Ed Narrative: Building A Writer by Burning Her Book

     Writing is different for everyone. For some, it’s an expression of self, a lens through which to show others the world as you see it. For others, it is a droll, painful task, best to be avoided at all costs. But no matter the fashion through which you see writing, the process through which your writing develops can be unpredictable, and more often than not, harsh. Writing for me began at age eight, quietly sitting in the oversized chair in my family’s living room. Slowly I henpecked my way through a sentence, then a paragraph, then a chapter. From that moment on, writing was in my blood. It became the deepest particle of my self-expression and I wrote constantly. My skill slowly and tenderly improved, fleshing out as my mind—and the word I saw—grew. It was not, however, till five years later that my writing was truly tested, and through that testing, jumpstarted into genuine maturity. This process took place in a world some writers never know or touch—the world of online writing. Surprisingly—or perhaps not—the feature of this environment that truly affected me was not the friendship, support and compliments I received there, but the brutality of the criticism that was the very backbone of the domain. The things I learned there are some of the most significant of my writing career.

            I was introduced to the website by a friend. She talked often and animatedly about not only the website and the content she posted there, but also about the Veritas, an exclusive group of writers she looked up to, and had been inducted into, as the website lingo went, a newbie.

I eventually joined, and with her help, I was accepted into the world of the Veritas. It was through this exclusive group, and the forum they hosted, that my writing first began its slow, painful climb to higher reaches. The online writing world is viscous, cruel and exceptionally creative in the expression of both characteristics. The Veritas were no exception; they had charged themselves with the care and up-keeping of the website, holy battalion in the face of literary pollution and dedicated slayers of clichés and Mary Sue's. Their weapon of choice was a process ‘fondly’ known as flaming. In principle, flaming is fairly simple as it has only one goal: destruction. A critique so cutting, graphic and cruel the author of the piece in question would be utterly crushed, and hopefully, sufficiently encouraged to never, ever write again. In composition, a flame has a wide range of possibilities. Some are short and concise, others far reaching, extensive and graphic. Among the Veritas community, your general standing on the forum and the respect you garnered by fellow members was based on two things; writing skill and your ability to flame. Those with a creative and original talent for flaming quickly scaled the ladders of standing and respect in the community, held in high esteem and often complimented and discussed by fellow members. Posting lists of targeted 'flammable' stories on the forum and encouraging fellows to add their own flame to the growing inferno was by no means uncommon.
            As a young writer myself, my introduction to this kind of highly critical and volatile environment was both intriguing and terrifying.  I became obsessed with the condition of my own spelling and grammar, spell-checking everything I posted twice and rereading everything for grammatical errors, terrified that the people that I looked up to would turn their considerable violence on me if I showed even a hint of weakness. This obsessive condition, while perhaps not the best way to learn, quickly and efficiently shaped me up. I forced myself to memorize and execute the grammar skills I was obsessively checking for. First, the proper use of your, you’re, they’re, their, then the proper use (and length) of an ellipse, and so the list went on… Eventually, the proper use of all of these became second nature. Next was spelling. As someone who reads as an addiction rather than simply recreationally, I have a large vocabulary. Unfortunately, spelling has never come naturally to me. I had to sound out words and then use those phonic versions to memorize spelling, often coming up with cheesy rhymes that helped me remember how the word was spelled rather than how it sounded. Eventually, I was polished and shiny, inculpable to even the most vicious and nit-picking of the Veritas. But in that online world, I was in no measure safe. Not by a long shot…

            The first time I got flamed is one I will never forget. It not only shaped my writing, but shaped my attitude for the future. The obsessive skills I had learned from my time on the forum were just as important in the creative writing that I posted. My grammar and spelling were spotless. I even had close friends read over my work before I even considered posting. So, when I say that the things I had up on the website were—to me at the least—irreproachable, perhaps you understand my meaning. The specific story in question was one of particular pride for me. It was no secret that I was at least three years junior to many of my fellow Veritas, and because of this I feared my ideas would be considered immature, my vocabulary lacking in comparison to older readers. To combat this, I created stories original, daring, and graphic. Where many of my fellow writers wrote humor or romance, I created chilling tales of unfortunate events, never fearing to stint on blood and gore, but balancing my creation with intriguing characters and moments of black comedy I’m surprised I possessed at the tender age of 13. This piece was no exception. It was violent, scary, and distinctly tragic. I was proud and glowing from the flow of praise that came in from my Verita friends. I checked the comments daily looking for more praise, more boosts to my burgeoning writer’s ego.  So when my eyes landed on the flame, sitting dark and hot in the midst of the rosy praise that occupied the majority of my page, it was like a kick in the gut.

