What are you Writing now?

NumberNineDream · 10-19-2009, 03:19 PM

In feature movies there's a group of storyboard makers. They just help the director to keep up with his story, and for the others to visualize it. But when you're doing it to yourself, I don't think visualizing it is a problem.

Malicious Wakizashi · 10-19-2009, 03:53 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by NumberNineDream

But when you're doing it to yourself, I don't think visualizing it is a problem.

that sounds like a reference to masturbation. seriously i think a difficulty you'd run into is representing 3-d.

VeggieLover · 10-19-2009, 05:04 PM

K here's my personal essay... its very much personal so please criticize the writing itself and not so much the content...thx!

The air is heavy and old, as if it had been used up years ago and never freshened by even one green plant. Darkness pushes itself down upon my every limb, every inch of skin, weighing down upon me heavier than six feet of earth. I open and close my eyes, or at least, I think I do, but it changes nothing. My fingertips trace the grain of the wood directly above me, only inches from my face, and find the decaying threads of the satin lining. How did I let this happen? I thought I was doing so well, but here am I still. What now is the cost?

Allow me to introduce myself. I am a realist with idealistic tendencies, an optimistic cynic, a reclusive socialite, and a hippy whose favorite color is black. In the folds of these many paradoxes, I comfortably make my existence. I’ve always made good marks in school, but getting an “A” has never been the most important thing. The quest for knowledge, its sharing and application, is what drives me to get up each morning, and if trends continue as they have been, I’m fairly good at it.

I think it may at this point be apparent that as a youngster I was considered – Gasp! – weird. My dad and I were kindred spirits. I shared his love for knowledge, art, expression, and especially debate. We looked the same, with our wildly curly hair – though mine was admittedly less red – and glasses. But as you may have guessed, writing in the past tense as I am, fate or God or Divine Purpose took him from us. My Daddy passed away suddenly in September (fall, our favorite season) from melanoma skin cancer when I was only nine years old. Now, before this takes on the common appearance of a pity party, let me explain how this affected my life.

I of course went through the initial stages of grief: shock, sadness, despair. But at nine years old, it’s hard to be sad. When the adults are wailing, what is a child to do but return to her stuffed animals? So I tucked away my sadness and proceeded to enjoy what I now remember as my favorite elementary year. “Oh she’s handling it so well,” they may have said. Well, let me be the first to tell you: I wasn’t.

The summer after my freshman year of high school my parents (my mom remarried when I was in sixth grade) sent me to counseling to deal with unresolved grief asserting itself through self-destructive behavior. Unfortunately, those who do not wish to be helped will not willingly receive aid. Still, I managed to improve, and by second semester of my sophomore year I had all my old friends back and had been asked to be a singer in a band. To you, oh fellow band members, I give my infinite thanks! Music and those who carried it to me were the final tug out of my destructive cesspool. Or were they?

Anyone who says to you “I am complete,” is lying. On the private stage of my life, I like to consider myself a profound person, sometimes to the point of inflating my head to such a size that I can barely fit through the door. I am not a haughty person by any means, but I’m still learning that people have more to teach me than I could ever possibly share with them. I want to learn in the big wide world, somewhere beyond the small town environment I grew up in. I’m fighting my youth, and it takes constant reminding that I’m only sixteen and have a ways to grow yet.

About a week past, my step-dad had a conversation with me. I listened, but it was hard to hear what he had to say. In all the years that I’ve been growing personally, making bounds forward and often falling back, I have neglected one of the biggest parts of self – nay! - the root of self. I’ve spent so many hours and stained diary pages trying to figure out who I am independent of family that I’m beginning to get a bruised forehead from running into that very obvious, but very hard to acknowledge, brick wall. After all, who can fail to see how much I resemble my dad, in my habits, speech, and appearance? When he died, I delved unto myself a bigger blow than my frame could handle. I lost not only a father, but a family as well.

Well, I’m done with it. I’ve scabbed my knees too many times to give up learning to ride the bike, and let me tell you, I am determined to learn if nothing else in this world. The writing of this essay is done at a time when I am girding the loins of my heart for a long, and likely painful, journey. Hither to I have kept my life on loose leaf, now I hope to obtain the means to bind it into a book. I refuse to be the child who leaves home and only calls on Christmas. I’ve spent too long avoiding pain to know what living really looks like without it. I will cease to be a corpse wallowing in musty pain and breathing the same rancid air any longer. My family and friends deserve better than that; the memory of my Daddy deserves better; I deserve better.

