My creative nonfiction's muse came from a very eventful week in my life. There are crashes, fires, sickness, everything for a good storyline. Best of all, it's all true. Though the material was plentiful, my actual commitment to the essay itself wasn't. Procrastination is a common and recurring theme in my existence, a bane one at that (the procrastination). I made excuses for myself so that I could sleep better at night. Work (mostly work), family, prior paramount arrangements, anything that may have come up. I mostly wrote out the entire paper by hand, usually because I wasn't around the computer. I thought that this was more work, but it also helped me in process because I could see my writing in a different angle then before. Besides some grammatical errors and some sentences that I want to refine more, I believe that I have a good blend of show and tell. I stayed within the confides of what needed to be done i hope.
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This post will illustrate the opening scene to my creative nonfiction essay. Hope you enjoy. Creative nonfiction essay
As I desperately stomp on the brake pad to stop my car's momentum I beep my horn frantically and apply pressure, as if the harder I press, the louder the horn will get. It to no avail. I clock my wheel sharply, at least 200 degrees. The wheels move. The car does not. It just simply proceeds against my will. That feeling washes over me again. that feeling that any human being can relate to. That imminent feeling of impending, potential doom. A beige van with a family of 5 residing inside is also in a predicament. They are in front of me and not moving at all. Angrily to myself I wonder, "Why can't they hear my damn ?" The reasons why didn't matter now. Boom! The van gets pushed like a small toddler, at least 10 feet. On the good note I lived and everyone was alright. On the downside, my car suffered the equivalent of a broken orbital socket to a human. I was absolutely livid and the first thing I remember doing was confronting the other driver for his lack of driving. Every seat that I thought would be empty because it was a sleepy Tuesday was the exact opposite. Add to it the fact that I was almost a hour late, the thought of letting this aliment and my suffering, instead of letting the doctors found out what was wrong with me, seemed like a better alternative. Regardless, I muster the will power to patiently wait for the patients before me. I forgot to mention that I was a hour late and that's why I had to wait. Anyway, I finally make it to the doctor's room. She (the doctor) of course, is running like a chicken with it's head cutoff between patient's rooms because the clinic is generally under staffed. When she finally arrives, we go through the normal formalities and she then begins to check my vital signs. Vital signs, for the most part, came back normal. Then she ask if I wanted to get a STD check-up. I'm hesitant. I'm bombarded with emotion. Fear, regret, anger. Every girl that I ever slept with comes back into my mind. It's been awhile since someone turned my pleasant experiences and into a possible scary reality so quickly. After much thought, I decided to go ahead with the tests. She applauded and reassured me that my apprehension was common. The first step is to know my status she said and then we can work from there. It was also good thing that I was young so that I have the best fighting chance, should I have anything. I was aware that, through the year and some days that I had went to nursing school, people walk around with HIV/AIDS for years and don't even know it until it's too late. My heart sunk farther when i came to this realization. I then asked myself, "I would I go to jail for killing someone who gave me AIDS?" I knew the answer to my own question. I proceeded to give up the blood, urine, and finally leave that place. I'll be back next week with the results.
Professor Mangini asked us to scan our blog posts to found one telling sentence and translate that text into a showing scene. here is the sentence I have chosen.
"She applauded and reassured me that my apprehension was common". Unbeknownst to her, my apprehension had morphed. Changed into a confidence-eating behemoth that was slowly breaking the inner walls of my sanity. I could hear it's menacing tremors as each hoof made contact, the ripples resonated in my body. The result of these steps gave me goosebumps that wouldn't go away. Her applause seem to be happening in slow motion. Every time her hands clapped against against each, I felt a small portion of my life being drained from me. I was too afraid to move forward, to afraid to look backwards. The fear enveloped me. There was no escape and the room felt as if it was getting smaller and smaller. I felt my breath stagnant. Her applause made me feel that she had no appreciation of my own life, only that if i was diagnosed that there would be another person who knew their place, there inevitably. Reflecting on my home, work, and class life. It will also include some readings that we were required to read in class.
