One of my best friends hates reading.
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate a good analysis of a book,” he said, “I just feel like I don’t get anything out of reading the novels they forced on us in high school English class. Like, it makes me feel like it’s a waste, because just the fact that I had to read it on a certain timeline and do a certain thing with it ruined the book for me. I feel like that sucked out the chance to really get anything out of the book.”
At first, I was appalled.
I have taken Caltrain twice in my lifetime.
As I sat and watched the landscape fly by outside the window, I was also extremely conscious of those surrounding me. The man with the bright orange bike and even brighter shirt. The girl with a tired-looking book-bag slung across her shoulder, headphones in and eyes closed. The young boy chattering excitedly to someone that looked to be his mother- “Mommy, train run fast? Train fly far!” Continue reading
My dear queen/embodiment of pretty much everything I aspire to be in life,
This letter probably won’t even cover half of what I wish I could put into words. Honestly, it may be about as sequential as Ralph Ellison’s “On Bird, Bird-Watching, and Jazz” (not even close to being as well written, though… unfortunately).
I came into the year as a pretentious fifteen-year-old who thought she was the most thoughtful, understanding, and worldly person simply because she had just returned from a three-week trip to India two days before school started. Now I exist as a still-rather-pretentious-but-at-least-slightly-better sixteen year old who will forever be thankful that she decided to take AP English instead of going the simpler route. Continue reading
All of the following pertains to writing essays.
“Don’t fart in your spacesuit. It won’t get you anywhere, it just makes everything smell kinda funky.” Continue reading
Writing makes me very excited.
This, I’m assuming, is at least slightly implied, considering the fact that I am writing right now. On this blog I created myself. On my own time. Generally indication that writing is enjoyed, right?
Either way, being able to craft a story of my own makes me feel powerful in a way, like I can actually do something and put something out into the world. It makes me happy to know that I can do whatever I want with these stories, no matter how ridiculous, because they’re my stories. Of course, showing them to others and wanting to appeal to them is a whole ‘nother story; but when I write for myself, I know I have the freedom to express myself in any way.
It’s not just writing these crazy, slightly insensible stories that gets me excited. There are tons of different styles of writing I enjoy, like drafting essays for school or experimenting with poetry.
And that brings me to the topic of poems.
And poetry slams.
In my English class we’ve been doing a poetry unit, and one of our assignments was to write a poem in the format of Identity by Julio Noboa Polanco with our own extended metaphors. Even though this wasn’t exactly my own work in the light that we were supposed to take from the original poem and incorporate it into ours, I still rather like how it turned out, so here ya go 😛