Writing Creative Essays

Creative Writing: Growing Up
"Sometimes you gotta let something bad happen, or else you wont know how to fix things when
they go wrong later." The words drifted back into her mind as she stood on the sidewalk. Ashes
fluttered down, landing in her hair and on her clothes, smearing soot onto her skin and black
across her vision. She should have listened. "If you don't ever make mistakes, you can't fix
anything when it finally goes wrong. You're justa' kid, a good kid, so you have to learn how to
fall down and get back up before you're too old." She had fallen down. Oh, she had fallen down so
hard, scraping her knees and cheeks and elbows, bruising her shins and skinning her palms. She
should have listened, she should have known how to get up....show more content...
And now it had all come crashing down. Smoke burned her lungs, but she didn't move, couldn't
move. "And sometimes you have to mess up for people. They might give you a weird look, or
hate you for it because they don't understand, but they'll understand it eventually, and they'll thank
you." Orange heat burned on her cheeks, red and yellow flickered in her eyes as the flames
danced across the wooden boards. Why didn't she listen...But she had listened. She had learned.
She had made mistakes. "But remember, kid, even standing back up leaves scars. They might fade
away, but don't get angry if they don't. They're proof you lived, that you hurt. That you fell down
and were smart enough to drag yourself to the finish line." She had made too many mistakes,
ignored more than she needed to. And now the house was burning. It was over, all over. Something
fell near her, crashed down from the ceiling and showered sparks and embers onto her shirt and
arms. It burned, it burned so much, but she couldn't move. "But no–matter how many mistakes you
make or don't make, I'll stand beside you, okay? I'll back you up. You don't have to be the only one
on your team. Two sisters fighting everyone else if it has to
Get more content on HelpWriting.net

Creative Writing: My Hero's Journey
A child runs inside a small classroom gathering his thoughts wondering what he saw. Bewildered by
what he had just seen he had become so frightened he hadn't realized his hands were shaking.
Collecting his thoughts he remembered that he heard a banging on a door someone opened it and a
man with patches of flesh missing ran up and bit the student who opened the door. Dumbfound by
the whole experience he began barricading the door shut and looking for something to defend
himself with. Easily finding a meter stick as he entered a mathematics classroom he began
sharpening it scared stiff the entire time. Finally he felt safe although he could hear running and
screaming every second coming from outside the doors. Getting up he finally had the strength...show
more content...
Kicking him off then jabbing the meter stick at him the student managed to get him and run off.
Leaving his bag and valuables behind he sprinted as fast as humanly possible toward the nearest
exit. Minutes later he made it out the nearest exit and was immediately hit with the stench of
rotting corpses. " No time for that" he thought to himself he turned the corner of the school and
saw minimum 20 zombies waddling around. One idea popped into his head to get to his car and
get out of there no zombies were around his vehicle all he had to do was sprint and he'd make it
keys in hand he got ready and ran straight for it. Perfectly executing a hood slide he got within his
vehicle and drove to his home where yet another surprise would be waiting for him. Quickly
running into his house to see if his family was safe he ran in to find not a single person there.
Searching for any clue to find where his parents had gone where anyone was he stumbled upon a
note taped to the cabinet it read. To anyone reading this we are heading to the next town over take
the highway and you'll most likely meet us along the way. Unless we run into difficulties with the
car we should be able to make a little camp on the side of the

