Not so great description of Lynzi

She's not all together normal, but I guess, when you really get down to it no one is normal. But she has a knack for being more un-normal than most people. It's almost as if at times she follows whatever impulse she has without thinking through the consequences or what the people around her will think. Like for instance the other day, we were studying and Lynzi had been quiet for at least 15 minutes, which is slightly impressive for her, when suddenly her head snapped up. The sudden movement caught my eye and I looked up too wondering what so important; without a pause she made eye contact with me and asked, "Has a llama ever spit in your face?" I was too taken aback by the randomness of the question to fully process what she had asked so my only response was "Uh, what?" She repeated the question one more time and when I told her, "No. I have never had a llama spit in my face," she shrugged and went back to reading. Unsure of what to say next I asked her the same question, without seeming the least bit surprised she said, "Yes, I've had llamas spit in my face a couple of times. If you spit back they get really angry." She dropped her eyes back to her book and that was the end of that; for the rest of our study session Lynzi studied quietly as if nothing had happened but I was too distracted to concentrate, I mean, how do you get spit in the face, more than once, by llamas?

I've never met someone drinks as much caffeine as she does, and the weird part is she doesn't even need it. Without caffeine she usually has too much energy anyway, but when you allow her to have more than one cup of coffee, or a couple Diet Cokes, it's like the energizer bunny: she just keeps going, and going, and going. It's enough to drive a shy or quiet-loving person insane sometimes. But I guess if nothing else it's entertaining. We went camping earlier this fall and Lynzi had waaaay to much coffee, she ended up singing an opera to the ducks in the lake. Don't worry, I taped it in case you weren't there and you want to see it.

I guess when it comes to her crazy isn't always a bad thing. With her you're usually surprised, and if you hang around long enough she tends to catch everyone off guard at some point.

Arielle Roberts' lame attempt at describing herself.

She had all of the potential to be a complete psychopath.

Intensely neurotic and overly affectionate, she managed to constantly give off the wrong impression.

Sometimes I liked to act like there was something about her that made her drastically different from everyone else, but maybe there never really was.

Maybe she was just another crazy bitch.

But maybe not.

Her hair was never the same color for too long, and neither was her taste in anything. Eclectic may be the most accurate word to describe her - her tastes varied and vast. Her sense of style was pretty near non-existent most of the time, but then she was always rather decently put together. Always eager to learn and adapt, she would keep her ears and her mind open to new types of people and ideas.

And sometimes she was really very beautiful. But mostly she was rather average, though her quirky personality sometimes managed to enhance her appearance. You know, if you're into that kind of thing.

Sometimes she would get this far off look in her eye, and I could see that she was in pain. Most would just attribute this to her daddy issues or her unstable home life, but I always knew it was something more. She had this desire and longing that permeated her every day life and saturated her thoughts, and an acute fear of dying that drove her passion for life. And her passion for others, which often surpassed her love of herself.

Adventurous and young, she still had much to learn and discover. Her body was clay, susceptible to the molding of others, and I suppose she still had awhile to go until she would be ready for the fire of the kiln.