I remember feeling sick and embarrassed, my former pride seeming a farce in the face of some stranger’s words. It hurt. Up to that point, the only people who had ever read my writing were my family and my friends. And yes, I counted the Veritas as my friends. Not at first, no, but it became that way. So while at the time I still dreaded their disdain, looking back I understand I wouldn’t have gotten any. They’d call me on it if I made a mistake—and occasionally they had to—but they’d do it kindly. Because of this I’d been rather, well, babied. The cruel reality of being a writer is that no matter how good you get, someone will hate what you write. I was as of yet unaware of such a reality. My writers skin was fragile and tender, my ego bloated and my mind devoid of any possibility that anyone would even think to insult me.  My writing was good. I knew that to the depths of my soul, hadn’t even an inkling of doubt. Because of this, I was unable to react properly or maturely to the insult. I couldn’t take it in stride. I couldn’t separate an insult to my writing from an insult to myself.  It felt so personal. My first instinct was to delete the entire story. Even the many compliments of the people I actually respected seemed inconsequential in comparison. That quick, I was convinced I’d created a horrific literary disaster.
             So how did this affect me in the long run?  At the time, I could hardly see past my humiliation, but looking back I realize that the flame was one of the most important things that ever happened to me as a writer. See, as the pain and embarrassment faded, I came to realize that my writing as a whole didn’t suck, and perhaps more importantly, that who I was and what my writing was, however connected the two felt to me, would appear as different entities to others. Perhaps most importantly, the event gave me a backbone. Today I have the thick skin any good writer knows to build. I can protect myself and my all-important writer’s confidence. I can take advice without getting defensive or hurt. I can understand that my writing won’t reach everyone. I know that some people will despise the words that still feel so personal and integral to me. All of these thing are because once upon a time, in a dark corner of the internet, the girl I was had her confidence crushed. Though I know I’ll never meet them, I secretly thank that witty, mean stranger for their harsh words, because without them, I wouldn’t be the writer I am today.

           All in all, my time on the website and the Veritas forum was one of the most difficult, fun, and constructive experiences I’ve ever had in my writing career. I was able to connect with other writers, become part of an exclusive society, and improve one of the most basic things every writer needs—good grammar. I learned how to avoid clichés and the hated Mary Sue. I learned to take an insult. I learned that an insult doesn’t make a compliment untrue, but that it can still contain constructive information. I got a thicker skin, and everyday, I’m thankful for that. I would never take back my time on the forum, nor the harsh words, or the stress or the paranoia. In the long run, it was all for the better.

Lingo: 

The Veritas are a group of writers that host a forum, sanction contests, and moderate many affiliate sites. The website description of the group read: We are the Veritas. By definition, the Veritas are not a cult, we are a political party dedicated to trying to make the fandom a better place. Or just chatting. Whatever strikes us. 

Flaming is the act of decimating the work of another author. Always brutal and cruel, often creative, and with a tendency to make rather improbable assumptions about the authors brain and other anatomical parts…Want to see some example? Check out the following links to review pages:

•  A compilation of famous flames from the most hated story in Fanfic history
•  A random review page for an unfortunate writer 
• and another random review page...
• and one more

Mary Sue is a character lacking in any discernible flaws, to the point that they become antagonist to the reader themselves. Usually unnaturally or unusually pretty, very good at everything and great at besting even their betters. For a better description, check out http://knowyourmeme.com/memes/mary-sue, and to test your character for Sueishness, go to http://www.springhole.net/writing/marysue.htm