Creative Writing: The Hero's Journey
Weeks later, as Snowman stares into the familiar bright green eyes, he thinks back to what led him
here, forgetting the fact that in a few moments, his whole world will be turned upside down.
Twenty minutes after approaching the group of survivors on the beach, Snowman really wished he
had never introduced himself to the humans. Standing awkwardly at the edge of the uncomfortably
large fire they had insisted on starting, he was sure they were on some sort of suicide mission.
They were oddly nonchalant about his existence. It almost seemed as if they were expecting him to
show up, or happy that he finally did.
"I really think we should put that out," Snowman repeated for the hundredth time. "All the in a fifty
mile radius will–"...show more content...
She had come back with a little with the usual black mask, white stripe down its back, and black and
white rings around its fluffy tail. Addie sat down next to Snowman on the damp ground, stepping on
his flowered sheet with her dirty feet. Not that it mattered.
"Isn't he a cute little guy? What would you call him, Snowman? Bandit, I suppose?"
"Bandit?" That was what Jimmy's mother thought Jimmy would call Killer.
"You're right, that's too boring. I'm calling him Killer." Addie took out a homemade dagger and slit
his throat. "Killer will make a nice lunch."
Snowman watched in horror as the blood sputtered out of the little creature's neck and onto
Snowman's flowered sheet. He jumped up in horror, backing away from her slowly. There were all
sorts of memories resurfacing, clouding his brain, making him stumble as he watched Addie's mouth
spread into a wide Cheshire smile.
"What's wrong, Jimmy?"
Snowman turned and ran as fast as he could, up the Snowman Fish Path. Every step sent a shooting
pain up his foot, and he couldn't resist crying out in pain. He had to get back to his tree.
"Why the fuck did I ever leave my goddamn

Creative Writing: The Dark
The ominous creaks of the weathered wooden floorboards reverberated in her ears. Visions of the
tribulations of her past consumed Dora's mind as she feebly maneuvered her way through the deep
blue chamber of anguish. Her aging bones groaned in agony as she moved through the gas
chambers, driven by the possibility of a prosperous life awaiting her. With benevolence pulsing
through her heart, Dora progressed, knowing the arduous journey from redemption was coming to
an end.
The unmistakeable sound of the bullet resonated in her ears, followed by the sharp ricochet of the
metal shell meeting the ground. The guard's weary eyes crossed paths with hers. He watched them
with cold eyes as the emaciated children wallowed in distress and trepidation....show more content...
A single tear pushed past her closed eyes and gently rolled down her cheek. Her stomach turned,
and she began to feel nauseous while her heart ached with crippling pain for her little boy.
Suddenly, three loud echoing taps of the microphone frightened her and interrupted her silent grief.
She assumed that it was just one of the guards giving orders in German to the army personnel, but as
her mind came back to reality, she realized this man was speaking Italian, "Buongiorno Principessa".
Stunned by the voice of her beautiful husband, she stood up and began walking towards the entrance
of the yard. All of a sudden, after some brief static, the voice changed. This voice was much softer
and higher pitched.
"Mama!"
His voice was like music to her ears and filled her with relief. Her baby boy was still

My Experience Of Creative Writing
Creative writing is something that has and always will be an important part of my life. It's helped
me discover what I truly want to do in life and something that I have been interested in ever since
I was a young kid. I remember vividly when I first starting taking an interest in writing original
stories of my own. I was around the age of eight and at that point in my life I had never really
been taught that I could write by using just my imagination; when you're in second or third grade
you're just being taught how to read and how to spell. So when I came home from school one day
and wrote a story about a dream I had, it was such an amazing revelation. I couldn't stop thinking
about this dream I had one night, so on a whim I decided...show more content...
My bedroom was my sanctuary; a place where I felt like no matter what, I could always be myself.
That was my favorite place to write my stories and for the next couple years it was a place where I
would write hundreds of stories. Even today I still like to think of my bedroom as my go–to place of
peace, where I can write whatever I want. Fast–forward to my sixth grade year and I find myself at
the helm of an important moment in my life that involved creative writing. I was hoping to get into a
private school, but in order to do so I first had to create a five–hundred–word essay about why I
should be able to attend. I had never really done anything like this in my entire life. For a couple
days I thought hard about what I could say that would stand out from the other thousands of essay
the school receives every year. Then I thought about those stories I used to write and how original
they were and how easy they flowed from my mind. And so, I essentially wrote that essay on how
Chaminade (my middle/high school) would be getting one of the most creative, imaginative,
strange–minded kids to ever walk through their hallways. And then I played the waiting game. For
a couple days, I waited to hear back from Chaminade. I remember telling my mom, "What if I was
too original with my essay? What if they think I'm too weird?" My mom always had the best
responses for me. "I've never heard of anyone being too original," she would say. "And