Final Workshop

7:00 am; An alarm clock sounds. A yawn, a groan, silence.
7:05; The alarm clock sounds again. A yawn, a groan, a sigh. Good Morning Frankenstein.
7:06; Frankenstein stumbles towards the bathroom. Dragging sheets and blankets behind him. The sheets lay across discarded t shirts and jeans like a giant white snails trail. Frankenstein pulls and tugs at mysterious dials until, magic, hot running water.
7:15; I am a blank canvas. I am a pale mirage in the bathroom mirror; a white blur with a fuzzy brown top. I fumble for contact lenses and wince as I apply them. Clarity, a damp 22 year old lurches into view.
7:17; I reach for my tools, toothbrush, deodorant, hair gel, twisters, razor, moisturizer, straightners, comb.
8: 45; My bathroom artistry is complete and I stand excitedly before the closet door. I twist the handle and a world of possibility lurches into view. My brown eyes flick from item to item.
Hoodies; too warm
Sweat pants; to jock
Sarong; why did I ever buy this?
Trainers; to trashy
Suit Shoes; to smart
PERFECT
Cardigans; Practical and quintessentially British; now I just need to figure out what t shirt to wear.
10:05 I am dressed, but very late for class. Still, there is always time for a quick cup of tea.
10:22 I arrive in my first class of the day.
I felt rather self conscious in class today. I could tell the teacher was not pleased that I arrived a good twenty minutes late. He probably thinks I overslept; if only he really knew. I wanted to talk to Amanda during the break but I was worried that my hair had slipped and went to the bathroom to check instead. By the time a got back to the classroom class had started again. I spent much of the rest of class daydreaming. At the end of class I tried to talk to Amanda again, but I panicked and just asked if, “we needed the big or small blue books for the exam” she looked unimpressed. I was mad; I feel sometimes that all that hair care product was for nothing.
I find it very infuriating not being able to express myself. I mentioned this to a friend. I said, “I wish I could be as confident sober as I am when I am drunk?” He said “why not be drunk all the time?” I am not sure that is the answer to my problem.
The answer I think is to just stop thinking so much. Drum roll and cliché; to live in the moment. I heard that if the world feels overwhelming you should take a deep breath, and focus on something immediate. This is the example I was given; “like how your ass feels in the chair”. I would try it but I would hate for Amanda to see me wiggling around in my chair like some manicured monkey.
I went home somewhat defeated; class had been rather wearing and I couldn’t help but feel that my cardigan had lost some of its sparkle. Homework was a drag and I couldn’t really get my mind off Amanda. Would she ever really go for a guy like me? I tried to skim through the fonder memories of my life and instill myself with a sense of confidence. I made out with Rachael Wright behind the bike shed in middle school; that was awesome but not a great story for Amanda, I finished 17th in the school cross country which is not bad for a soft around the edges wannabe rugby player. I travelled after high school I suppose that makes me cultured. I have a rather nice collection of ties and C3PO went to my high school; I wonder if Amanda is a Star Wars fan. Probably not, pretty girls like that don’t like sci fi they like rom com. Maybe I should watch more romantic comedies.
I asked my roommate if he owned the Notebook, he punched me in the face.
It wasn’t a total loss though I have a killer black eye now and I always wanted to look more rugged. I went back to the bathroom and flexed in the mirror for 20 minutes; in the right light, from the right angle, in the right mirror I actually look quite buff.
I was pretty tired after all that flexing so I turned into bed pretty early. I actually feel pretty good about myself when the lights go off. I wish I could be as happy around others as I am around myself. I think that self consciousness kills more people than cigarettes; not literally but you know what I mean.
I slip out the contact lenses and sink into the pillows my mind is racing. Will Amanda ask about my black eye when she sees it? Should I be honest? That seems like a bad idea. If it’s hot what should I wear, if it’s cold what should I wear, should I go to class drunk? Did I do a good job on my homework? Should I have joined a fraternity? Was college the right choice for me? This is all so overwhelming, wait, how does my ass feel right now? Wow… that does work. I guess finally time to get some sleep; Casa Nova has a big day ahead tomorrow.

Ian Cross in the Third Person

Look at how he walks in his business suit, aviator sunglasses on. Oh look, he pulled out his gigantic smart phone, texting someone cause he can’t bother to wait to get to where he is going. He stops suddenly to fist-bump and chat with some athlete; I guess he must be pretty big socialite if he knows athletes. He’s finally approaching the Evans crosswalk; some of those activists are standing on the corner. What does he do? He pulls out his phone, pretends to have a conversation, and walks past them without making eye contact, with an air that dares them to interrupt his imaginary conversation. Across the street his head jerks suddenly to the right as he notices someone. However, he immediately looks the other way, an old flame perhaps?
Upon entering the business school he doesn’t even take his aviators off, is it that bright inside?! Without hesitation he heads right to the café, despite the fact class had already started. “One black coffee” he says, in a hoarse monotone. He pays for his $1.79 coffee with a credit card and proceeds to dump four packs of the “organic” sugar so he can pretend to be healthy. Still ignoring the glaringly obvious fact that he is late, he heads to the free newspaper bin to grab a New York Times. He only does this on Wednesday and Thursday because he feels the Monday and Tuesday versions are beneath his crossword abilities. Stowing that in his backpack he makes his way to the elevator, his class is on the third floor! Grimacing at his coffee, as if he didn’t specifically ask for a bitter cup, he walks into the class to the glare of his teacher. Without meeting her eyes, he sits down.

