me half of the school year to find out that my assumptions were invalid. A student by the name of Mathew was angry at the system. Being the hardcore kid that he was, he decided to paint the F-Bomb on the wall of the cafeteria. (Paint-Brush paint, not spray paint. How security missed the giant can, I will never know.) I stood next to the school principle, Mr. Briggs, staring in awe as the other students were at the curse word. “Shouldn’t you be trying to remove this quickly?” I asked. “Nah,” Mr. Briggs said chuckling to himself. “The kid spelled it wrong anyways.” This is where I came to the realization that I was not mentally retarded. The public education system was just terrible.
Kindergarten
For many kids, this is where they begin the long journey known as the public education system. I was apart of the population of children who were subjected to preschool. My preschool teacher, Ms. Kasandra, was similar to my mother. She was a hardcore black woman who was Hell-bent on making sure that I knew how to read, write, and solve basic math equations before I entered Kindergarten. Through the combined effort of my mother and Ms. Kasandra, I was able to read my father’s science fiction novels and solve basic math equations. I was also able to write structurally intact stories at a young age, which would unfortunately bite me in the ass through all of elementary school.
Yes, there was a time when I did enjoy writing. (Somewhere out there, Mrs. Clarke just fainted.) My stories in Kindergarten would generally consist of a protagonist with a simple name, such as Leroy or Henry, on some quest or adventure involving the killing of some antagonist with a motive to kill the protagonist because he was bored, or because the protagonist had encroached upon his land. (I liked reading about history about the time. Having a diverse heritage helped with this fascination. It also made the demonization of every race that I was very confusing in school, but that is a different story I am too lazy to write about.) Other stories would consist of the same thing, but from the antagonist’s perspective. Oh man, these stories were a hit amongst the students in my Kindergarten class; all thirty-five of them in fact. Even my teacher Mr. Woodward enjoyed them. Now, if only the other teachers and school authorities shared the same viewpoint. If you ever want to see adults panic quickly, just hand a child a piece of paper and a pencil. Over the course of a week or two, a couple of what I assume was Psychologists would come to class every so often (I assume because our school mascot was a Raccoon. That should tell you enough about the state of the school’s finances at the time) and issue me a test where I would describe what Jimmy and his parrot were doing each picture panel, which is just as dull and uninteresting as it sounds. “Aren’t your stories a little violent?” they would occasionally ask me during testing. “Only when the hero dies,” I would respond. Turns out that what I said was not the right answer. “While James is an advanced student, we feel as if he may be suffering from Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. Also, he seems to lack appropriate social skills.” This is what they told my parents. My mother promptly responded with, “James does not have ADD or lack social skills. He just doesn’t care.” (She was right. I did not care.) To make a long story short, my parents won. I did not have to take medication, though the school would keep a close eye on stories that I would write. This would lead to conflict later.
Kindergarten also had what I still consider to be the hardest spelling test I ever encountered in my life. The test was to spell “As, And, But, I (Kids missed this one, mind you), like, and we.” Like – The word that would cripple the minds of children to the point of tears. It is amazing how scary a simple four letter word can be in the hands of a teacher over-estimating the attention span of young children. (This is probably why I avoid using the word ‘like’ as if it is the Plague in my writing.) I for one was much more interested in playing with the car mat while Mr. Woodward was going over how to spell this juggernaut of a word. Woodward had a hanging plastic sheet with the words written on fat, white note cards in black ink. For the test, he flipped over the note cards in an attempt to make them unreadable. “Spell ‘like’,” Woodward said. He was met with the collective whimpers of all thirty-five students he had. (The word ‘like’ was worth half of the total grade, which was bullshit in my opinion. Why did the other words even matter?) I was sitting close to the plastic sheet at the time, and by the grace of God, I happened to notice that the text written on the back of the card was just slightly readable from where I was. This spelling test was my first A, and I had cheated for it. I was damn proud of it too. (My vision took a nose dive around this time too. I like to think that it was partially due to genetics and partially due to dramatic irony.) “Great, you got an A! Now keep it up,” my parents responded. To my parents, while I lacked common sense, I was above average intelligence. This test just rectified their assessment. This also followed me throughout school. It still does in fact.
First Grade
This whole year is a blur. Bomberman 64 had come out for the Nintendo 64, and was my favorite video game and writing subject. As the name suggests, Bomberman solved problems through throwing bombs at them. This is, and was a pretty accurate representation of real life, but the school was determined to demonize my stories. (Spoiler!: They were not successful until a year later.) Not much came of their attempts at the time. This was a relatively quiet school year for me, except for one event blown out of proportion: The mock Geology unit. For this unit, the students had to jimmy-rig some egg cartons with clothes-hanger wires and random rocks one could find outside of their house. At the end of the unit, Mrs. Dickson (Which is hilarious now. I know, immature.) decided to collect all of the rocks from the cartons for some reason. I do not know, maybe she thought we would throw them or something. Numerous students had rocks missing from their carton. I was missing two from my carton. Mrs. Dickson had has turn the room upside-down looking for these rocks. Someone with what I can only assume was a guilty conscience, decided to put a rock they had stolen in my desk-cubby. We eventually found the rock and all Hell broke loose. Arguments broke out on whether I stole the rock and whether I had it in me to steal. The teacher asked me if I had done it, and I responded with, “No! Does it honestly matter anyways? It’s a friggin’ rock.” She sent me outside.
Second Grade
Apparently, I had written one Bomberman story too many. The teacher called me in during a meeting during recess and attempted to show me the “error of my ways” and that “writing such violent stories was terrible as death is serious.” Responding with, “But there is a difference between a story and reality” was not a great choice. My parents were called in again, and I received an even longer lecture on how I should tone down my writing. At this point, I decided to just do that. I ended it all with one final story about shooting Barney, the purple dinosaur, with a gunshot to the head. It was a suitable way to end my style of writing at the time. The best part was when my teacher forced me to read it in front of the class, after I told her that I really did not want to. I had never heard awkward silence last as long as that moment until my attempt at flirting with a crush in high school. Out of those two instances, reading that story in front of my class was my favorite by far. I was never asked to read anything again in second grade.
Third Grade
I was again farther than the class in terms of education. Bored out of my mind, I had come under the idea that I was at a school for the mentally challenged, and I too was mentally challenged. I just had enough wits to realize it, was my idea. This was of course incorrect. It took me half of the school year to find out that my assumptions were invalid. A student by the name of Mathew was angry at the system. Being the hardcore kid that he was, he decided to paint the F-Bomb on the wall of the cafeteria. (Paint-Brush paint, not spray paint. How security missed the giant can, I will never know.) I stood next to the school principle, Mr. Briggs, staring in awe as the other students were at the curse word. “Shouldn’t you be trying to remove this quickly?” I asked. “Nah,” Mr. Briggs said chuckling to himself. “The kid spelled it wrong anyways.” This is where I came to the realization that I was not mentally retarded. The public education system was just terrible.
https://docs.google.com/Doc?docid=0ASrwPoxKyyxAZGNuYnByd185ZHByc2YzZGo&hl=en A Google Docs link to the same piece.