Reflection Of Creative Writing
It is my belief that through this class and the tools provided, that my growth as a writer has grown
through leaps and bounds I would never have assumed possible. It is not so much the skill I refer
to, although I would think skill has gone up in some levels as well, but more so the appreciation for
the craft of writing itself. Intially, at the start of this class my sole goal was to further my
understanding and appreciation of the writer's and books that I so love to read. Through further
evaluation within the first week, a few other goals came to mind, of which were, making writing
a habit, finishing what I start, stop second guess my writing skills and making effective use of
detail and description. Through the use of the many articles, various reading materials, whether
poems or short stories, and especially through the workshop, I feel I was able to really push
myself to accomplishing these goals. I have thus far learned how important it is not to be skilled
at writing per say, but to have the will to write, that poetry is as much about it's sound as it is about
it's subject, just how important character development is, how the narration and point of view of a
story is essential to the way the story is told, and just how much of a difference peer's critiques can
make to your writing.
Since before the beginning of this creative writing course, I have always struggled to find a point to
writing. By this, I mean that I always felt that having great skill and talent was what was required
to be a writer, let alone a great one. From this point, I felt there was no need to continue my
writing as I felt that in a sense it just wasn't good enough. However, reading the article "A Way of
Writing", I found new hope. Here was a writer who says things such as "I must be willing to fail. If
I am to keep on writing, I cannot bother to insist on high standards. I must get into action and not let
anything stop me, or even slow me much"(Stafford) and quotes that writers don't necessarily have
any special talent. The article "Why I Write" instilled further optimism through the authors view on
just being a writer, not focusing on being good or bad. I found her words in which she writes
"entirely to find out what I'm

Creative Writing: Clouds
Clouds shifting and moving to the south. A golden color resonates off the dark ends of the
storm. It is a rather warm but dreary day. The sound of the rain coming down and hitting the
pavement. Zack strolls along his street in the neighborhood; beyond the roadway is a wide open
field. He senses something strange is in the field due to the foul odor in the air and the wind
rushing it more into his face. He keeps his head down and proceeds to his home of sadness. He
watches every step and avoids any debris on the ground from kids playing or random nature that
has fallen. Out of this walk he is thinking of what is summer going to be like since he has went
from a junior in high school to a senior.
out of the cypress hedge bush a little kid...show more content...
he is slightly blinded from the bright light glaring upwards.as he blinks until he can focus he sees
the light fixtures and shields his eyes better to see where he walks.he stands straight up and takes
his arm and wipes away the swaeat from his forehead.he takes a deep breath and starts down the
stairs in the hollow ground. one step at a time he slowly goes down the steps and keeps looking
back to see if anyone is following or closing the door behind him. half way down the stairs he hears
another awkward low scream. he then stops and gulps his throat and starts to get scarred and shakes.
he is definately having second thoughts unto this journey into the hollow ground he slowly makes it
unto the ground from the last step and just stairs down this hall that is lit up by torchs he then takes
another deep

Reflection Of Creative Writing
Creative Writing was a class I never imagined taking. In high school, I enjoyed the small section
of English class that was set aside for creative writing. That was all it was; a small section of my
class time dedicated to writing about whatever I wanted. Reading has been my favorite hobby for
as long as I can remember. Sitting in my advisor's office at the beginning of summer; I was hesitant
about taking this class. I have never actually taken a class specifically for creative writing and was
afraid it wasn't a strong suit for me. When the counselor said that there was a creative writing class
that dealt with the body; I thought that that might work. I enjoyed the small creative writing in high
school and I enjoyed being outside and...show more content...
Now, when I have a lot of things going on and I get frustrated, I take a walk; it helps to clean my
head. Before this class I used to check my phone or Instagram every time I become overwhelmed.
This class not only helped grow me as a writer, but it also helped me grow as a human being.
Walking helps me relax and get a new perspective on things. Coming into this class with a very
small background in creative writing, I was worried I would stand out like a sore thumb. I had only
written one previous nonfiction piece and hadn't really been graded on it. Writing the first essay
wasn't bad; the workshop on the other hand was a different story. I had never had a workshop
before and in high school "peer review" was getting together with your friends and them telling
you it was good. When it was time for my essay to be workshop, I got defensive and didn't like the
feedback. I simply wasn't used to constructive criticism. By the second workshop, I wasn't as
defensive and wanted to hear how I could make the second essay better. The second essay was a
little harder to come up with the topic. Typically, I don't walk around town; I try to stay in the
country or woods. When it came time for workshop, the professor brought up concerns about my
commas. No one had ever told me that I had an issue with my commas before. I plan to ask her for
help because I want to become a better writer. I really enjoyed this class; all except for the third
essay. Essay number 3 was

