Diagnostic Essay On Creative Writing
Diagnostic Essay
There was a time that I loved creative writing, and even one day, with the insistence of my mother, planned to write my memoirs. In the inscription in my Webster’s Dictionary that I received in my 10th year, my grandfather wrote, “3-16-94 this book is dedicated to Anna and her hope to become famous as a writer.” I loved everything about writing: the word play, the endless possibilities, the absolute creative freedom, the thrill of making others feel. I not only took my characters on a journey, but I also went myself. Then about 7 years ago, I took an actual creative writing class. The instructor had lost both of his feet to diabetes and cruised through the always overflowing hallways as a shark does through schools of
fish in the ocean. If you weren’t fast enough to get out of his way, the heavy silver foot rests of his wheelchair would gouge into the backs of your heels. Turning my work into him, and the eventual revision meeting made me feel like an ant beneath the magnifying glass of a masochistic child. Not only did it appear that my work told all of my secrets, but his criticisms burned with sarcasm and their delivery came with a tone meant for misbehaved dogs. This changed me, and my love of creative writing. However, it did not affect my love of literature and wanting to dig deeper. I doubled up on literature classes ranging in titles from: Revenge and Paranoia, Transvestitism on Stage, Page, and Screen, and a seminar class on Jane Austen, to name a few. Analytic writing was required in all of these. However, all of this doubling up, and an ongoing personal tragedy relating to my mom burned me out, and eventually brought me to Houston
My mother used to tell me that I had to wait until she died to write my memoirs. I often times thought I had another 20 years, but that is not the case. My mom passed away in 2007. In some ways her death freed me. However, there are times when I feel I am lost in the desert without a compass. She was one of the most brilliant, well-read people I have ever met; she often times helped me organize my thoughts or forced me to look at something from a different perspective. I have been described as a perfectionist, and get overwhelmed when I sit down to write anything other than a research paper. I am hoping that by taking this class, I will be able to do it alone (and who knows, maybe even one day write that silly memoir). My mom was also a fabulous editor, her skills will be missed this semester, as I LOVE COMMAS. I like for my writing to reflect that of a conversation which leads to run-on sentences. I feel that generally I don’t make too many grammatical errors or errors of lexicon or spelling, but we all fall victim to typos here and there. I think my time working in an office has helped this as I can’t tell you how many memos I have produced.
Regardless, my apprehension about my abilities has affected my class selection and has induced a love of math and science – a love of singular answers. It has been about five years since I have taken any English courses, and I fear that through circumstance and experience my brain and the way it operates has changed significantly, and that I will no longer be able to find hints dropped like bread crumbs for meaning. It’s something like Jeopary – when you watch regularly you start noticing hints in the answers and are able to answer with the quickness and accuracy only shown by Ken Jennings. I am excited (and a bit nervous) about this semester, and am hoping that all of these anxieties have been for naught. Only time will tell.
There was a time that I loved creative writing, and even one day, with the insistence of my mother, planned to write my memoirs. In the inscription in my Webster’s Dictionary that I received in my 10th year, my grandfather wrote, “3-16-94 this book is dedicated to Anna and her hope to become famous as a writer.” I loved everything about writing: the word play, the endless possibilities, the absolute creative freedom, the thrill of making others feel. I not only took my characters on a journey, but I also went myself. Then about 7 years ago, I took an actual creative writing class. The instructor had lost both of his feet to diabetes and cruised through the always overflowing hallways as a shark does through schools of
fish in the ocean. If you weren’t fast enough to get out of his way, the heavy silver foot rests of his wheelchair would gouge into the backs of your heels. Turning my work into him, and the eventual revision meeting made me feel like an ant beneath the magnifying glass of a masochistic child. Not only did it appear that my work told all of my secrets, but his criticisms burned with sarcasm and their delivery came with a tone meant for misbehaved dogs. This changed me, and my love of creative writing. However, it did not affect my love of literature and wanting to dig deeper. I doubled up on literature classes ranging in titles from: Revenge and Paranoia, Transvestitism on Stage, Page, and Screen, and a seminar class on Jane Austen, to name a few. Analytic writing was required in all of these. However, all of this doubling up, and an ongoing personal tragedy relating to my mom burned me out, and eventually brought me to Houston
My mother used to tell me that I had to wait until she died to write my memoirs. I often times thought I had another 20 years, but that is not the case. My mom passed away in 2007. In some ways her death freed me. However, there are times when I feel I am lost in the desert without a compass. She was one of the most brilliant, well-read people I have ever met; she often times helped me organize my thoughts or forced me to look at something from a different perspective. I have been described as a perfectionist, and get overwhelmed when I sit down to write anything other than a research paper. I am hoping that by taking this class, I will be able to do it alone (and who knows, maybe even one day write that silly memoir). My mom was also a fabulous editor, her skills will be missed this semester, as I LOVE COMMAS. I like for my writing to reflect that of a conversation which leads to run-on sentences. I feel that generally I don’t make too many grammatical errors or errors of lexicon or spelling, but we all fall victim to typos here and there. I think my time working in an office has helped this as I can’t tell you how many memos I have produced.
Regardless, my apprehension about my abilities has affected my class selection and has induced a love of math and science – a love of singular answers. It has been about five years since I have taken any English courses, and I fear that through circumstance and experience my brain and the way it operates has changed significantly, and that I will no longer be able to find hints dropped like bread crumbs for meaning. It’s something like Jeopary – when you watch regularly you start noticing hints in the answers and are able to answer with the quickness and accuracy only shown by Ken Jennings. I am excited (and a bit nervous) about this semester, and am hoping that all of these anxieties have been for naught. Only time will tell.