Rough Draft: English Essay

Writing is different for everyone. For some, it’s an expression of self, a lens through which to show others the world as you see it. For others, it is a droll, painful task, best to be avoided at all costs. But no matter the fashion through which you see writing, the process through which your writing matures, grows and improves can be unpredictable, and more often then not, harsh. Writing for me began at age eight, quietly sitting in the oversized chair in my family’s living room, flooded with the dim, filtered light of a overcast day. Slowly I henpecked my way through a sentence, then a paragraph, then a chapter. From that moment on, writing was in my blood. The deepest particle of my self-expression, I wrote constantly from the moment on, the growing skill spilling over into other sections of my life as it slowly and tenderly improved, fleshing out as my mind—and the word I saw—grew. It was not, however, till five years later that my writing was truly tested, and through that testing, jumpstarted into genuine maturity. This process took place in a world some writers never know or touch—the world of online writing. Surprisingly—or perhaps not—the feature of this environment that truly effected me was not the friendship, support and compliments I received there, but the brutally of the criticism that was the very backbone of the domain. To this day, I consider the things I learned there to be some of the most important and significant of my entire writing career.
            I was introduced to the website by a close friend. She talked often and animatedly about not only the website and the content she herself posted there, but also about the Veritas, an exclusive group of writers she looked up to, and had been inducted into as a novice, or as the website lingo went, a newbie. I was eventually convinced to join the site, and with her as a buffer, was accepted into the world of the Veritas. It was through this exclusive group, and the forum they hosted, that my writing first began its slow, painful climb to high reaches.  The online writing world is viscous, cruel and exceptionally creative in the expression of both characteristics. The Veritas, were no exception. Their name meaning truth, they had charged themselves with the care and up-keeping of the website, holy battalion in the face of literary pollution and dedicated slayers of clichés and Mary Sue's. Their weapon of choice was a process fondly known as flaming, the less-popular but still fairly common backup CC--or Constructive Criticism. Flaming is a fairly simple action to explain. It was reserved for posts (stories or poetry, primarily) completely and utterly lacking in any redeeming qualities, generally those rife with clichés and overrun with epidemic proportions of lacking grammatical skill. The action itself was simple; destruction. A critic so cutting, graphic and cruel the author of the piece in question would be incapacitated and crushed, and hopefully, sufficiently encourage to never, ever write again. In composition, a flame had a wide range of possibilities. Some were short and concise, others far reaching, extensive and graphic. Among the Veritas community, your general standing on the forum and the respect you garnered by fellow members was based on two things; writing skill and your ability to flame. Those with a creative and original talent for flaming quickly scaled the ladders of standing and respect in the community, held in high esteem and often complimented and discussed by fellow members. Posting lists of targeted 'flammable' stories on the forum and encouraging fellows to add their own flame to the growing inferno was by no means uncommon.
            As a young writer myself, my introduction to this kind of highly critical and volatile environment was both intriguing and terrifying.  I became obsessed with the condition of my own spelling and grammar, spell-checking everything I posted twice and rereading everything for grammatical errors, terrified that the people that I looked up to and respected would turn their considerable violence on me if I showed even a hint of weakness. This obsessive condition, while perhaps not the best way to learn, quickly and efficiently shaped me up. My double-checking became tedious, so I forced myself to memorize and execute the grammar skills I was obsessively checking for. First, the proper use of your, you’re, they’re, their, then the proper use (and length) of an ellipse, a learning occurrence that was hard and humiliating both… Eventually, the proper use of all of these grammatical became second nature. Next came spelling. As someone who reads as and addiction rather then for simple recreationally, I have a large vocabulary. My time on the forum was no different, with one main difference. Spelling has never truly come naturally to me. I know a million words and a billion nuanced definitions, but the spelling of those words was often confusing and ungraspable for me. Learning these skills was much more difficult then the grammar, but I managed. I used the sounded out words and used those phonic versions to memorize spelling, often coming up with cheesy rhymes that helped me remember how the word was spelled rather then how it sounded. Eventually, I was polished and shiny, inculpable to even the most vicious and nit-picking of the Veritas. But in that online world, I was by no measure safe. Not by a long shot…