Essay On Becoming A Writer
I would like to become an author because I am passionate about the validity of books. Novels are
educational tools disguised as entertaining stories. Stories provide a template for people to
divulge into a world unfamiliar to their own and learn from them. Moral, emotional, and
interactive lessons can be learned from novels, not to mention the good it does to tear eyes away
from screens. People learn from worlds created by another while also finding an escape from the
harsh reality they live. I would be lucky to help someone learn and escape at the same time. Most
who wish to become authors cannot simply write on a piece of paper and become successful.
Education is needed for most writers to become authors. To obtain a Bachelor's Degree inwriting at
SCAD, "a student must have 180 credit hours" ("Writing"). At Georgia College, to get "an English
Bachelor's in Creative Writing Concentration students must" have approximately 96 to 105 credit
hours and "maintain at least a 2.0 GPA" ("English B.A., Creative Writing Concentration"). "Three of
the required credit hours must be of a selected foreign language" ("English B.A., Creative Writing
Concentration"). English majors at Reinhardt "must have an intermediate–level proficiency in a
foreign language or pass an intermediate–level translation test" ("English StudiesCreative Writing").
Those who want a "Bachelor's in Common English Core" must have a total of 120 credits"
consisting of "9 to 15 credit hours on one major author,

Creative Writing : A Short Story
Again, the dark laughter echoed in her head. Shit, shit, shit. She was so damn stupid, so bloody
arrogant. In spite of the sunglasses she wore to lessen the risk of overstimulation to her senses, the
lenses were no safeguards against the weighted stares of the people on the bus, and Tung wasn't
here acting as a buffer. She snapped. "Stop." Gripping the top of the seat in front of her, she had to
get off the bus. "S–stop the bus," rising to her feet, she inched her way along the aisle as people
shunted across seats to get as far away from her as possible. "Let me off here." The door had barely
opened and Kalyssa stepped down to the roadside and sucked in a deep breath. She breathed in a
cloud of diesel as the bus pulled away and coughed....show more content...
Though the viper's venom wasn't toxic enough to kill her, it could knock her off her feet for a
couple of days, worse, weaken her control over her soul harvester nature. And, she needed that like
she needed a hit right between the eyes. After a minute–long standoff, the viper had the gall to crawl
over the back of her shoulder like she was a damn bridge for its personal use and with a sidelong
glance she watched it fade into the bamboo. Too close for her liking, she shuddered before
making her way back to the road. Maybe, she was too hasty in ditching the bus as she looked at
the long walk ahead. She stomped the worst of the mud off her leather boots and prepared for
another plunge into the bamboo at the sound of another vehicle. Hesitating, the approaching car
did not sound like any vehicle the monks owned. The car had seen better days, its once sunflower
yellow paint job chipped and faded, and too many decades outdoors had seasoned the driver too,
but at least when she flagged him down, he didn't ignore her or speed away. She tried the door but
the thing didn't budge. "Use your muscles, girl. Give it a good tug," the old man said. "No one
use it, so no bother." Kalyssa wrenched the door open and slid into the front passenger seat. After
several tries to close the door, Kalyssa was ready to kick it off its hinges. "You damage, you buy,"
the old man said. She turned her head slowly toward the man.

