Who am I as a Writer?

As a writer, I am messy.  I am discombobulated and I can’t always get my thoughts down in the way I want.  I have issues with making everything flow together, and sometimes I don’t even know what I want to say, or what I should say.  I have to pick through my messes piece by piece and try to utilize the information that truly matters.  I wrack my brain for hours trying to figure it all out, but a lot of times I just want to give up, however I never do.  I always reach these roadblocks and impasses that take so much strength to overcome.  Brain farts and writer’s block are what I experience in every single piece I do—especially if a big chunk of my grade is at stake.  I can’t half-ass things; it’s just not in my nature.  I always have to give whatever I do 100 percent, or else the assignment would have never existed the first place.  I envy the people that can get their writing assignments done lickety-split, but then again I always wonder how good is their piece, really?  I am extremely critical when it comes to writing and everything that goes into it.  I consider myself a perfectionist; and when I say this, I don’t intend to come across as uppity in any way at all.  It’s just because I am my own worst critic.  Having a perfectionist’s mindset is both a blessing and a curse.  I am grateful for my ability to write on one hand, but on the other I wish the task wasn’t so daunting.  I don’t consider myself a writer because I don’t necessarily enjoy it; I just do it because I have to.  I know my teachers may cringe when they read these words but it’s the truth.  I feel this way because so much thought comes into play when it comes to writing.  To me, enjoyment should be almost thoughtless and effortless.  Writing is not where my heart is per se—art is.  I can spend hours and hours on a drawing or a painting and I barely even notice the time.  When I write, every minute seems like an eternity.   

          When we were given the assignment to write about ourselves as writers in class a few days ago, I wanted to write more but I couldn’t think of the words.  I could only scratch down so many details in so little time—granted, I spent a good amount of it just thinking and not writing.  When I get on a roll it’s like a breath of fresh air and I feel like I’m coasting down a big freshly paved hill on my bike.  It’s the greatest feeling ever.  But when it comes to the dreaded task of “revising”, there are times when I make drastic changes, times I make minor ones, and there are other occasions where I don’t think I need to change anything at all.   

         In conclusion, I am very much involved with my writing process because I want my works to be the best they can be.  I treat each piece with care and attention so I can convey my thoughts as clearly as possible. 

untitled.

Air is amazing

Breezes are better

Cool ones are captivating

Dirt devils are sort of destructive

Especially if you leave your window open

Farts are the foulest of the gases

Gross! That’s another word to describe them—

Hot drafts, they are.

I know everyone’s eyes dry out

‘Just a fact

Kites call for zephyrs

Light ones won’t get them off the ground

Mild ones too

Non-existent gales make everything seem nonchalant

Opt out of skydiving

Parachutes don’t always perform as planned

Quilts thwart the harshest chills

Roots resist the ruthless winds’ wrath

Summery winds strike my fancy

Too much wind is terrible

Undulating currents roll across the Great Plains

Ventilation is vital for survival

Wafting a whiff of a whimsical, warm wind is wonderful

Yo, I ran out of ideas…

Zephyrs. 

 I don't think it's very good, but I felt like experimenting with alliteration and synonyms, and I don't write poems a lot.

Wrecking Ball Tour

             I went to Bruce Springsteen's concert down at the Wells Fargo Center last night and it was amazing.  The seats I got were so close--the third row back from behind the stage. I was disappointed that I didn't get to see Clarence Clemons, the original saxophone player, perform before he died.  He was an amazing talent.  Clarence's nephew, Jake Clemons, took his place in the E-Street band and definitely did The Big Man justice.  Bruce knows how to get his fans involved in a show; he brought a little girl up on stage to sing part of "Waiting on a Sunny Day" with him, saw another little girl in the audience holding a poster saying "Sing Thundercrack for my Dad in Iraq" and sang it for her.  He even brought his biggest, number one fan onto the stage--his mother--and they danced to "Dancing in the Dark" together.  It was so sweet!