            The first time I got flamed is one I will never forget. It not only shaped my writing, but shaped my attitude for the future To say I myself never expected to get flamed is an understatement. It blindsided me in the most profound way. The obsessive skills I had learned from my time on the forum were just as important in the creative writing that I posted. Grammar and spelling were spotless, and I had close friends read over my work before I even considered posting. So, when I say that the things I had up on the website, were, to me at the least, irreproachable, perhaps you understand my meaning. The specific story in question was one of pride for me. I’d worked on it for a couple weeks, carefully drafting and shaping it. It was no secret that I was at least three years junior to many of my fellow Veritas, a tense fact that affected my writing profoundly. I feared my ideas would be considered immature, my vocabulary lacking in comparison to older readers. I felt as if I had been pegged into a category of inconsequence from the moment my age was slipped out while chatting on the forum one evening. To remedy this, I created stories original, daring, and graphic. Where many of my fellow writers wrote humor or romance, I created chilling tales of unfortunate events, never fearing to stint on blood and gore, but balancing my creation with intriguing characters and moments of black comedy I’m surprised I possessed at the tender age of 13. This specific piece was no exception. It was violent, scary, and distinctly tragic. I was so proud that I’d made the perfect move to break the mold of ‘immature,’ glowing with the flow of praise that came in from my Verita friends. I checked the comments daily looking for more praise, more boosts to my burgeoning writer’s ego.  So when my eyes landed on the flame, sitting dark and hot in the midst of the rosy praise that occupied the majority of my page, it was like a kick in the gut. I remember feeling sick and embarrassed, my former pride seeming a farce in the face of some stranger’s words. The flame wasn’t from a fellow Verita, but to me that fact was negligible. It hurt. Up to that point, the only people who had ever read my writing were my family and my friends. And yes, I counted the Veritas as my friends. Perhaps not at first, no, but eventually it became that way. I’d come home from school and spend hours on the forum. The people there were ones I would probably never meet face-to-face, but I knew them nonetheless. We talked about everything, safe and comfortable behind the cover of our pennames and avatars. It was a kind of freedom you’d be hard pressed to find with someone you’d have to look in the eye day to day or otherwise. The anonymity was part of what made it so strong. We talked about troubles in school and with family, friendships and heartbreaks, fears and dreams. To this day, I have never encountered a more open environment. So while at the time I still dreaded the disdain of my fellows, looking back I understand I wouldn’t have gotten any. They’d call me on it if I made a mistake—and occasionally they had to—but they’d do it kindly. Because of this, I’d been somewhat babied. The cruel reality of being a writer is, no matter how good you get, someone will hate what you write. I was as of yet unaware of such a reality. My writers skin was fragile and tender, my ego bloated and my mind devoid of any possibility that anyone would even think to insult me.  My writing was good. I knew that to the depths of my soul, hadn’t even an inkling of doubt. Because of this, I was unable to react properly or maturely to the insult. I couldn’t take it in stride. I couldn’t separate on insult to my writing from an insult to myself.  It felt so personal, like a bullet aimed on my skull, like an admonishment against my very existence. I had no idea how to handle it. My first instinct was to delete the entire story, I was so crushed that the compliments of the people I actually respected seemed inconsequential. That quick, I was convinced I’d created a horrific literary disaster.
            So how did this affect me in the long run?  At the time, I could hardly see past my humiliation, but looking back  I realize that the flame was one of the most important things that ever happened the me as a writer. See, as the pain and embarrassment faded, as I came to realize that my writing as a whole didn’t suck, and perhaps more importantly, that who I was and what my writing  was, however connected the two felt to me, would appear as different entities to others. So an insult to my writing wasn’t an attack on me, despite how it felt at the time.  Perhaps most importantly, the event gave me a backbone. It strengthened me to the point that I could understand and be confident in the reality of  what my writing was—and is—and still take the insults of another and instead of letting it crush my confidence, let it improve my writing. Looking back at the flame, I see that there was something constructive hidden in the brutal words. I understand the reason why this anonymous stranger so violently disliked my writing. It was thick with purple prose, details that dragged. For an older writer, it would have been a cringe-worth creation. For a thirteen year old girl, it was a masterpiece. I know for a fact that very few people have the kind of refined writing skills and imagination that I did at that age. But I was still just a kid, my writing a sapling rather then a cedar. Today I have the thick skin any good writer knows to build. I can protect myself and my all-important writer’s confidence. I can take advice without getting defensive or hurt. I can understand that my writing won’t reach everyone. I know that some people will despise the words that still feel so personal and intrgral to me. All of these thing are because once upon a time, in a dark corner of the internet, the girl I was had her confidence crushed. Though I know I’ll never meet them, I secretly thank that witty, mean stranger for their harsh words, because without them, I wouldn’t be the writer I am today.
            All in all, my time on the website and the Veritas forum was one of the most difficult, most fun, and most constructive experiences I’ve ever had in my writing career. I was able to connect with other writers, become part of a exclusive society, and improve one of the most basic things every writer needs—good grammar. I learned how to avoid clichés and the hated Mary Sue. I learned to take an insult. I learned that an insult doesn’t make a compliment untrue, but that it can still contain constructive information. I got a thicker skin, and everyday, I’m thankful for that.