Creative Writing Ocean
The sun's rays radiate off the deck of a small yacht drifting in the middle of the ocean. Like a
photograph from a magazine, the sea is crystal clear. Even though this area is at least 30 metres
deep, you can see the coral reef down below the glistening surface. It smells of salty warm air, and
the only sound for miles is the water lapping up against the sides of the boat, as if it were gulping
mouthfuls of air. If you were looking at this scene, you probably wouldn't notice anything was
wrong. The only question is, where's the crew? If someone stood very quietly on the deck of the
ship and listened very hard, they might hear a soft clunking sound. The problem is, this is not the
perfect scene you may think it is. In fact, it's actually the aftermath of a rather terrible event....show
more content...
"Go and get it." There's a murderous look in his eyes. Panicking, Kate's eyes dart from side to side
as she stutters excuses "I–I can't sir I don't know how to swim I can't–" "You'd better learn fast then."
He grins as he pushes her into the choppy ocean. Oliver freezes. Being battered around, drifting
farther and farther away from the ship, Kate is screaming. "HANG ON!" he cries, as he runs to
the mast and grabs the longest rope he can find. The life ring is nowhere to be seen, it was
probably removed it, as "it looks ugly". After tying a knot in the rope, he throws it towards her.
"GRAB THE ROPE KATE!" he yells, but Kate can't see, can't hear, can't BREATHE. Coughing,
spluttering, reaching for something, anything to hold onto, Kate's hand brushes the rope and she
grabs onto it, but only succeeds in tangling it around herself in her frenzied panic. Oliver feels a tug
on the rope. He has Kate! He has Kate! He has– "THAT FILTHY PIG IS NOT GETTING BACK
ON MY SHIP!" Pushing him to the side, Lance throws the rest of the rope into the sea. Kate is
floating on her front, struggling to breathe, but inhaling water

Sea Creative Writing
The young boy rolls up his swag and puts it in the old wagon. He has parked in a secluded spot he
has found to camp while on his travels in search of the perfect wave. He loves this car. It is old
and starting to rust but like an old friend it has been with him on all his journeys. He doesn't
bother to lock his car as no one else comes here. He comes here often and has found that the beach
is always bare; free of surfers, swimmers or kids building sandcastles. Just him and the water. He
inhales the fresh morning air and lets it flow through his body like a well earned drink.
He grabs his shortboard and heads for the water. The waves are perfect and beckon him. He runs light
footedly across the hot sand that squelches under his feet. Although...show more content...
When he feels the wave getting closer he starts paddling faster and harder, in a strong rhythm. As
he feels the wave on top of him and the water rising beneath him, he jumps to his feet just as he's
done a million times before. His feet reconnect with the board and he regains his balance
effortlessly. He is racing down the wave at top speed, the adrenaline rushing through his body like
electricity. His heart is thumping in his ears, like drums at a rock concert. The lip of the wave
slowly curls over to create a tube. The excitement builds as he crouches down low and braces
himself. He feels the wind rushing through his hair and the wave envelopes him in a cocoon of
cool salt water. He keeps his eye fixed on the end of the tube, and reaches out his hand, gently
brushing against the wall of water that has formed around him. The water feels cool and
refreshing on his fingertips and he finds it hard to imagine that something so calming could create
such power. The pressure of the tube is slowly building, like a volcano about to erupt into an
overwhelming flow of red lava. The best part of the ride is still to come. The moment that he lives
for, the final rush of adrenaline, the climax of the surfing experience; the