13086968

She sits at her desk typing. Her blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun. She is constantly fidgeting to get comfortable in her soccer sweat-pants and big Nike gray hoodie, her usual work attire. The pants reminded her of her high school days and that decision to play or not in college. And the hoodie, well the hoodie always made her smile because it wasn’t exactly her hoodie, it was his. When she wore it she was reminded of him. She missed him and wished that college, and more importantly D1 soccer hadn’t taken him so far away, but she was happy when the holidays came around as everyone would come home. He would be home.

Reminiscing she continues to type, filling out application after application constantly asking her to explain why she is fit for each medical school in particular and highlight all there is that is good in her that they need to pay special attention to versus all of the other candidates that are filling out the same set of essays. How could she do herself justice in a 1000 character essay including spaces? She rolled her eyes and stared at the screen. She drew a blank. She didn’t know what she could say to make her typical pre-med life sound anymore enticing to an admissions board than the next person. Then it came to her and she wrote DEAR ADMISSIONS BOARD, PLEASE EXCEPT ME BECAUSE I’M PRETTY MUCH AWESOME! Well, that should get their attention. She knew she could never submit it. She always followed the rules; she always succumbed to those around her. Not because she thought they were better than her, but rather it was easier to just appease them and avoid conflict versus going against the norm.

However, this could not be her thought process now. She had to standout. She had to let her individuality paint across the page. She had to use the art of words to show who she really was, who she really could be. So it comes down to this. Who is she? She a hard-working student dedicated to good grades, her jobs, and if time allows her family and friends. She always doubts herself which in a sense makes her stronger, constantly trying to grow and be better. She is compassionate, caring, and shy when she wants to be. She loves sports and when there is not an Avs or Nuggets game on she doesn’t know what to do with her night. She considers herself well-rounded with a healthy balance between school, work, and play. These are the characteristics of who she is now, for she cannot fully define herself because she is continuously changing. Who she is, is dependent on time, location, the people she is with and other variables. Who she truly is, is not a question for the present, but once she has passed to fully understand her, the question will be who was she? It is the answer to this question that will truly define her, being able to take the instances in her life to see how they each shaped her, each changed, and ultimately made her who she was. So at this moment all she can define herself as is someone who working towards a goal in hopes that someone and some institution will recognize her worth and give her the chance to succeed.

Writing Excercise

Jessica Shaw

11/12/10

Creative Writing

Workshop #6

Jessica Anne Shaw

She is fair skinned, blonde hair and blue eyes. Typical description. She is 5’6 and skinny so really nothing to make her stand out from all the rest. Her eyes seem to change color for no apparent reason, going from bright blue to a dark grey blue in the same day. It may be changing with her mood, but does it as it pleases. When she walks she has almost a bop to it. Not quiet a bounce, but not a stroll; there is energy in it. She almost bops to music, a beat of some sort that no one else can hear. When she goes from place to place she is on a mission and does not take in the people around her. You have to scream to get her attention. She always seems to be preoccupied with something, which makes it hard for her to live in the moment, and even harder to slow her down. She smiles while she is talking to everyone, and always needs to be doing something. When she is not overwhelmed with school and work, she doesn’t slow down instead she tries to speed up her social life going out every chance she gets. Her life seems to all be set on where she is going not where she is now. She tries to change it, and go back to the free spirit she once was, but want to succeed so badly, she can’t seem to let everything go and just take a break. She wants to be a high school teacher, because hers was the one that changed her life and got her where she is today. She plans on helping public school, and helping kids get to where she is now. She has ambition, and drive and is not planning on giving that up anytime soon. Telling her to slow down will only make her want to speed up more. There is always something new she can take on.

Invisible Love

Creative Writing #8

Annika Hilbrich

11/9/10

Invisible Love

I saw him from across the street. He looked straight at me, and me at him. Were his eyes piercing through me or was I going crazy? My eyes started to sting, tears began to gather and drip down my face, one at a time, like they were each timed specifically to hit the ground each second. My body felt frozen, yet burning hot. It seemed as though even one step forward was impossible. Was it really him? Should I believe this? I thought he wasn’t coming back, I thought he couldn’t. He didn’t move. I could see his blue/green eyes even from this far distance. I could make out the colors in them I use to know so well; I use to gaze into everyday. He still didn’t move. Like he was a statue or something. Was he? Am I imagining this?

