#wrirter

Why my theme is what it is:

I chose "Re:vealed" to reflect the psychological stand point of art and how, though beautiful, has a reason for its creation. Art is a from of expression. Painting, writing, singing, dance, music composition, and its sub-categories are its different languages. Laid bare and naked, displayed for the public eye. Inhibitions, hopes, dreams and insecurities allow all kinds of noses to peer into the soul of a fellow human. The "vealed" play on words is a paid tribute to my gorey interests in dissections, biology and true crime documentaries. An interest I did not share openly... until now.

How my writing changed or improved:

My writing this year had undergone a crazed metamorphosis filled with uncertainty, self-critisicm and mental breakdowns. I enetered grade 12 confident, my 93 in grade 11 English a badge of honour. It shone bright with achievement and Grade 12 Philosophy and Classical Civ only futher fueled my love for the craft. Flowery langauge and sophisticated synonyms were my forte. Now, I don't even know what my writing style is anymore. Though I do have weaknesses in my writing, Grade 12 English bruised more than my ego. It affected my anxiety and will to write. What was the point? I had to follow the writing style of a teacher I never had and who never taught me what they wanted. I tried to take what I could. I used their class as practise for univerity's hardships. But, when you have to write for a scholarship on the due day, finish an assignment for a writing class placed back-to-back to your morning's torture and study for an in class essay for said morning's torture, it becomes overwhelming. I recieved many complemets from peers and teachers for my writing, but I remian weary, thinking they only say those empty praises to be kind. Yet, Creative Writing has given me time to reflect. Writing was a way for me to express my personality. Creative Writing has helped that trait survive.

So, to summerize, my writing has been beaten, bloodied and exfoliated, but it’s in its training arc.

My most proud work of writing:

"Gaia's sorrow." A small, insignificant poem, but it garnered a lot of respect from my peers. It was one of our very first prompt assignments in class where paint swatches were handed to each table group. Each group was given a colour scheme at random and, under a time limit of 10 - 15 minutes, they had to come up with a poem collectively pieced together by each member. Our group, who was unfortunatelty seated in the "cursed corner" (eastablished by our teacher to be the corner where so many of her previous students continuously failed her courses) suffered in a panick. Art block graced us with its presence and we were oh so very screwed. We did not want to follow in the footsteps of our predecessors. Yet, as the timer tick-tocked closer to its end, a bomb ready to explode, we were still stuck. We scrambled to our notebooks, hopeful that whatever mumbo jumbo barfed itself onto our pages would turn into something nice- In the blink of an eye, it was time to present. Our entire class was finished their prompt. We hadn't even started. So, in 2 superhuman seconds, I collaborated our last minute random sentence ideas into a coherent poem and had finished right when it was our turn to present. Our poem was one of the class favourites. Since then, my close school friend, Ronald, would not stop asking me "what I was" and that, by the end of the semester, he would figure me out. I laughed so hard. It was the best compliment because, as an artist who hates her art every single time she stares at it, I felt my work was actually... good.

Though not much had been written and though it wasn't a long or intricate piece of literature (like my slam poem and short story), "Gaia's Sorrow" was the most sentimental and impactful piece to me. My most proud work of writing.

My personal mark out of 100:

I don’t know whether to be humble or proud. When asked to complement myself, I shy away, thinking it’s an act of sinful pride. If I beat myself down for a quality that is truly admirable, I may come to believe those negatives as reality.

The mark I’d give my writing is not high. I like it (my writing), but it (my writing) needs improvement. I compare myself a lot to others and grades are the most common comparisons of both status and intelligence. I find my writing has undergone too much change in such a short time (to the point where I notice nothing but the flaws) so I cannot help but rate my summative an 80/100.

My writing is:

Too chaotic (as seen with my blog)

too many run-on sentences and allusions and bubbly words overtake credability and actual information.

Dull/lackluster (seen with my imagism poems)

The lines could have been strung together with more movement and grace to convey the images more beautifully, but they stand vague and rigid. They do not explaning the settings on an emiotion level. They state the obvious like a formal essay.

Too cut up. Fluidity was a case thrown out the window (seen with my slam poem)

Obvious and abrupt cut-offs. I tried to relay the different sides to depression (body dismorphia, the unknowingness of having depression, food disorders, suicidal thoughts, joyful exteriors, numbness, etc.) but they do not transfer into eachother well (AKA the sections do not flow together as one poem. Instead, when both read and performed, the poem clearly sounds cut up).