All this time I thought I knew who I was, but when you bury yourself in clay, who are you but the living dead? Well, zombies awaken, because it’s time to unseal the coffin.

My fingernails find the grooves of the lid and fight the confinement that has been mine. This lid must come off! Suddenly, fresh air graces my lungs and sunshine chases away the clinging dark. It is so much lighter here in the world than I ever imagined it could be. Thank you Daddy! I miss you; but thank you for making me who I am.

“The walls we build around us to keep sadness out also keep out the joy.”
-Jim Rohn

Malicious Wakizashi · 10-19-2009, 05:18 PM

too whiny. too much exposition.

VeggieLover · 10-19-2009, 05:23 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Malicious Wakizashi

too whiny. too much exposition.

I'm going to ignore the whiny comment for now until i get a second opinion just because its you.

But how can there be too much exposition?? its a personal essay for crying out loud.

boo boo · 10-22-2009, 03:44 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Malicious Wakizashi

too whiny. too much exposition.

Did you make this thread specifically to insult other people's work?

NumberNineDream · 10-22-2009, 04:32 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by boo boo

Did you make this thread specifically to insult other people's work?

more to insult anyone that doesn't comment on what he wrote.

Fruitonica · 10-22-2009, 09:56 PM

I'm not writing anything at the moment, I merely fall asleep mulling over all the novels I could be writing. I sort of miss the motivation school gave me to write.

Out of curiosity, what's the longest piece of fiction you've all written? I've never gone beyond a ten thousand word short story. Any of you actually half way through a book or something?

Quote:

Originally Posted by Malicious Wakizashi

Here is something I've been working on, its full of holes, it helps if you've read Fahrenheit 451:

I missed this the first time around, was completely bewildered. With that in mind I actually kind of liked it. It doesn't really have much impact without a proper ending.

Malicious Wakizashi · 10-23-2009, 05:10 PM

Essentially, I'd like to formulate a comparative essay of ideas of, give or take, Fichte, Schelling, Hegel, and Kierkegaard, comparing their philosophical systems to that of Zen Buddhism and n thingness. Hegel is omitted from this list as I may include him out of readings for class.

Fichte, Johann Gottlieb. Foundations of transcendental philosophy (Wissenschaftslehre) nova methodo (1796/99). Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1992. Print.
How does the law of reflection relate to Sartre's concept of Anguish?
Does the ability to lobotomize or place in a coma refute that freedom is the foundation of all being? What about being vegetated? Is such an individual still free in his/her own mind and is there any way to relate such an experience? If not, should it be disregarded and we can assume all being is free?
What precisely does Fichte mean by intuition?
Freedom leads to consciousness leads to truth. Truth is transcendent because it is dialectic either within one or multiple consciousnesses and is certain only in so far as it results from a moment of genuine inwardness.
Does Fichte suppose freedom an objective force?
Is being free if being is being brainwashed?

Fichte, Johann G. The Vocation of Man. Ed. Roderick M. Chisholm. Indianapolis: The Bobbs-Merril Company, Inc., 1956. Print.

Kierkegaard, Søren. Fear and Trembling and The Sickness Unto Death. Trans. Walter Lowrie. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1954. Print.
The concept of faith set forth by Kierkegaard's Christian system mirrors Fichte's as Fichte supposes all being is in vreiheid whereas Kierkegaard supposes it to be in God.
Does Fichte's statement that we can only think discursively translate to a claim that we are only infinite beings? Or does it simply mean that all thinking is infinite as a self-dialectic?
Does Fichte burrow in the infinite benefaction of despair? Does he neglect despair through a system on freedom?

Žižek, Slavoj. The Abyss of Freedom/Ages of the World. Ann Arbor, Mich: University of Michigan, 1997. Print.

NumberNineDream · 10-24-2009, 10:58 AM

too whiny. too much exposition.