Unsure of what to do, I forced my left leg forward into a rather large step, probably looking very odd to other people passing by on this busy New York City street, but I didn’t care, I could only see him. I stepped forward again, this time with my right leg, and the steps began to get easier. I slowly strolled in his direction, never taking my eyes off of him, for he might disappear again. I may never see him again. When I had almost reached him, I stopped as the memories came flooding back into my head, almost knocking me flat on my face. The screams, the train, the car, the crash. Why couldn’t I get the car off the tracks? It was my fault he died. It was all me. HOW was he here right now? The tears were coming harder now; I stopped trying to control them. This hurt so much, to have him so close to me but to know he was gone. He wore the same coat he had on that night, the same scarf, and the same smile. My God, I love this man. And then, as I stood a meter away from him, he vanished, just as I knew he would. That is how much I miss him.

Writing Exercise

“The room is consumed by blue. I do not know how to return. I do not know how to come to you. You did not come. Won’t ever. Your no in your mouth pooling like azure.”

In this quote, Lidia Yukanvitch uses the color blue to describe this scene. For this writing exercise you must use color to illustrate what is going on in the story, similar to Lidia Yukanvitch’s, Blue Movie from Real to Reel. You may either choose multiple colors (ex: a new color for each paragraph) or surround the story around one color or both. For example if you choose multiple colors you could be describing your emotion throughout the day or year or however long the timing of your story is. You may either state the color directly, which could be helpful, or just show the color through your words. Whatever way you choose to do it, the theme of color must be present otherwise it is really up to you.

Writing Exercise based on "Blue Movie"

In “Blue Movie” Lidia Yuknavitch describes the angst of love and desire through a series of desperate shots that climax as the piece progress. She uses the color blue to create vivid imagery that corresponds to the emotion of the speaker. Create a piece by picking a color and then picking a verb that corresponds to that color. (In Yuknavitch’s case, you could use “BLUE- to desire”). Using a similar structure as “Blue Movie”, write the narrative so that it is broken down into ‘shots’ or ‘scenes’, numbered one, two, etc., where the speaker or main character in your narrative is doing/playing the verb you chose. Lather your narrative using your color as a guide. Colors are heavily symbolic and connotative so really give yourself freedom to explore your color’s potential. Take risks with both the color and the verb/heighten the stakes (instead of using YELLOW- to smile, think… YELLOW- to orgasm). Use the color to specify your story and mold the environment of your piece. The reader should feel the verb and the color are in harmony.

Joseph Parker Comic Book Piece

• A spec of light in a night sky
• A quiet farm
• A thundering comet
• IMPACT
• Smoke, dust, ash
• A gaping crater
• A panicked crowd
• A smoldering child
• Wailing sirens
• Officials in suits and ties
• Lies
• Damage Control

• A crowded church
• An impressionable congregation
• An angry pastor


From the sermon of pastor Alvin McConkie
… And God cast the devil from heaven and forbade him to return and for a short time it was good. But there were spirits that lingered; unsure as to whom they should follow, and there treacherous minds turned and turned and they said unto each other that they devil had been wronged; that it was Satan who held the ultimate authority. And whence the good Lord heard this blasphemy he sent those spirits to join the Devil within his fiery confines. Yet, these spirits do not remain trapped within their forsaken casket, they are the devils agents. And they eat away at all that is good and all that is righteous and their agency can be tracked through the annuls of our history. Did their spirit fingers not grasp Cane whence he killed Able? Did they not whisper into the ear of Judas? Where they not the Gods of savages and hoards? Listen to me my children, they move like veiled smoke amongst us; they seek to inhibit and destroy the human form and they would see us enslaved beneath their master and we would toil for Lucifer himself. So I preach vigilance!
Yesterday, we saw a child sprung from the underworlds womb, a child that lay still and quiet amidst the flame and chaos, we saw a child cloaked in ash and marked by the hand of the devil. Do not be fooled; this is no Godsend, no savior, and no miracle. The child we stared upon is a bringer of torment and misery. He will be our undoing and our apocalypse. This child must be stopped, God does not frown upon those who resist the Devils treason, he does not frown upon those who revoke the notion that these demons, these false idols belong amongst us. Did Jesus not cast the sinners from the temple of Jerusalem? Where these spirits not deemed unworthy for heaven? This land is our temple and as long as the devil resides her I say rise up; rise up in our masses, rise up with arms and fury, rise up in the name of our Lord our Father, his son and the holy spirit. Rise up and rid this land of evil. Rise up my children, rise!
• A pastor with arms outstretched
• A cheering congregation
• A vicious angry mob