As I was making my way to the exit of the Wells Fargo center at the end of the show,  I passed by WMMR's booth where they were doing concert coverage, and none other than Pierre Robert was there!  I HAD to get a picture with him, so I waited around until he was done announcing.  A small crowd of people was surrounding him, including me, and he asked a few of us what we thought of the show.  I WAS ONE OF THEM, and I made it on the radio.  It sounds sort of dumb, but I think it's really cool considering WMMR is my favorite radio station ever!  And I got a big hug from him too.  Believe it or not, that was the highlight of my night.

Well...Now I'm Embarrassed

I was standing there in the doctor’s office leaning on the counter.  Then all of a sudden, this odd feeling came over me.  It started to get dark.  "Oh, it'll pass," I thought.  It always does after a few seconds.  It didn't pass.  Then I began to hear a loud, constant ringing in my ears.  That wouldn't go away either.  It got louder and louder as the darkness came in around me.  I started to feel hot and my whole body got that tingly feeling you get when one of your limbs falls asleep.  My arms felt like they weighed a thousand pounds.  I couldn't hear anything over the ringing.  This strange feeling seemed like it would last forever.  I fainted. 

And Somehow I Manage to Keep My Mouth Relatively Shut

Ignorance is everywhere.

Ignorance isn’t bliss.

Ignorance is annoying.

Ignorance is loud.

Ignorance is rude.

Ignorance is disrespectful.

Ignorance is selfish.

Ignorance is bitchy.

Ignorance is an asshole.

Ignorance is unbelievably stubborn.

Ignorance is obnoxious.

Ignorance is angry.

Ignorance is on purpose.

Ignorance is unapologetic.

Ignorance is spiteful.

Ignorance is unknowingly spiteful, in some cases I suppose.

Ignorance is incredibly closed-minded.

Hey, Ignorance! Dislodge your head from your anus.

I'm not one to write poems, so I decided to write one for once.  Usually poems are really hard for me to write, mostly because I rarely feel strongly to whatever subject I write about.  In this case, this poem came to me very easily because I really care about the subject matter this time. 

WaWa What??

             It was a chilly fall day after soccer practice in the gym.  I walked out of school in just shorts and a t-shirt to meet my dad in the parking lot.  As I walked to the car I thought to myself, “Huh.  It’s cooler than I thought it would be.” Not really thinking anything of it, I got in the car and we pulled away. 

“Hey dad, can we stop by Wawa and get something to drink? I’m kind of thirsty.”

“No, the parking lot is always full.  We’ll be home in less than ten minutes.”

“Aww come on I just got finished running around for an hour and a half.   I’m parched!”

“Alright, alright fine.  I’ll take you to Wawa”

“Thanks dad.   I love youuu!”

About two minutes later we pulled into Wawa’s crowded parking lot.   When I was getting out of the car I felt the cold wind hit my wet, sweaty armpits.  It was then when I realized the two unsightly large dark spots on the underarm areas of my t-shirt.   “Wow, I really picked the wrong day to wear gray!” I said.  Needless to say, I made the hasty decision to put on my hoodie to cover the stains.  I walked up to the door and opened it, my dad following behind.   Through the glass I caught a glimpse of you.  I saw you there, scanning each item the customers had and telling them their total.  I totally dug that stylish black polo you wore, and your curly brown hair, and your skinny arms.  “What a hunk!” I thought.  Instead of gushing all over you and acting like a creep, I kept my cool and walked over to the dairy section and picked up some chocolate milk. 

“Chocolate milk?  Why do you want chocolate milk?” my dad asked.

“Because Coach McGovern said low fat chocolate milk is good for you after you’re done exercising.  Plus I’m really in the mood for it anyway, so it’s a win-win.”

My dad and I got in the long line of customers waiting to be checked out.  A few minutes past and I was next in line.  My heart was beating faster.  I really hoped you would notice me.  Then it was my turn. 

“Hi, Rrrryan!” I said while looking at your nametag.  Your name was typed in a small font, so it was a little bit hard to see.

You gave me a small smile and said, “Hi.  How are you today?”

“I’m good!” I told you.  “How’re you?”

“I’m fine, thanks.  Is this all?”

“Yep.  That’s all, Ryan.  Do you know when Hoagiefest starts?”

“I dunno…like June?”

“Oh okay cool.  Hoagies are awesome,” I froze.  That was all I could think of to say.  I felt so dumb—but hey, what can I say?  There was just something about you that could just leave a girl speechless.