Here are my summaries: Picturing the perfect essay The picture that is used for the "This is what the writing process looks like" is most definitely retain able. It really speaks to how and where my writing takes me a lot of times and that can be anywhere. It took a little wisdom, but I understand where the the professor says that nothing is wasted, despite having to go backwards sometimes. Narrative with a lift talks about how important chronology is for keeping a reader interested. From what "the whorl of refection" is saying, and what people probably wouldn't know, is that most essays are more typical or reflective. They don't more through time in a linear fashion as short stories do. Academic scholars pinpoint, reflective essayists circle a subject. this makes it feel more organic. In the formal limits of focus one helpful way to understand the principle of deletion is to think of the essayist looking through a viewfinder to limit the reader's focus. "Street Haunting" is also an interesting prototype for a kind of essay popular today: The segmented essay. "Dipping into the well" brings up the dynamic that most personal essays is that they have a horizontal movement through time, but there is also a vertical descent into meaning. Odd tangents can be relate when used for charity. The lyric essay is not easily categorized because it may depend on braiding or segmenting to accomplish it's overall effects. The "coming full circle" paragraphs can best be described, pertaining to a ending is that it bath closes and opens at the same time. What is Creative Nonfiction? the author states that the best way to describe Creative Nonfiction is "True stories, well told". Creative Nonfiction can be an essay, a journal article, a research paper, a memoir, or a poem. the goal is to make nonfiction stories read like fiction so that your readers are as enthralled by fact as they are by fantasy. "You can't make this up" is the cardinal rule for creative nonfiction. Creative nonfiction has become the most popular genre in the literary and publishing communities. In the 1990s, the controversy over the publication of a half In this post, I will provide two scenes: a scene about a familiar place and scene about a strange place.
Familiar Place I turn down a emulation starved road, with curves resembling that of a snake. Even as many times that I have passed down this winding way, there's a particular turn or two, that comes too sharp. This stretch of street feels like it last forever but in actuality about 2 miles before I reach my destination. As precarious as I have to be these days because of the ice that has been constantly covering the road, I slowly drive around the lane. With much anticipation, I arrive to the top of the summit. I turn on to the thoroughfare and park my car. I walk across a lawn, blanketed by snow and pull open two heavy metal doors that place me directly in the building belonging to a group called public safely. This is where I clock in for work. The interior of the building itself looks like a asylum for the mentally disturbed. The white tile floors look more off-white because of the caked on dirt. Small metal gates act as dividers or the may just be there for no good reason. In my mind, I feel as though they are there to divide the police officers and security watch (me) just so they can feel superior. As I walk to the from desk, I am greeted by the police officers across the room with the usual terms of endearment, such as, "blunt", or "MJ". Ignoring them, I finally arrive to the main desk, across the hall, parallel but very close to the metal gates. I am acknowledged by a overweight Caucasian male, his name escapes me at the moment. "Brown, how are you tonight?" "I'm doing well sir and yourself on this lovely night (sarcasm intended because it was at least six degrees)?" He laughs. "Where are you located?" "Emelen". "Enjoy your night". And off into the night I went. Unfamiliar Place I arrive to where I need to be. I have been flying on this plane for over 8 hours. Everywhere I looked, I felt a jolt of excitement course through my body. The feeling of being in a new land, different from the one you were born and raised on, was evident to me. The majority of the individuals I came across as I overheard there conversations, spoke with a thick, island accent. It was hard for me to understand them, which added to my anxiety. The first person besides the flight attendant who escorted me and my family to our chauffeur. I notice that he is armed and first thought is "I am not getting into the car with that person", but in reality he has it for our protection. Criminals in this country are apparently notorious for targeting Americans because they feel that they always have the most money. Hearing this from the flight attendant quickly withdrew my intolerance. Once we had all our belongings, we carried on to the chauffeur's very expensive, brand-new 2014 Mercedes Benz. All leather on the inside, very shiny on the outside. The car reminded me of America but that's where the similarities stop. The ground was completely barren. No grass, concrete, just uneven dirt mounds as far as the eye can see. This scenery was stretched as far as the eye can see expect for the occasion rouge dog packs. This is where I will post my writer's roundtable story where I use three famous authors quote and turn it into a scenario. I expediently work my way up the stairwell, through the crowds that loiter near the entrance, moving between students like a obstacle course. Familiar sights welcome me and let me know I'm in the right place. The dozens, upon dozens of computers. The sometimes smiling face that occasionally greets you as you past him/her by, curiously gazing at you to see if you have and questions or concerns. The comforting carpet on your feet. There are many different names for this place, or least I refer to it myself, in many different names. The commons, the library, etc. Here was my desired location but not my exact destination. I turn to my left. I see a group of students eating causally, seated across a thick, transparent window. It almost seems as if the students who walk by are strictly there for the viewing pleasure of those seated students. On the same side, I see a cafe with a batista who looks exhausted (I don't know why, not a lot of heavy lifting going on over there) but joyful, as she interacts with consumers. I notice a sign above her station. It reads, "Do not eat, or drink". I pause for a few moments to appreciate the irony but remember what I came for. i came here for 3 English instructors to assist me in passing my class. I'm struggling. One might ask themselves, "Wow you are doing that bad that you need three instructors?". To reiterate, the scenario is quite dire but there is no need to go into specifics. I breeze around a blonde whom I see quite often, quite often doing nothing. She, as usual, had a expression on her face. An expression that looked like it read, "please go the opposite direction" and I intended to do so. I finally reach my destination after passing the blonde and I'm greeted by three stern faces. I introduce myself to them first so there won't be any misinterpreting of who I am.