• A fading lamp
• A tear strewn face
• A pen, a journal

Extracts from the Journal of Elizabeth Grace
Monday 20/9
Just clocked off the night shift, I feel dirty. The corridors stink more and more of death every day. I asked the chief of staff if I could transfer again, he said he would do what he can. I don’t think he really cares about me. I don’t think anyone does. I just stay trapped in the ICU.
Today I watched the skin flake off this old cancer patient as he was bathed; his lips were red from the blood he keeps spitting up. I feel sick all the time around these people they look more like robots than people, held together by wires and tubes. This old cancer patient has a button he can hit if the pain gets too much a big blue button that sends him sighing into a stupor, at least until he wakes up a couple of hours later fumbling for the button with his wrinkled hands. I wonder how many times his family thought of pulling the plug. I could just keep pushing and pushing the button till he doesn’t come to. It would be a good way to go I think. I wouldn’t mind it.
Wednesday 22/9
I snuck down to the maternity ward today, just for 10 minutes at lunch. I don’t think that big fat nurse Roberts likes me very much. She just scowls at me, but I don’t care. The drone of the incubators is soothing to me.
It makes me sad to see all those mothers and fathers take their children away and I hate them a little bit, I don’t want to but I do. I scratched away at my stomach till it bled and I had to rush out of the maternity ward and change my overalls. I never understood the white overalls they stain so easily. Someone told me once that it makes the nurses look like angels watching over the patients; I think we look more like ghosts.
Thursday 23/9
There was chaos at the hospital tonight; men in suits and ties with cold faces were everywhere and specialists were rushed in to the hospitals from big cities and fancy laborites. Someone said there had been an asteroid strike, someone said something about a baby someone said something about an alien. I caught a glimpse of this little boy being ushered around by all these excited looking doctors; he had the most amazing eyes. Not like any eyes I ever saw in the maternity wards they almost looked electric, like shimmering blue orbs.
It was hard to concentrate tonight there was such uproar; everywhere you turned some doctor was rushing past you pushing a tray full of needles and vials. If you asked a question as to what was happening you were answered with, ‘need to know basis’ type answers.
It doesn’t seem fair they keep wheeling out of this room with another blood sample or hair sample. It makes me scared to think of that helpless child surrounded by those jackals with their scalpels. Every now and then you can hear the poor baby shrieking I know they are hurting him but they won’t stop; the screaming just gets louder and louder until the walls are shaking, its terrifying. I want to break in there and stop them; it’s a baby not a project. I think sometimes I am the only one who thinks like this.
Saturday 25/9
There is a big mob outside the hospital that damned pastor has put poisonous ideas in their heads. All the suits and ties look nervous, they get angrier with every minute and everyone at the hospital is worried. No one really knows what to do; I can’t help but think that something bad is going to happen.
• A hurled projectile
• A shattered window
• A surging mob
• CHAOS
• Panicked doctors
• Panicked patients
• Frantic reaction
• Crowds
• A lone nurse
• An open door
• A still child
• Unhooked tubes
• A concealed child
• A quick escape
• A lone fugitive
• A cradled child
Some years later
• A circus
• A cheering crowd
• A levitating child
• A proud ‘mother’
• A face in the crowd
• A suit a tie


• A trailer
• A young boy
• A tired ‘mother’
• A flash
• A door ripped from its hinges
• A surge of agents
• A mother thrown to the ground
• A an angry boy
• Bright electric blue eyes

