Theres a Stranger in my Words :: Creative Writing Essays

Theres a Stranger in my WordsAs I cod here and stare at the MacI wonder who postures at my impale?If they knew what I writeWould they curse me and biteOr get weaving up some verbal attack? Well, as I liberty chit through the swirling, dirty dog filled sky of the Hagg-Sauer doorway, squeezing my eyes omit against the reflected sunlight, I thought about how I would approach this project. How to say what I need to say, without saying it in a way that has been said a thousand times, in a million-million words. The voices in my head struggle to outpouring to the paper, but theres this thing in between my thoughts and your eyes...my mind. Language that I would _never_ very use in speaking to someone seems to just flow, driven by some primal college survival instinct, from my fingertips when I sit down at the word-hatcher with an assignment in hand. This has be move into a real dilemma, as I now struggle for true expression and attempt to beat back the demons of 15 years worth of pr actice at the official style of writing. _I feel that I have become quite well adapted to writing the expression which has become the common coin of the realm at colleges and Universities._ I could sit here and write puffed up, stagnant, and wordy paragraph after paragraph, and close up hold the interest of many of my instructors. But that is not my desire...I seek to guiltless my muse from the shackles of formulae, the bondage of format, and the unrelenting ambiguity of the same old stuff. When does your _voice_, that amiable part of your writing which bridges topic and audience, become sensible and act? Is it when you _feel it_ working, when the point seems to be making its way onto the page or silver screen in front of you? Does it depend more on the person education the thing you gave them? If this is true, then our discussion begins to degenerate into the absurd... If the success of my writing comes from you, the reader, then I can never be sure of its effectiveness ah ead talking to you about it, can I? And if this is the case, then maybe it is beat out that there _is_ a fixed format to write into with college work. Pigeon holes, indeed And yet, when the smoke clears and the debris is swept away, sometimes I feel that the real me, my thoughts and feelings, come through onto the page.