One week out of my life of the many.... My week has been for the most part, uneventful but pleasant, since I received some random, but not so random, days off from school. the days off were much needed. I was becoming mentally fatigued from all the hours I was doing at work and with school slowly rearing it's ugly face, my internal pressure gauge I only getting higher. Things at home haven't particularly been a tea-party either. In fact, on better inspection my situation at probably gives me the most grieve. This is so for a number of reasons. Every time something goes missing or get broken? My fault. Even things that I have absolutely no control over somehow has been redirected toward me. Bad day at the office? Bry's fault. They'll redirect all that negative energy toward me like I'm the punching bag. Granted, in earlier years I wasn't the most dependable or the sharpest tool in the shed when it came to decision making but that was then and this is now. But I can honestly say the person I am today couldn't even give you the reasons behind the person I was yesterday logical. But I shouldn't be persecuted to this extent. I guess everyone in my family is flawless because they act as though they don't make mistakes sometimes. Class was as though provoking and engaging as usual. I don't really have problems understanding the assignments, per say, I have a problem DOING the assignments. Kind of have a little procrastination problem that I thought had went into remission, but I can absolutely say it has come back full-blown. But I think once I just convincing myself like how I convinced myself last semester, I should be cool. In this post, I will reflect on class and my home life. This week has been a very hard week for me because I've been sick for the better part of it. Head cold. Inflamed sinus cavities. Slightly blurred vision. For days on end. The symptoms have only begun to moderately alleviate themselves. Life hasn't stopped in anyway just because I think I'm incapacitated. I had to call out of work two times in same week, which is never good for a part time employee. What event could be of such vital importance that I basically stop living and functioning for two days in a row? Sleep of course. Since I was in my voluntarily induced coma, a lot of the conversations I had were vague and hard to remember. This is because the only sensation that stood out in that time period was pain and general displeasure. But you can't talk to a feeling. But if you could, I'm sure the dialogue would be very colorful. Anyway, what i did remember was when I coincidentally had a doctor appointment scheduled a month in advance because other people exist, fall on the same day where the sickness was at it's peak ( I wasn't sick when I made the appointment. A song about me As you can read in the title, the song is called Runnin' by The Pharcyde, an alternative west coast hip hop group composed of four members. This is one of their most popular songs, most likely because a lot of people can relate to it too. I personally relate to it really well because obviously of what they are talking about, which is running and not just meaning you're playing for your cross-country time. They also mean in a mentally sense as well. Running from your problems, situations, people, anything really. I used to be a lot like that. I hated commitment and run away from anything that take me out of my comfort zone or just lasted to long and got bored with it (I blame my ADD). Since I exhibited that behavior in everything that I did, when I was younger (before I turned 17) I was picked on and bullied a lot. Didn't matter which school I went to, as I went to many when I younger, people always had a bone to pick with me. And it didn't help that I didn't know how to fight or defend myself either. I never caused trouble. I was one of the quiet lonely kids growing up because of the fact that I was mostly scared of adults. I blame my father because I was beat harshly when I did do something wrong and when you're young, you can't process the fact that not every adult wants to left you by the leg like a rag-doll and give you 50 lashes with a belt. But you couldn't tell me that. So I think that was always my problem. Where I grew up at, a lot of people you could tell they were ghetto, even the kids, the moment they opened their mouths. I was different. I had manners, did what I was told, had respect for my elders, and didn't argue back. But now that I'm grew I understand that people are just sad and broken at an early age. The fact that you have to pick on someone to feel better about yourself, says a lot about your self-esteem. I'm grown up now and I don't let that happen to me anymore and I honestly think it's made me a better person. The beatings too. It's also funny to note this song was made the same year I was born. Go figure.
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Bryan A. Brown
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