From The Chronicles of a super hero; the early days
Being the son of a fugitive is a difficult upbringing but I never doubted that Elizabeth loved me. As with any child much of my immediate youth is clouded. I believe that we moved around a lot with Elizabeth working odd jobs to provide for us. One of my earliest memories is being taken in by the circus. They were strange people but kind people not afraid of my differences and happy to conceal my gifts within a magic act. It was a profitable venture and I was happy to be able to provide for Elizabeth. However, in hindsight it us unsurprising that we were discovered we stayed with the circus for two years and my act attracted a lot of attention. People came from all over to see me levitate, to see feats of strength that were both unbelievable and unexplainable. They came with force and purpose sure they had found the alien child that had evaded them for so long.
I remember the door being ripped from the trailer; I remember the angry faces of the agents. Agents attached to sinister organizations who sought to tear me from my ‘mother’. I had never known real anger till I saw them lay hands on her and I rose up with such terrible force that the first two agents went retreating back into the night. When I grasped the third agent the trailer was lit up with gunfire. I have been told that when human is stung by a wasp he feels a sharp exterior pain and is left with a red sore upon his skin. This was my experience of being shot. It only served to anger me more; the agent was dispatched with little problem. The lights were blown out but the bullet holes in the walls left small streams of light; miniature spotlights for a miniature hero. I moved through the trailer with serene ease even at such a tender age I was too quick, too resilient and too strong. As agents were blasted from the trailer others scattered into the night the mocking cries of circus folk ringing out behind them.
We left the circus the next day. It was a difficult decision it had become my home over the last two years but we would not endanger the people who had showed us such kindness and it was in that trailer however, that I realized I was more than just a performer. It was the first step towards something greater. It was not beneath the bright lights of the circus tops or in front of the cheering crowds. It was in the dingy trailer with my huddled sobbing savior that a hero was born.

Joseph Parker Reverse Engineering a Story

Create an ominous opening; a dim lit foreboding abode. A mysterious light and a silhouetted figure. A steep and treacherous entrance way awaits a nervous guest. The guest is beautiful but troubled by here alien surroundings. She must be visibly nervous and her language must only extenuate this. She is greeted by a bizarre character that must appear to be too comfortable in these ‘spooky’ surroundings. His voice must be intimidating and in stark contrast to that of the girl. The weather must also reflect the mood scene. The lady asks for directions and he ushers her into his house.
The interior of the house is equally as intimidating as the exterior. The interior of the house must allude to his sinister profession he is a ‘mad doctor’. The doctor must try and keep the women in the house even though all she wants is directions. Her attention must be drawn to the door that leads to the basement perhaps through a muffled groaning. The doctor must use the distraction to drug the girl. This will result in the girl becoming more susceptible to his demands. She will be lured to the basement; the doctor’s laboratory. This must be characterized by the use of stereotypical and generic laboratory objects.
In the corner there is a concealed figure hidden beneath a sheet. It must draw the girl’s attention she has now shifted from apprehensive to inquisitive and the effect of the drugs must continue to be visible. She is lured towards the sheet and under the watchful eyes of the she removes it. Her reaction must be visibly horrific and the emphasis must be on her face initially. The focus can then switch to what was hidden behind the blanket. It is a grotesque creature in the mold of Frankenstein but can have no eyes. The focus returns to the doctor and he is now carrying a scalpel. The final shot must be upon the girl and her fate must be obvious to the audience.

Writing Prompt

From Yuknavitch’s Male Lead;

“It will feature a man whose conscious mind and subconscious mind are in reverse order. So that everything he thinks and says is as if he is using dreamspeak, as if he’s crazy, as if he’s not entirely here in the way that the rest of us are, but rather somewhere other, where language, image, and thought break back down into arbitrary parts. On the inside will be his order and logic, the distillation of chaos into patterns one can live with, the image by image splicing together of life into a linear narrative one can understand” (26).

People are constantly playing a role with front-stage and back-stage society. They put on their façades for the front stage, appeasing to the general way of thought and trying to blend in. On the other hand they constantly have the back-stage going on whether coming out in more casual social situations or simply being the thoughts that they keep to themselves. However, even though these two stages never mix and rarely is the back-stage called into focus there is the constant interplay between the two stages that mold the identity of the person. Using this idea, write a piece where you introduce a character according to this front-stage/back-stage rational. That is show how a character may act in a certain situation with a front-stage façade while recognizing the back-stage or internal feelings that they may also be experiencing. Then in the midst of the piece switch, bring the back-stage persona to the front and move the front-stage persona to the back. In other words have the character speak, feel, and act as they would normally in a back-stage setting or against societal norms in front-stage situations and have their internal dialogue or back-stage actions be what would be expected from them in a front-stage setting.

