Craft Essay

Craft essay

 

            I was unsure what to expect during the semester. I needed to take some electives and I figured that a writing class was good practice for life. Being a good writer is a great skill to have in this society. Bosses have to write. I didn’t expect to enjoy this class as much as I did. My classmates are hard not to like. I couldn’t dislike them even if I tried. They can easily make me laugh. My professor was overly encouraging and I did not mind at all. I never before had someone criticize my work in such a motivating matter. Dr. Chandler was considerate of all of our emotions and it didn’t go unnoticed. We are humans and were treated as such.

At first I was cautious when writing. I didn’t want to write things that were too personal yet I wanted to put down on paper thoughts that were lingering in my mind. I didn’t want the wrong person to find this. What if my Ex read this and deemed me crazy? What if the doctor somehow found this and thought I was crazy too? I tried to find other things to write about but it’s hard to work hours on something you feel no emotions towards. All the exercises we did during class showed me how negative my subconscious was. I didn’t like that. I wanted a clean subconscious because I know it can alter your personality. People often don’t know how often their action, reactions, and decisions are based on what’s stored away in their subconscious. I didn’t want those specific event to have major effects on my life. Writing helped me bring those things forward, accept them, and take the positive. I decided to write some of my most taunting demons down on paper. I discovered that I can say what’s on my mind without having to say it. Wall and Moving pictures did just that. This was the semester of therapy. Between Emily Dickinson and this class I have put some of my history in the past.  

            Saying what I wanted to say without actually having to say it was actually a trickier task then what I had expected. If anything I often felt that I needed more time. I really just wanted to focus on one story and stick with it, only because it took me so long to come up with ideas. The meetings were extremely helpful. Dr. Chandler was often able to describe my emotions in ways that I could not. This helped me further explore my inner self and write pieces based on my experience. I have learned something important in this class. I’ve learned that writing is an outlet for me. A creative one. I dance and I thought that was the only way to give my mind a break from my racing mind. Writing does something different. It helps me confront my issues so that I can evaluate and learn from them. I will to continue to write non-fiction pieces. I don’t want to be a writer or anything along those lines but I don’t want to write for me. Great way to end my last semester.

Blog 13: Vela

Vela gives women the opportunity to write without the pressure to conforming to a male style of writing. It was founded by Sarah Menkedich. Contributions of work were made by she respected.  Eva Holland, Lauren Quinn, Amanda Giracca, Simone Gorrindo and Molly Beer contribute greatly. Most of the stories published were from one of these contributors. The organization does not publish work about the struggles of women rather it’s a place to be free of restrictions. The essays chosen to be posted are about journey. Vela rather not post essay about vacation trip but about the personal experience which occurs when someone does beyond their comfort level to dive into another culture. The journey could also be an intrinsic journey to self-growth. The following were found while searching through the tables

• Currently there are 8 master heads and 10 contributors. Feasures are used to organize the magnitude of essays posted. The feature tabs topics are environmental, motherhood, essay, ethics, family, home, identity, immigration, home, journal, lyric essay, and the outdoors.
• The “On Writing” tab organizes writing about academia, feminism, education, motherhood, money, books, bookmark, MFA, the gender gap, the writing life, women in publishing and women we read this week.
• Has been “been highlighted in The New Yorker, Forbes, The Wall Street Journal, Vogue, Longform.org, and elsewhere. Vela stories have been selected as “notable” by The Best American Essays, The Best American Travel Writing, and The Best American Sports Writing.”
• Donations are carried out each year through kickstarted. It’s a great organization which help raise money. In October they raise over twenty eight thousand dollars. The money is used to pay their writers.
• The guideline for submitting work it standard. They ask that if work is sumited simultaneously, than the writer is responsible for sending the founder an e-mail message, if their work was accepted elsewhere. Segmented essays must be between 2,000-6,000 words.  A short letter and bio must also be included.

I found it interesting that there was a story well written in English and Spanish by the founder. The story was about being a “gringa” and using that to sort of show off. I also read a story about a personal journey that taught a girl that it was better to be herself even though she admired and loved her older sister.

Short essay: Dirt roads

 

 

Hibiscus flowers next to dirt roads

 

My grandmother placed a warm bottle of milk on my hands. I laid on a chair in a way that my feet were on the back rest and my head towards the legs of the chair. There was a reason why I was seated in that position. I was trying to figure out how the milk traveled to my stomach when I was practically upside down but my aunt wouldn’t let me think with her lecturing. She didn’t like that mama milked the cow so late.

It was late. As the sun went down the lamps would be brought out. The electricity had been out in the neighborhood for a week this time. All eleven of my aunt and uncles would bring a seat to the pavement front deck. Stories would be told and jokes exchanged on the front row view of the moon and stars. I tried to stay awake to listen to all of them but I always fell asleep only to wake on a bed.

My home was on the other side of the neighborhood. I would walk home bare foot on the dirt road. I would pick tropical hibiscus flower on my way. My neighbors would spot me from their open doors and give me messages for my mother. Many times I would even run into my dog lasier and she would stop her route to walk me home.

My home was painted with a bluish green color, it had a wooden door that didn’t quit make it all the way to the ground and a tin roof. I heard bachata and smelled food, so I knew my mother was home. I washed my feet so that I wouldn’t get reprimanded for dirtying my mother’s freshly moped floor. My mother carried me and greeted me with homemade juice. She brought me to the kitchen to show me the refrigerator she bought with the money my father had sent for my bike. I wasn’t impressed but I knew we were going to the beach that day and I didn’t want to say anything to cancel the trip. The best beaches on the island happened to be within walking distance from my home.