Creative Writing: Fahrenheit 451
The bright red fire truck sped through the streets filled with uniform, pale grey colored houses.
The wheels skidded to a stop in front of a house that looked just like the others, as Beatty violently
pulled the brake backwards. The men went tumbling backwards, as if the truck had just hit a brick
wall in front of them. "We're here guys. Get out." Beatty screamed over the roar of the sirens, with
a devilish smile on his face. He turned to see Montag's blanched face, eyes wide and mouth gaping
with surprise. Beatty knew Montag would be surprised to see his very own house through the
windows of the fire truck. They stepped out of the truck together, and stared at the house as the other
firemen set up torches around the perimeter of the house. Neighbors from up and down the street
opened their doors and windows, ready to watch the marvelous show ahead....show more content...
The crowd around them took a step back, and Beatty felt like the quarry of the lion, set free in the
Colosseum to feast the eyes of the spectators. "Why did you do it Montag? Why did you steal
those books?" Beatty sneered. He noticed Montag tilt his head to the side, as if he was listening
to someone else talk. Beatty swung his hand into the side of Montag's face, the force of the hit
causing them both to stumble backwards. A small green object flew out his ear, and Beatty gently
picked it up of the ground and held it up to his ear. He smirked as Montag shouted in protest. A
quick glance at Montag's fingers revealed that he had unlocked the safety on the flamethrower.
"Way to draw an audience Montag. What will you do now?" Beatty taunted. "Recite some more
poetry? You're only going to get yourself killed." Montag lifted the gun and pointed it straight at
Beatty's face. Beatty took a step closer, smiled, and held out his

Creative Writing: The Rocket
"Wow, I hope that's me someday..." Bryan (the Rocket) Rockwood thought as he gazed upon a
wax mannequin of Wayne Gretzky holding the Stanley cup. Bryan and Ty were at a hockey hall
of fame museum fairly close to his home. "Wouldn't that be amazing?" Ty asked in awe. Rocket's
best friend were Ty and Adam. He was humongous, about 5 foot 9. Compared to Rocket he looked
like his older brother. Rocket guessed that he was about 5 feet tall. Rocket was very short. They
had all started playing for AAA Rangers hockey team 4 years ago, the year Rocket moved here.
Bryan moved here because his parents split up. It was tough because he rarely saw his dad, and his
mom worked almost 12 hours a day and got next to nothing. Nevertheless, she managed to pay for
his hockey. "I just want to see what's inside!"...show more content...
The Blues were against the AAA Rangers. "Here we go," he thought. The puck dropped. Bryan
hit it back before it hit the ground. The puck slid right to the stick of the Blues captain. The Blues
were up 4 to 3. Bryan blasted behind his own net. "Bring it," he said to himself. That was Ty,
Adam, and his old saying. The buzzer sounded to end the third period. It wasn't really as special
as Bryan had thought. As Bryan took off his skates he asked himself "Could there be more to life
than just hockey?" He knew the answer. He grabbed his sticks and yelled out "Good game guys!"
As he walked down the hallway, he noticed Barker and James the General Manager talking.
Barker saw him and immediately said "Bryan... I was wrong. Size isn't everything. I would like to
offer you a spot on the team before the regular season starts." Bryan replied "Actually... I think I'll
stay with the Blues. They are more hockey players than any of the Rangers. They helped me
figure out what a real hockey player is. They need me and I need them.... And by the way, I only
play for real coaches". Bryan turned his back and walked to his ride. "That felt good," he thought
"Yeah, Hockey isn't

Creative Writing: Gymnastics
Another hot and sweaty day spent in the gymnasium located in Carmel, Indiana. Zoella Carson is
practicing, yet again, for the dream she has always wanted, which is going to the Olympics.
Gymnastics has always been a huge factor in her life. Zoella started gymnastics around the age of 4,
in which she fell in love with the sport. Now, Zoella, is 16 years old and is enrolled in Carmel High
School. She is a very slim girl with light brown hair, green eyes, pearly white teeth, and a very pretty
olive–toned skin. Zoella has always been one of the most popular people in her grade. She is very
happy that she never stops smiling. Talking to her can be the highlight of your day because she is
always positive.
Day after day, Zoella goes to school and...show more content...
The doctor walks over to the table. In the background, you can hear the minimal sound of the
television. "Okay. Well, I have some bad news. The MRI showed anAnterior Cruciate Ligament
tear." speaks Dr. Anderson. "Will I ever be able to do gymnastics again or even go to the
Olympics?" sniffles Zoella. "I believe it is possible only if you believe in yourself and fight to
get back to the level that you once were. It's not going to be easy, but not everything goes as
planned. You did not want this to happen, but many athletes sustain injuries that hold them back
for weeks, months, years or even for the rest of their lives. I would like set up an operating room
to get you into surgery right away." explains the doctor. "Okay, thank you for everything you have
done so far. I'm just scared, you know? I'm scared that I won't be able to do what I love just
because of an injury." states Zoella. "Yes, definitely normal to feel the way you are right now. I
just received information that an operating room has just opened so I would like to get you in
there to make this process go faster. Well, goodbye and I will see you right before the procedure."
farewells Dr. Anderson. Zoella hopes that she will bounce back quickly from this injury to make her
dream a

