write.
Late this afternoon by the light of the really old, original windows I set my writing pieces out to dry like sheets.
These babies all go into my massive Portfolio 1 for my writing class.
It is so weird, to write on command.
The last writing course I took was at SLC and it was creatively focused. This one is more of a broad, general course, but we recently have gotten into some personal narratives. I love doing them. Here is a little taste of one I wrote (part of my conversion process, really):
The dew was especially wet that year, and the slugs made my jogs into a zigzag line as to avoid smashing them under my haste feet. Through this running I could smell the earth coming up. Visitors to Oregon, mostly my mother, always would remark at how green everything was. It resembled Ireland a classmate had told me, as she had visited her heritage homeland and come back with the realization that the two places were alike, indeed. Green, often tied to rebirth and newness wrapped me in its arms that year, and I began to find something that would fill that void, the void each one of us has.
Later in the sun soaked dining room of my father's home two women with small black name tags sat across me. I handed them water, they handed me a small, blue bound book. It had an unusual smell, its white pages were covered in strong black ink, and it was unlike any other book I had ever owned or touched...
So yes, it is way more fun to write that then a research paper, unless you get to research this kind of stuff. Yes, I am lucky, or perhaps I just know how to pick a project.