How I Learned

      The subject I want to write about is the learning I experienced while being introduced and initiated into a online writing community. The way that I learned varied, as there were a  number of different aspects of the community that honed my skills, however the most outstanding aspect was that of criticism. The online writing world is viscous, cruel and exceptionally creative in the expression of both characteristics. The first location I came into contact with such critisim wa son a forum group I became involved in. The group had dubbed themselves the Veritas, meaning truth, and had charged themselves with the care and up-keeping of the website, holy battalion in the face of literary pollution and dedicated slayers of cliches and Mary Sue's. Their weapon of choice was a process fondly known as flaming, the less-popular but still fairly common backup CC--or Constructive Criticism. Flaming is a fairly simple action to explain. It was reserved for posts completely and utterly lacking in any redeeming qualities, generally those rife with cliches and overrun with epidemic proportions of lacking grammatical skill. The action itself was simple; destruction. A critic so cutting, graphic and cruel the author of the piece in question would be incapacitated and crushed, and hopefully, sufficiently encourage to never, ever write again. In composition, a flame had  a wide range of possibilities. Some were short and concise, others far reaching, extensive and graphic. Among the Veritas community, your general standing on the forum and the respect you garnered by fellow members was based on two things; writing skill and your ability to flame. Those with an creative and original talent for flaming quickly scaled the ladders of standing in respect in the community, held in high esteem and often complimented and discussed by fellow members. Posting lists of targeted 'flammable' stories on the forum and encouraging fellows to add their own flame to the growing inferno was by no means uncommon.
      As a young writer myself, my introduction to this kind of highly critical and volatile environment was both intriguing and terrifying.  I became obsessed with the condition of my own spelling and grammar, spell-checking everything I posted twice and rereading everything for grammatical errors. This obsessive condition, while perhaps not the best way to learn, quickly and efficiantly shaped me up. The grammar skills I forced myself to learn have never left me, and are helpful in my writing to this day.

Mike Rose's "I Just Wanna Be Average" was a sharp contrast to Malcolm X's "Learning to Read." Where "Learning to Read" was formal and precise, "I Just Wanna Be Average," was flowing and personal. Where Malcolm was curt, Rose was poetic. Where Rose painted images, Malcolm placed facts. Reading "Learning to Read," called forth ideas of square rooms, grey walls and prison bars. The writing felt static. "I Just Wanna Be Average," brought forth both bright color and slate, chaotic motion and characters that went deeper then the names that simply existed on the paper in "Learning to Read."
      There were, however, some similarities. Both of the narratives detailed a learning experience that was marked with difficulty and achieved with no little effort. Both gave some personal connection with the author and brought you closer to the experience through writing. And both dealt with an expereience that happen outside of a strictly 'traditional' learning environment.