Creative Writing: My Dream World
EDUCATION ACT 2050
FEMALES ARE PROHIBITED A FORMAL EDUCATION.
As I run, my feet kiss the soil and the wind caresses my skin and hair. My body is a raging fire;
my lungs are suffocating and my muscles feel as though they are melting, like ice cream on a
sunny day. However, with each step I progress towards the river. The pain is forgotten and like a
machine, I steadily place one foot in front of the other – thump, thump, thump. I am a bird: free,
independent and powerful. Finally I reach the endless expanse of water, tinged with hues of blue,
pink and orange – a mirror for the effervescent sky.
My mother used to tell me that learning was like running. It is a journey towards the beautiful,
ever–changing sea of knowledge. At times it is wearisome but in the long run, you progress:
intellectually, morally, and physically.
"Each drop of knowledge you obtain is more valuable than gemstones," she told me as we were
preparing Kabuli pulao for my youngest brother's first day at school.
Education is the key that freed my mother from the cage of child marriage, and allowed her to free
others too. She was a teacher of Rokhshana Girls School in our hometown, Kabul. Teaching was her
passion; even at home, she would chirp about literature and mathematics.
Often, she complained about families forcing their daughters to leave school. Sometimes she would
drown in a pool of depression, knowing that opportunities were being slashed, lifetimes were halved,
and the very act of living was to

Reflective Essay On Creative Writing
Learning to Create English 283 is a creative writing class. The class I took was taught by the
well–respected Dr. Stewart. She has dedicated a majority of her life to writing novels, poems and
short stories. What makes her writing unique is the careful details and moment capturing scenes she
constructs. Creative nonfiction is the bread and butter of writing. The stories or poems are soaking
with true facts and experiences. Aiming to create a bond within our class, Week Ones assignment
was to compose a letter of introduction. We as a class shared our strengths, weakness and what we
expect to gain from the class. This broke the ice for our class, making our transition into small
groups easier. Each week, I took baby steps towards...show more content...
Titled, 20 different ways to talk about creative nonfiction. I learned about back–story, factual vs
emotional truth, narrative tension and voice. These elements that carried me through the rest of the
semester. Moving into Weeks Five and Six, revision was the main focus. Revising of lines folded
into the reading of sounds and Sonics. Both very important to the finalization of a creative nonfiction
draft. Weeks 8–12 pushed the importance of drafts and revision strategies. Our small groups
started to meet at least once every week working to develop better drafts for our final portfolio. Our
creative piece should reflect our growth as a writer, using shape, structure, style, drafting and
revision as tools to create our own story. Dr. Stewart left us in confidence to pick whatever subjects
we wanted to write about. With all these skills learned, the most important step in creative nonfiction
is the research. Most of my research derived from our class readings. I paid close attention to the
writers approached there craft. Reading pieces out of writing true such as "The Role of Research"
and "Under the Influence". Had a huge impact on my learning. I began to understand the flow and
how to examine what I wanted to write about deeper. Without the influence of research, catching the
reader's emotional, imaginative and intellectual attention is extremely difficult. Having the correct
structure and research combination in