And you were like, “Yeah…they’re pretty good I guess.  They should make Hoagiefest a national holiday…”

You scanned the half-gallon of milk and said, “That’s two dollars and nineteen cents.” 

I handed you a five-dollar bill.  Our hands touched.  Sparks flew…well for me they did.   We would look so cute together as a couple.  You, me, just the two of us.  It would be great! 

“Two dollars and eighty-one cents is your change.” You placed the change in my hand, “Have a nice day!”

Our hands touched again.   You wanted me to have a nice day!  That was such a sweet thing to say.  I smiled, picked up my chocolate milk and walked away toward the door.  I sensed someone looking at me, and I looked back.  That someone was you, Ryan.  There wasn’t really much of an expression on your face, which confused me a little bit, but I gave you a modest smile in return anyway.  You were definitely checking me out.  I know you were.  You were looking at my badass legs in those skin-tight slider shorts.  Don’t you think for one second didn’t know what you were doing.  You were eyeing me up, checking me out.  Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow to buy something and slip my phone number in between some dollar bills. 

My dad and I left the store and drove home.  When we got home, I put the chocolate milk in the refrigerator and went up to my room to change out of my dirty clothes.  I looked in the mirror.  Something was extremely wrong—terribly wrong!  I. Was. Horrified.  My hoodie was on backwards!  It dawned on me that you weren’t checking me out, Ryan.  You were just looking at the weirdo who had her sweatshirt on backwards!  Oh the humanity! How could this have happened to me?  I frantically ran downstairs and angrily called my father’s name.

“DAD!”

“What?”

“Why didn’t you tell me my hoodie was on backwards?!”

“I didn’t know!  I didn’t notice!”

“And I was thinking this whole time the cashier was eyeing me up.  God damn it!”

             I stormed back upstairs and thought about what had just transpired.  Do you think I'm crazy and that's how I like to wear my clothes?  Do you think I'm a dumbass for not realizing my hoodie was on backwards?--Or do you think I'm quirky and I did it on purpose?  I will never know. 

A 'Love' Misunderstanding

Dear Elizabeth,

I have enjoyed each day and night we have spent together for the past six and a half years—our long strolls on the beach, the horseback riding excursions across the mountain trails, our lavish cruises around the world, the evenings where I took you to your favorite restaurants for dinner by candlelight, our “rolls in the hay.”  I love your silky, flowing chestnut brown hair; I love your deep blue eyes; I love the scent of your perfume; I love your long, shapely legs; I love the feeling of your soft lips touching mine when we kiss…but I have something I must confess to you.  There is…how do I say this?  There is another woman.  I know I have seemed distant for the past few months, and this other woman would be the explanation.   

 This woman is the woman of my dreams, the woman that only comes once in a lifetime.  She is much younger than you and I. I have fallen completely head over heels for this fine lady and I cannot let this opportunity pass me by.  I am a man of sixty-seven years old.  I cannot live a lie for the rest of my remaining years I have left on this earth.  I don’t have much time left! In order to be true to myself, I know I have to pursue a passionate relationship with her.  I love you too much to string you along like this, so I feel like I have to bring this relationship to an end.  I am certain you have heard the saying, “If you love someone, then let them go.” This is how I feel, and I think it would be best if you came to the same conclusion.  I know they are next to impossible to find, but there are other men better than I am out there.  I feel it would be in your best interest if you went out on a search to find one of those men for yourself.  I hate to see you alone in such pain and anguish, so this is why I have written you this letter.  I did not wish to confront you face-to-face, because I know that this confrontation would be too excruciating for you to handle.  I consider this a favor from me to you, and I hope you feel the same way as I do about my method of presenting you with my feelings. 

While you were away on the two-week long Alaskan cruise with Theresa and Barbara, I took the liberty of writing you this letter and packing my belongings.   By the time you have gotten home and read this letter, I have been long gone, sailing off to Europe with my new lover.  I hope you have no hard feelings toward me, because I believe the two of us separating is the best thing possible for our sake.  Keep in mind that you will remain in my heart, always and forever. 

                                                                                                Sincerely,

Reginald