10-19-2009, 03:19 PM	#51 (permalink)
NumberNineDream Blue Bleezin' Blind Drunk Join Date: Jul 2009 Location: The land of the largest wine glass (aka Lebanon) Posts: 2,200	In feature movies there's a group of storyboard makers. They just help the director to keep up with his story, and for the others to visualize it. But when you're doing it to yourself, I don't think visualizing it is a problem. __________________ Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?Do bats eat cats? Do bats eat cats? Do bats eat cats? Do bats eat cats? Do bats eat cats?Do bats eat cats?Do bats eat cats?Do bats eat cats? Do bats eat cats? Do bats eat cats? Do bats eat cats?Do bats eat cats?Do bats eat cats? Do bats eat cats? Do bats eat cats? Welcome to the Black Lodge

10-19-2009, 05:04 PM	#53 (permalink)
VeggieLover Music?! Lets boogie! Join Date: Jul 2009 Location: CO Posts: 215	K here's my personal essay... its very much personal so please criticize the writing itself and not so much the content...thx! The air is heavy and old, as if it had been used up years ago and never freshened by even one green plant. Darkness pushes itself down upon my every limb, every inch of skin, weighing down upon me heavier than six feet of earth. I open and close my eyes, or at least, I think I do, but it changes nothing. My fingertips trace the grain of the wood directly above me, only inches from my face, and find the decaying threads of the satin lining. How did I let this happen? I thought I was doing so well, but here am I still. What now is the cost? Allow me to introduce myself. I am a realist with idealistic tendencies, an optimistic cynic, a reclusive socialite, and a hippy whose favorite color is black. In the folds of these many paradoxes, I comfortably make my existence. I’ve always made good marks in school, but getting an “A” has never been the most important thing. The quest for knowledge, its sharing and application, is what drives me to get up each morning, and if trends continue as they have been, I’m fairly good at it. I think it may at this point be apparent that as a youngster I was considered – Gasp! – weird. My dad and I were kindred spirits. I shared his love for knowledge, art, expression, and especially debate. We looked the same, with our wildly curly hair – though mine was admittedly less red – and glasses. But as you may have guessed, writing in the past tense as I am, fate or God or Divine Purpose took him from us. My Daddy passed away suddenly in September (fall, our favorite season) from melanoma skin cancer when I was only nine years old. Now, before this takes on the common appearance of a pity party, let me explain how this affected my life. I of course went through the initial stages of grief: shock, sadness, despair. But at nine years old, it’s hard to be sad. When the adults are wailing, what is a child to do but return to her stuffed animals? So I tucked away my sadness and proceeded to enjoy what I now remember as my favorite elementary year. “Oh she’s handling it so well,” they may have said. Well, let me be the first to tell you: I wasn’t. The summer after my freshman year of high school my parents (my mom remarried when I was in sixth grade) sent me to counseling to deal with unresolved grief asserting itself through self-destructive behavior. Unfortunately, those who do not wish to be helped will not willingly receive aid. Still, I managed to improve, and by second semester of my sophomore year I had all my old friends back and had been asked to be a singer in a band. To you, oh fellow band members, I give my infinite thanks! Music and those who carried it to me were the final tug out of my destructive cesspool. Or were they? Anyone who says to you “I am complete,” is lying. On the private stage of my life, I like to consider myself a profound person, sometimes to the point of inflating my head to such a size that I can barely fit through the door. I am not a haughty person by any means, but I’m still learning that people have more to teach me than I could ever possibly share with them. I want to learn in the big wide world, somewhere beyond the small town environment I grew up in. I’m fighting my youth, and it takes constant reminding that I’m only sixteen and have a ways to grow yet. About a week past, my step-dad had a conversation with me. I listened, but it was hard to hear what he had to say. In all the years that I’ve been growing personally, making bounds forward and often falling back, I have neglected one of the biggest parts of self – nay! - the root of self. I’ve spent so many hours and stained diary pages trying to figure out who I am independent of family that I’m beginning to get a bruised forehead from running into that very obvious, but very hard to acknowledge, brick wall. After all, who can fail to see how much I resemble my dad, in my habits, speech, and appearance? When he died, I delved unto myself a bigger blow than my frame could handle. I lost not only a father, but a family as well. Well, I’m done with it. I’ve scabbed my knees too many times to give up learning to ride the bike, and let me tell you, I am determined to learn if nothing else in this world. The writing of this essay is done at a time when I am girding the loins of my heart for a long, and likely painful, journey. Hither to I have kept my life on loose leaf, now I hope to obtain the means to bind it into a book. I refuse to be the child who leaves home and only calls on Christmas. I’ve spent too long avoiding pain to know what living really looks like without it. I will cease to be a corpse wallowing in musty pain and breathing the same rancid air any longer. My family and friends deserve better than that; the memory of my Daddy deserves better; I deserve better. All this time I thought I knew who I was, but when you bury yourself in clay, who are you but the living dead? Well, zombies awaken, because it’s time to unseal the coffin. My fingernails find the grooves of the lid and fight the confinement that has been mine. This lid must come off! Suddenly, fresh air graces my lungs and sunshine chases away the clinging dark. It is so much lighter here in the world than I ever imagined it could be. Thank you Daddy! I miss you; but thank you for making me who I am. “The walls we build around us to keep sadness out also keep out the joy.” -Jim Rohn __________________ "Not remotely! Because iocaine comes from Australia, as everyone knows. And Australia is entirely peopled with criminals. And criminals are used to having people not trust them as you are not trusted by me, so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you." Last edited by VeggieLover; 10-29-2009 at 05:03 PM. Reason: Fixed some stuff :)

