I'm currently focusing my writing on essays for my English 101 course. I'll share an excerpt from one paper i wrote as a response to competitiveness in people as a response to the short story "Arm Wrestling with My Father"

"The competitive spirit has in many ways been the driving force behind many of society’s greatest achievements. This sheer determination to win, whether for survival, respect, or simply the feeling of accomplishment that often accompanies it, has led to many breakthroughs in our world. Some of these accomplishments have been great milestones in the history of man such as the Wright brothers enjoying the first powered flight or NASA putting a man on the moon. Others have been terrifying and dark spots on our proud history such as the creation of the atomic bomb. In a more personally significant way, the competitive spirit also leads us to build up respect for those we cannot hope to overcome, often creating invincible heroes in our heads, as is the case in the story. However, in almost all cases and forms of competitiveness, the changing of superiority leads to either a refueled desire to be the best, or a newfound respect and recognition for the party that passes us. "

Have any of you guys ever tried writing a screenplay or something? I'm trying my hand at it at the moment with a friend of mine who's written a few.

Yeah, I've written a few before. Not my favourite method of writing. That said though, I'm in the middle of working on a TV drama script, which is good for a laugh I guess.

A nice opening passage, a lot of truth in there. I wouldn't mind having a read of the final product in the near future.

I really enjoy writing so I'm hoping to start a personal project myself soon, I just need to brainstorm a few ideas and decide what direction I'd like to go. I've just graduated in biology, so I've been stuck writing scientifically, but I always tried to convey things with a flair for language which was often met with polar responses. Some academics found it too flowery, but some appreciated a welcome change from the standard student writing; blunt and to the point. Hey hum.

So yeah, we'll see.

I've written few, the method usually gets my brain flowing with ideas. It seems easier than story writing. But I prefer drawing immediately the story board, it makes me visualize the movie that I'm trying to write and usually direct.

I would do that if I knew how to draw. :(

Basically all I write are short word sketches of scenes, and I've already put my 2 best ones on this site (in "Veggielovers Journey into Lyrics and Poetry.") I could post them again in here if everyone wants, but it would be a bit redundant.

Other than that, i have a few short essays that I'm pretty proud of, but most of them aren't much good for leisure reading.

I'm interested in becoming a writer, but at this point, im looking more for help and critisism than i am worried about plagarism. That said, if you guys would be willing to read some of my more personal essays, I'd much appreciate any tips or critisisms.

So far. Give 0 **** about what has been posted. This was not the intention of the thread I haven't read your comments I'm sure they were wonderful. Here is something I've been working on, its full of holes, it helps if you've read Fahrenheit 451:

Mildred is placing one slice of bread over another topped with roast beef, onions, tomatoes, lettuce, and provolone, on a plate on the tile kitchen counter, when sheer energy tears her to shreds, and what remains of the house is a small pile of smoking, crumbling carbon in a smoldering, gray wasteland. The monotone scene blends to a sickly yellow hue. “Oh Jesus!”...
“Montag you alright?”
“Who? … Granger... yeah... yeah... just a nightmare.” The sun was just a splinter above and glistening off the puddle by the decrepit highway. Montag gets up from his mat on the grass and pisses on some bushes.
“We're cooking some oatmeal, do you want any?” Yells Granger.
“No thanks,” says Montag, and walks further to the stream. Montag imagines food wrappers and aluminum cans vaporizing in the nuclear blast, transmuting into this green, semi-viscous liquid. Below the opaque mask and scattered plastic, agitation free, lies a layer of ash. He presses his face close to the murkiness. A gleaming object transcends the grain. Montag dips his hand in the water and reaches into the ash and grain, as if an ice cream scooper, and lifts a golden locket and chain. Flipping it open, Montag scratches away a grimy photograph, and thinks of replacing it with leaves.
Montag gets back to the camp, where Yogurt wearing an enthused expression, giving a sermon in front of a seated crowd.
“I read a lot in a warehouse with sketchy kids hiding from firefighters. I find that getting in the zone where I can transmit books throws me back in that warehouse. I remember the glossy purple, designed, drum set they had, whose bass drum some piece of **** kicked and sat in. I can touch some old fart's face, feel the wrinkles like a split open tree.”
This sermon is bull****, Montag thinks, and decides to not feed Yogurt's fire by listening to his dribble.
“Hey Montag, come here a sec, I wanna introduce you to someone,” yells Granger, over by the picnic table left of the highway just shy of the woods.
“Montag, meet Hesus. He used to be a librarian, before the firefighters got him,” Granger says.
“M-M-Montag pleased to...” a blank expression of day dreaminess, drooping mouth, and saliva gathering at the lower lip, displaces Hesus's sentence.
“You too,” says Montag, and he reaches out to shake Hesus's hand. “Are you feeling okay?” Montag asks.
“Umm, Hesus was lobotomized by firefighters for librariating a grand book trade; he can recite books from his black market days, which is why we're gathered here today,” says Granger.

The recounting takes a turn for the worst. Gary's closed, placid expression explodes into widened eyes that stare with Dionysian fury at Montag's face; lips recoil, a deranged yell escapes his teeth.
“Oh ****,” yells Granger, “Hesus is freaking out, maybe he's re-experiencing his capture by the firefighters, watch your neck.”
“Leave me alone you stupid ****ing piiigs! You can burn books but spirit burns in me, ****eeers!” Hesus dashes into the woods and within meters is lost from sight. A high pitched scream drowns into a hiss.
“Ah, ****. I feared this might happen,” says Granger, “I think Hesus might still be experiencing the effects of a drug I administered to ease the recital. He'll most likely mellow out, though, when it wears off, if I had a dart gun I'd attempt to sedate him, but I don't, so I won't.” The others look around bummed.
Montag goes to sit under the highway, breathes in the wasted city on the horizon, reminds himself of his progress, looks up at the starry sky, wonders what, if any, was Mildred's concluding thought, and remembers the sandwich from the dream. He feels tired, lies on his mat, slipping easily into sleep.
The next morning Montag gets up and eats oatmeal with Grangers and the others. “Hey Montag, Hesus is going to tell us about his escape from the firefighters in a minute, he's in the woods now getting prepared,” Granger says.
“Word,” says Montag, hastening his munching to walk into the woods to a grassy clearing where Hesus is on a wooden chain in front of a small, seated group, housed by foliage.

This should be over yonder in the artist's corner.

Starting on a novel, a sword in sorcery yarn that satires high-fantasy epics and has more gothic and grizzled leanings. Escapist heroic fantasy with subjects a little too touchy for Salvatore and Tolkien. That and a drug-induced, surreal 70's exploitative romp thrown in for fun.