For This Assignment

Lynzi Maas

11/8/2010



Many stories are built around similar central themes; these themes are often relevant to the time period, society, or community that the author is a part of. For this assignment choose one theme for a story that you think is relevant to you or that you are aware of and right about it from three different view points. The first story should be from the first person account. This could be your personal account, or a fictional character; it is important to use "I" statements and have the character own what they are saying. The second story should approach the theme from the vantage of the second person view point. In addition to the second person view point the story should also have a different approach to the issue of the central theme. This could be possible through conflicting beliefs between the two characters. The third story should be written from the third person perspective and should once again approach the issue of the central theme from yet another angle. Once all three stories are written and combined they should provide a complete analysis or a full picture of the issue you wished to address as your central theme.

Write three stories that correlate with each other from three different viewpoints: first person, second person, and third person; all of these stories must have a common problem/issue. The first story, which is written in first person, must address this problem through the eyes of a person who is very self aware of himself/herself. The “I” in the story addresses the issue that is something out of her control, something that just happened, and something that he/she cannot understand at the present moment. The person in the second story, which is written in second person, addresses this same issue in a totally different way. He/she is unable to accept the fact that the problem is out of his or her grasp; the issue is merely a physical thing that can be explained. The last story, which is written in third person, basically rips apart the views in the first and second story. The “you” in the third story is a totally pessimist who has no obvious outlook on life other than “it sucks, everyone sucks, the world sucks.”

Story from a song

Joseph Parker
Intro to Creative Writing
Roxanne Carter
Expanding a line from a song

I'd rather be a hammer than a nail.
Simon and Garfunkel

“SO WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO ABOUT THIS!”
The coach bellowed at his players. The response was half hearted at best. Someone near the back of the huddled players mumbled something about defense but it was drowned out by a particularly loud sneeze from one of his teammates. “SHOULD I JUST CALL IT NOW BOYS; TELL THE BUS DRIVER WE ARE LEAVING EARLY”.
The players were aware that this was a rhetorical question and that there, unfortunately, was no chance of leaving early. In the locker room next door the coach’s half time speech was working his players into a frenzy. There was the sound of metal studs grinding against the floors. Shouts and screams interspersed with curse words. The chanting became louder and louder echoing off the locker room walls. “YOU HERE THAT? THEY STILL WANT IT, WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO ABOUT IT?” Again the players remained quiet a couple just whimpered. The bellowing coach was swiftly becoming exasperated but his spirits were lifted slightly when finally one of the players snaps. Leaping to his feat and ranting at his team mates using expressions like, “one more half, show em’”, “what were made of” and “were still in this:” No one really believed him but there were a couple of token nods and a couple of half hearted shouts.
It was hardly where the coach wanted his players to be emotionally but time was ticking away and he had to get his players back on the field. “RIGHT WE ARE GOING BACK OUT THERE” he ignored the grimacing players “AND WE ARE GOING TO PLAY OUR GAME AND WE ARE GOING TO LEAVE HERE WITH OUR HEADS HELD HIGH.” It was a nice sentiment and it lifted the spirits of the players somewhat. For a split second they forgot about their opponents and how much bigger, faster and stronger they were. There was a momentary flicker of belief and the players jogged to the field with some renewed vigor. The coach sighed as he walked out behind them bracing himself for the oncoming half and thinking all the while about what he would say at full time.

Writing Excercise

Jessica Shaw

Writing Exercise

11/6/10

Scripted

For this writing assignment come up with a theme nine or ten different stories. Have it so the themes can be interrelated to create a story. Start writing these stories from first person point of view. After doing this part write a new story still using the same main ideas from the last one, but this story is going to be in second person point of view. Last, write one more story just like the last two with the same themes, but write it in third person point of view. Arrange these stories so they are separated by theme. Also, place these stories on the page so they can be read two different ways, either reading down so you read all of the first person point of view piece first and then moving on to the other two. Or reading it by them so reading each point of view for the same main idea.