Writer’s Profile

Current Mood/Status: meh, a little tired.
Currently Doing: homework, of course. sunday night? yeah.
Song of the Day: Turning Inward, Boy Hits Car

Going through life, there are three stages to learning any new skill that is to stay with one through one’s life. The first stage is fascination. When a child is introduced to a new idea, s/he comes to a vast, new realm of possibilities–there are so many options, so many ways to use this new concept, such application. One could spend hours exploring merely habits of writing, and more than just cursive versus printing; whether to dot “i”’s or use circles above them, whether or not to cross “z”’s, how to draw the tail of an “a,” and on and on. The objects on which to write abound as well: in books, on shirts, on cars, on limbs, or virtually any other surface. Language, literary style (essay, poem, letter, etc.), and topic are only the most basic of details when it comes to artistically representing oneself through words. With such tremendous options and limitless possibilities, it is difficult not to be inspired by the concept.
In my case, there are exactly two locations in which I can write effectively: a notebook and my notebook, both of which often reside upon my lap. It is most comfortable for me to write long pieces or works that I plan on refining digitally; also, this is often the fastest way, for when composing essays or responses, I can type generally as fast as I think, whereas longhand takes me significantly longer, but seems more effective for topics about which I am passionate and need only express a brief opinion, rather than citing sources and detailing dreary facts. Of course, school would never be a sufficient output for everything about which I am passionate; I have two blogs, each of which serve different purposes; one for brief, random, interesting, funny, etc. thoughts and noteworthy links, pictures, quotes, occasionally poems, and the like; the other for more of the substance of me, my personality; parts of conversations that I’ve had that are highly representative of me as a whole, something about which I feel strongly, lengthy rants about things that really bother me, raves about what I think is the coolest thing ever to grace the human body or mind, or my flavor of the week–be it this incredible new a capella band, a fantastic new bow tie that I found at Goodwill, or some ordinary thing that happens to everyone, every day, accepted by everybody, but that I just found unbelievable, extraordinary, and magnificent.
The second phase through which one passes while growing up and expanding upon one’s writing abilities is not nearly as productive as the first; it is often a time of disdain towards the skill, a time when the (generally) adolescent refuses, or at least greatly dislikes, writing and will attempt to avoid it at all costs. By this point, a general approach has been established, but the thrill of composing is no longer new and so no longer worthwhile; it has become a chore.
For the period of time from about seventh grade through ninth grade, I had the silly idea in my head that complicated was equivalent to good writing, so in order to get good grades on my papers, all that I had to do was throw in gigantic words and obscenely awkward constructions, preferably making sentences as long as possible and paragraph breaks very few and far between. This notion was likely spawned from my own ignorance and childishness, for I was then already reading the same material that I read now–including attempting to read a few of the “classics,” such as A Tale of Two Cities–a project which failed miserably a few dozen pages into it. However, those three years included very, very much writing, and so that style has been rather ingrained into my present one–run-ons still abound (though hopefully more tastefully and effectively when it comes to achieving the purpose of my writing) and I still try not to be overly redundant or rehash the same concept(s) too similarly too often. It was Mr. Wheeler, though, who really finally broke me out of the awkwardness. In each of the papers that I wrote for him my freshman year, I would lose points in the “Answers the Question” and “Wording” criteria–very often, I would become so engrossed in over-emphasizing or dramatizing a single point in a single, poorly constructed sentence that I would cease to be even remotely relevant. More, even, than just this vague criteria gesturing in the general direction of my deficiencies, Mr. Wheeler would underline especially awful sentences and indicate “red,” or redundant, word usage and mark up entire papers if there were mistakes all over–occasionally, I would be hard-pressed to find a single clause that was up to par, between all of the PEBKACs and typos themselves.
Eventually, though, and hopefully, most of us arrive at the third stage, the point at which we finally tweak everything and develop our skill to however it is going to stay, and then it sits with us, staying, for the most part, constant. No longer trying out new ways to draw drop caps, content with a method of heading papers, and more or less secure in overall style, writing becomes just another part of life; for many, the primary means of communication and self-expression; for others, just another option in life, but not one often utilized. Like riding a bicycle, composing a piece is always an option, and one will either choose it often or not; one cannot forget how to write, just as one would have a difficult task in forgetting how to bike. Some do it better, others are not quite as elegant at it. Either way, really, the skill is learned and around to stay.
Now, my technique is dictated by how my writing sounds. As I write, I repeat my sentences back to myself mentally–or, more often, I say each statement in my head before quickly putting it down lest I forget it (for this is a common problem). When I word process, the second-most used function, right after backspace/delete, is “Find.” (Of course, saving is the third command.) In order to minimize repetitiveness and attempt to throw in some variety, I often check to see how long ago it was that I used a certain word or phase, reread from the beginning of that paragraph to wherever it is that I’ve paused, and go through the sentence first with the same word, then with a synonym or parallel construction. Whichever version sounds better stays. This process sticks with me wherever I write–in WordPerfect, when I compose essays or responses for school; in Notepad, when I’m making notes to myself, writing for my own peace of mind or as a creative outlet, and in Firefox, when I’m emailing people or making a new blog entry; even, occasionally, I’ll glance up at the past few minutes’ conversation in Trillian when I’m instant messaging friends. At this point, it is unlikely that I shall change such patterns, but they are effective and helpful to me; they get the job done and it seems to be well to me. Indeed, writing is enough of a part of me, and I do it so much, that the functions of all of these programs for me–WordPerfect and Notepad, my text editors, Trillian, my IM application, and Firefox, web browsing and so much more–overlap more than a little: topics for research projects are generally things about which I’ve already written in my blog(s) or told my friends, oftentimes I post papers of which I am particularly proud, and, on rare occasions, snippets of arguments or discussions that classmates and I have had online or via email have even made their way into responses for school. I write all the time because I have to, usually because I want to, but, most importantly, because I need to. It is my form of meditation, my way to sort everything out in my head; it helps me straighten things out and make sense out of life; but, more than anything, writing defines me for myself.