Creative Writing: Bomb Threat
During my freshman year at St. John's Prep, there was a rumour going around the school that there
was a bomb threat. At first, I did not believe that this was a real threat due to the calm and happy
nature of most students at our school. Once I had gotten the email from Dr. Hardiman, restating the
issue of the bomb threat, which most students and faculty already knew about. Dr. Hardiman also
stated that there would be an excused absence for anyone who did not feel it would be safe to attend
school that day. My mother, being a hard–nosed Albanian mother, told me that I would be fine and
that nothing would happen. On the other hand, I genuinely felt a little scared to go to school that
coming day. The bomb threat really shaped my worldview because prior to this event I had never
gone through a situation where I believed I could be put in a life–threatening position. I had always
thought that an event like the bomb threat could not happen to me, that it was just something I
would see on the news happening somewhere else from time to time. Generally, we as humans
believe that nothing bad could happen to us unless the situation was presented right there in front of
our eyes. We have this sense of immortality...show more content...
I was praying that nothing would happen and that everything would be alright. That was not even
the worst of the situation because coming back to school and having to deal with the idea that if he
did not do it that day, maybe today he would. In the beginning when the threat first came out, I had
realized that these things could happen to anyone, but then I realized that it could happen any time
as well. Seeing everyone down the halls with their clear backpacks could be humorous at times, but
in my mind I genuinely was scared that anything could

Depression Creative Writing
Depression
I feel depression creeping up my back like a spider crawling up my arm it's feel like my angel and
demon tugging on me telling pick a side one saying fall into depression and never come back and
another saying live for the day and be happy.
It's always war with myself on a mythical battle field filled with all the good i've felt and all the bad
i've felt and i'm losing but I will always
I feel alone my hearting sinking faster than the titanic rotting faster than a corpse my body weak
from the pressure of faking being happy or was I happy I can't tell anymore it all feels the same the
loneliness killing what's left of feeling like i'm not alone depression killing my happiness I know
there is joy to be found but i take...show more content...
The black flame born from it's own pain it tries to be like the rest but it all it does is cause more
pain and adds to its own though it knows what it did and realizes that others also say and do same
thing it will always blames itself. It begins to dim and die but it does not go out because it's
already dead but it's among the living. It does not know what it is it asks for help of others to
answer this question but even then it is abandoned so it's left to dim even lower with it's question.
Each flame was given a name when first lit, but this one shedded itself of it's name for it did not
want to be known of what he once was. He feeds off others hatred and disgust for him so that he
can remember his place and knows it does not deserve love and compassion of others. Who he is in
eyes of others is not who he is but when he is alone that's when he truly becomes who he is. This
black flame is me and it is who i am who I see the mirror is only but a shadow who I once was.
Ladies and gentlemen boys and girls that is the story of the black flame thank

My Passion For Creative Writing
Even as an elementary school student, I loved writing, reading, and telling stories. I wrote and
created short films with my friends and family, printed books I wrote and gave them to my
neighbors to read and review, and got excited whenever my teacher gave a writing assignment for
homework. I took inspiration from the people around me, topics we discussed in school, and other
works of literature I adored. Throughout my years, my skills have improved through hard work and
dedication. I feel that my application would not be complete if I did not share my passion for creative
writing.
When I was younger, writing was enjoyable because I had such a vast imagination that needed to
be put onto paper. I was writing daily and asked my parents to read books to me before bed each
night so I could brainstorm ideas for my stories. I loved going to the library and checking out the
books on the 'new releases' shelf. To this day, I write regularly. I still use my imagination to inspire
my stories, along with other works of literature and historical events. I also try to write in different
voices, genres, and points of view.
During my freshman year, I noticed that my school did not have a creative writing club, and so, with
the help of a peer, I founded the Creative Writing Club at my school. The club's goal was to help
young writers share and write new pieces. We would start each day with a prompt, write for ten
minutes, then share what we wrote with the group. We would also focus on a

Writing Creative Essays

Recommended

Recommended

More Related Content

More from College Paper Writing Service Reviews

More from College Paper Writing Service Reviews (20)

Recently uploaded

Recently uploaded (20)

Writing Creative Essays