Narration: A Writer
A substitute English teacher- whom I wish I could remember her name-(apostrophe) said to me as I walked out the door,
“So you see the trees despite the forest, I admire that about you.”
Then she smiled, a smile that forged a temporary bound between us, a smile that brought instant mutual understanding, a smile that was meant for me (anaphora).
A million things buzzed through my head (hyperbole). All day I pondered and thought and contemplated and deliberated and reflected upon the meaning of that simple phrase (polysyndeton). I believe that the reason it struck me as peculiar was that I was ordinary; I was just a kid in the seventh grade, got ok grades, and was not anything in particular to take notice of. However, here, the stand in (epithet), told me it was i who took notice of things, i who was different, and i whom she admired. Something compelled me to write about this experience, for the first time I was called to a piece of paper, it was an obsession, a compulsion, a need, a mind consumer (brachylogia). When I finally wrote about what happened, for the second time that day something occurred that never did, it was good.
From then on I thrived on exploring, thinking, and writing (parallelism). I slowly transformed into Alex: English teacher’s treasure, crafter of consonants, the wonder with words (alliteration and scesis onomaton). I slowly became someone I liked, someone more confident, dare I say a writer?
Description: What a Writer Does
A pen is a rather marvelous little contraption if one takes the time to look at it. On the surface it appears simple, to the untrained eye it is merely plastic, ink, and a cap. However, upon closure inspection on the piece that wrote a thousand tales (circumlocution), it is actually a stroke of genius (pun). A pen is small, easy to carry-for the great American novel can be conjured anywhere-(parenthesis) it is stamped, it knows where it comes from; it knows its purpose from its makers. It has a cap, sealing itself away till it is needed, blending into the rest of the world, not spreading its ink unnecessarily. The ink itself flows easily from the pen like the writer’s brain easily conjures up flowing ideas (simile). A pen’s tip is sharp and pointed, rather dangerous actually, if stabbed into someone it could cause some serious bodily harm, the pen really is as mighty as the sword (metonymy).
I myself want to be a pen as an English major. I am not commanded to write, I write to command (chiasmus). The world needs to take notice of the small things, the delicate little details that make something great, such as, for examples sake, a pen. Writing inspires me because I can make others see the significance in the normal, the boldness of the plain, the sheer beauty of the pen (conceit and parallelism).
Example: How can we not all be writers?
With the vast amount of literature in print, I can’t fathom why everyone is not a writer. Take George Orwell for instance, he writes with such assurance, such certainty, such purpose (anaphora). He writes to expose lies, unveil truths, and bring about epiphanies. Every little boy out there has tried to inform their grand discovery that women really are from mars. Why on earth would they not want to expose the same truths through writing (rhetorical question)? Why aren’t persons that are obsessive, neat freaks, and detail oriented like doctors writers? They could be similar to Annie Dillard, taking something seemingly insignificant and turning it into a lengthy description detailing every nook and cranny. For those persons headstrong and rebellious they could aspire to be Jessica Mitford, who ripped apart the North American funeral procession (allusion). Truly, for every mind (epithet) there is a style.
While I can’t understand why everyone else isn’t a writer, I know with great certainty that is the field I am called to. I want to take thoughts into words; words into sentences; sentences into pages; and pages again to thoughts (anadiplosis). Writing is the written form of the world and I want to be the one to help craft it. I want to be the expose, provoke, detail, notify, incite, inflame (brachylogia and parallelism), or anything else I am called to do by the pen (metonymy).
Definition: A Writer is…
A writer is someone who records reality. A mind full of words (circumlocution) scans the world around them and picks and chooses a specific way to craft the written. A writer has to be quite – not in nature or volume-(parenthesis) but he or she must be able to be still in the world, to observe. A writer must be meticulous, great attention to detail must be called to even the simplest of things. A writer must realize that everything is important, nothing insignificant. Writers are silent and deafening (oxymoron). No sound is required to make them heard. Writers realize the power of their words, they speak articulately, they write purposely (parallelism). Writers tell the issues, writers tell the important; writers often tell of what is unimportant in order to arouse a change (anaphora). Writers record their own lives and the existence of others, they record precious emotions. They tell equally of the write and the wrong (pun and alliteration). Writers also never stop learning, they continue on, get degrees, write novels, essay, journals, articles, reports, manuscripts, stories, and textbooks(brachylogia). All being said, I am a writer.