10-19-2009, 05:18 PM	#54 (permalink)
Malicious Wakizashi Music Addict Join Date: Apr 2008 Posts: 203	too whiny. too much exposition. __________________ . ..a love sour ... ..a diesel supreme http://soundcloud.com/stoondtje-jupiter http://soundcloud.com/couldnthaveaparadesoimad

10-23-2009, 05:10 PM	#59 (permalink)
Malicious Wakizashi Music Addict Join Date: Apr 2008 Posts: 203	Essentially, I'd like to formulate a comparative essay of ideas of, give or take, Fichte, Schelling, Hegel, and Kierkegaard, comparing their philosophical systems to that of Zen Buddhism and n thingness. Hegel is omitted from this list as I may include him out of readings for class. Fichte, Johann Gottlieb. Foundations of transcendental philosophy (Wissenschaftslehre) nova methodo (1796/99). Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1992. Print. How does the law of reflection relate to Sartre's concept of Anguish? Does the ability to lobotomize or place in a coma refute that freedom is the foundation of all being? What about being vegetated? Is such an individual still free in his/her own mind and is there any way to relate such an experience? If not, should it be disregarded and we can assume all being is free? What precisely does Fichte mean by intuition? Freedom leads to consciousness leads to truth. Truth is transcendent because it is dialectic either within one or multiple consciousnesses and is certain only in so far as it results from a moment of genuine inwardness. Does Fichte suppose freedom an objective force? Is being free if being is being brainwashed? Fichte, Johann G. The Vocation of Man. Ed. Roderick M. Chisholm. Indianapolis: The Bobbs-Merril Company, Inc., 1956. Print. Kierkegaard, Søren. Fear and Trembling and The Sickness Unto Death. Trans. Walter Lowrie. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1954. Print. The concept of faith set forth by Kierkegaard's Christian system mirrors Fichte's as Fichte supposes all being is in vreiheid whereas Kierkegaard supposes it to be in God. Does Fichte's statement that we can only think discursively translate to a claim that we are only infinite beings? Or does it simply mean that all thinking is infinite as a self-dialectic? Does Fichte burrow in the infinite benefaction of despair? Does he neglect despair through a system on freedom? Žižek, Slavoj. The Abyss of Freedom/Ages of the World. Ann Arbor, Mich: University of Michigan, 1997. Print. __________________ . ..a love sour ... ..a diesel supreme http://soundcloud.com/stoondtje-jupiter http://soundcloud.com/couldnthaveaparadesoimad Last edited by Malicious Wakizashi; 10-30-2009 at 07:20 PM.

10-24-2009, 10:58 AM	#60 (permalink)
NumberNineDream Blue Bleezin' Blind Drunk Join Date: Jul 2009 Location: The land of the largest wine glass (aka Lebanon) Posts: 2,200	too whiny. too much exposition. __________________ Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?Do bats eat cats? Do bats eat cats? Do bats eat cats? Do bats eat cats? Do bats eat cats?Do bats eat cats?Do bats eat cats?Do bats eat cats? Do bats eat cats? Do bats eat cats? Do bats eat cats?Do bats eat cats?Do bats eat cats? Do bats eat cats? Do bats eat cats? Welcome to the Black Lodge