Compare/ Contrast: Writers vs. Everyone Else
This world is home to two sets of people: people who talk and people who write. The talkers find themselves stumbling into a rant, their purpose: to express their own opinions and hear themselves speak. For them there is no depth in situations, it is what it is (allusion). Talkers often question their own purpose in their thoughts and actions, and life (polysyndeton); they constantly feel something is missing. Talkers often read as little as possible because they have no desire to understand complex situations. Talkers toil as little as possible; push themselves they do not (anastrophe).
Writer’s, by contrast, are intricate individuals. Nothing, nothing is to be taken at face value. There is always another layer to be chipped away. Writers have a purpose in what they say, they know exactly why they say things; also, in anticipation of what people hear them, they write accordingly. Writers read like maniacs, thriving on the situation complex. Writer’s push themselves daily, to think better, to write better, to understand better (epistrophe and parallelism).
Writers, the greatest of all beings (apostrophe): the grammar gremlins, sentence slicers, and steadfast storytellers (scesis onomaton and alliteration). I myself possess the ladder qualities; A writer’s life fits me; I write to be complex, I am complex because I write (chiasmus). I also wish to lead the life of a writer through higher learning of the English language, learning to decipher this thing called life and to question it all the more.
Process Analysis: The Life of a Writer
The lives of writers- my life- unfold in a similar fashion: writers are frequently born. Signs of the brain programmed to question (circumlocution) are first visible when rules are introduced. The writer will question why; why can’t I do this, why must I, why is this rule in place (anaphora)? The answer just because will infuriate the writer, even at this young age they know they is always a reason. The writer will obviously take an early interest in books. They want to read, it becomes exciting for them (litotes). At the tender age of grade fifth (anastrophe) or so they start experimenting with poetry and short stories, in a world just beginning to unravel, they find consistency in print. The writer begins – of their own will of course – (parenthesis) to jot things down in a notebook; Ideas, thoughts, notions, observations, peculiarities, normalcy, all written down. In high school, a certain aptitude for analytical writing starts to show its metaphoric head (allusion). The writer begins to enjoy studying fellow writers, attempting to better their own skills. Higher learning takes place, AP, which confirms the future they have been practicing all their life, writing. Completion of college, mastery in a PHD, and publication of a few books (amplification), the writer has changed perspective for those around them. Their readers as well as their friends have seen the deeper, abstract side of the world. Death comes easy; they know there is always more, and they live through their work forever more (epistrophe).
Division: What makes a good Writer
Writers possess a striking similarity to the very hand they use to craft their words (conceit). The human hand is able to adjust its strength to the situation; it can be tender, dangerous, crushing, supportive, firm, persuasive, and suggestive (brachylogia), anything the brain tells it to be, the hand can mold and accomplish. Hands possess an innumerable amount of small and delicate details, the oblong shape of the knuckles and the pearl-like smoothness of finger nails and the random tiny brown dots-no doubt the mark of creation (allusion/ parenthesis)- and the deep valley creases of the skin (polysyndeton). Hands push and pull, they are convincing; they can lead a lover or strike a foe. Human hands are blessed with one extension most creatures are a not: a thumb. The thumb, the abnormality, the accommodator, the godsend (scesis onomaton). A thumb is able to move and function in ways unknown to the rest of the fingers. Hands also get manicures, cleaning, polishing, bettering, and tweaking their tool of the trade (alliteration) Good writers are like human hands; they mold like hands, they are detailed like hands, they are convincing like hands, they function differently like hands, they strive to be better like hands (anaphora).
Cause/ Effect: It’s her Fault I am a Writer
Quite simply put, it is my grandmother’s fault that I am a writer. Wrinkled hands and outdated glasses (synecdoche) felt it absolutely necessary that I was read to, daily. As I child I enjoyed such grand works of literature like Clifford, Bambi, Peter Cottontail, Aladdin, The Little Engine that Could, and Goldie Locks(brachylogia). Subsequently, I would beg that she read these tales over and over and over. And, without complaint, master matriarch (epithet) read them again as many times as I wished -even if that meant repeating it nearly twenty times-(parenthesis). Around the second grade my grandma forced me to read on my own, and I stumbled over my words with her carefully guiding me in pronunciation. But did she stop there? Absolutely not. For Christmas in grade fifth (anastrophe) she bought me a blessed notebook and an easily gliding ballpoint pen. She encouraged me to write my own stories and became excited when I would read to her. Seeing that I had some talent for the written rhetoric, grandma also made me promise that I would write at least one book in my life time (periodic sentence). She also repeatedly emphasized with passion like a preacher (simile, alliteration) that I must get an English degree in college.