Pre-Writing

      School writing and I have a distinct and bitter relationship,  eleven years in the making and not likely to die out soon. Year-in and year-out,  we circle each other wearily, side-step to side-step, like two predators waiting for the other to make the first move. Unfortunately for us, that move is inevitable. Papers must be written, ideas must be framed and grades must be given.  So, pulled together unwillingly, we go at each other with thinly veiled disgust, grinding hours and spitting words, till at last the time comes and I bestow our pitiful creation on whatever unfortunate teacher thought to request it. It amazes me to this day that my teachers are unable to sense the distaste and poisonous sarcasm that veins its way through the dull visage of my papers.
      But why such passionate enmity? Once upon a time, school writing and I got along swimmingly. I'd delight in composing great works of informational and analytical art, spending hours refining each sentence to perfection, forcing my parents and siblings to read and reread time over and again until I was convinced not a single unpolished word remained. I enjoyed it. Truly, I did. So what changed? What happened?
       Eighth grade English happened. That was the year when the noose finally caught and pulled taut. My teacher, who I shall leave unnamed, was a large, bitter woman with a deep rooted vein of sexism (against the male sex) and utter lack of understanding when it came to the subjects of fairness and justice. I have rarely encountered an educator so universally despised by the "Smarties" as she was. She taught advanced class, called Agate at my school, filled with all the kids who either were--or thought they were--the best in the school. And we hated her, me especially. However, our relationship was unique because oddly, she hated me as well. This is unusual, because she reserved her hatred, in general, for the males in the class. She'd pick on them, single them out, sometimes even publicly insult them in front of the class. The girls, on the other hand, were her favorites, praised and complimented and I swear, given easier grades. But not me. I'm not sure why she singled me out for her hatred; it may have been that I didn't readily swallow her every word as fact--as she obviously expected--or perhaps it was because I didn't perfectly conform to what she considered a perfect student would be. I think most of all, she hated me because she couldn't grade me down. I did good work, and even she couldn't get away with marking me down on it--for the most part. On one or two occasions, she unfairly cheated me out of a grade.
      So what does this have to do with me and essay writing? Let me explain. At my heart, I'm a writer. I've been writing since I was eight and first started hen-picking away at the keyboard in my families sun-drenched living room. Since then, I've written stories idiotic and simple minded, epic and far reaching, cliche, unique, bizarre--but always I write. The same enjoyment I had when spinning creative stories translated into my essay writing. I got great grades on them, and I love writing them. I had a freedom of form coupled with a clarity of thought that made my writing actually interesting to read--as well as to write. Unfortunately, my eight grade English teacher was strongly against free-form in any fashion. She taught us a very strict essay format early on in the year, one that outlined everything down to how many sentences of specific function could be in a paragraph. It killed me. It went against everything I knew and enjoyed about writing. It constrained my thought process and imagination, stinted the flow of my words, jumbled my clarity. I was simply unable to write in accordance to that format. Thus began the slow, cold end of my love for essay writing. The teacher and I struggled with eachother all year. She'd assign an essay, I'd write it, vary from the format, then have it be demanded that I rewrite, and rewrite, till my pure ideas were corrupted and lost in the formatting and my mood was foul. Eventually, I stopped fighting. I cookie-cuttered my ideas down into the jello-formed simplicity that I could fit into her rigid molds, and trudged my way dismally through the rest of the year. The unfortunate effect of that one year, however, is I have been utterly unable to write an essay I actually liked since that moment. Essay writing is pulling teeth. I was reprogrammed, and can no longer remember or execute the free-shifting code of my olden days. I dread essays in all their forms, and openly cringe at the pieces I grudgingly create.
      Now, you are likely wondering what any of this has to do with pre-writing. I'll tell you;  everything. I can hardly stand essay writing. I want it over as quick and as painless as possible, and my prewritting reflects that. I don't really brainstorm, or make trees or charts or graphs. I open my mind, and await an Idea. Once my idea has come, I capture it, refine it, and then write it down. Simple as that, and I have a rough draft. That is as far as my pre-writing goes. End of story.
   

Malcolm X's "Learning to Read"

     As a young American, I know for a fact that I take my own ability to read, write and communicate for granted. I was raised by well spoken, college-educated parents, and learned to speak from them. I’ve been to school every year of my life since the age of five. Reading and writing, though originally difficult for me to grasp as a child, have since become such an integral part of myself that imaging my own existence without them is impossible. In fact, the very idea of illiteracy is somewhat horrifying to me.
    Thus, Malcolm X’s “Learning to Read” was a very intriguing and enlightening piece. It highlights difficulty and dedication, as well as accentuating the importance of being literate. I can connect with his original frustration as I myself had extreme difficulty when first learning, but beyond that, his process amazes me. The time and effort it must have taken him to copy, word for word, entire pages of a dictionary is astounding. That kind of patience is beyond me. I can hardly even listen to my favorite song, start to finish, let alone maintain the focus required to extensively copy a droll dictionary. Just this simple act showed a strong will and a mind not only willing to, but excited to learn and improve.
    His example of dedication and self-improvement is one that I believe my peers and I can all learn from. In a society that demands—and expects—speed, efficacy and constant entertainment, the simple strength of focused learning is becoming somewhat obsolete. Information is so readily available that taking the time to pour over and truly master it seems redundant (and boring) to the modern American teen. Why actually read a classic when you can get all the important stuff after a few minutes on Google? Why delve deep into the intricacy of a philosopher’s ideas when you can easily get the highlights off the internet—or more likely, simply never learn it at all? This kind of a pervasive attitude of complacency is what made this piece stand out so significantly. It gave an  example of how things used to be, and how, hopefully they can be again.

"How I Learned to Program Computers" and "How I Learned to Live Google Free"

The two narrative essays "How I Learned to Program Computers" by Feross Aboukhadijeh and "How I Learned to Live Google Free" By Joshua J. Romero both outline important learning experiences. Both essays follow a clear format, which walks the reader chronologically through the event, highlighting important aspects and using clear transitions. This simple, logical progression is a good thing to observe and remember for when I want to write my own essay, as formatting has always been a difficult aspect of essay writing for me. As a creative writer, the strict expectations for essay composition has always been difficult for me to stick to. for that reason, these two essays should serve as very good references to help keep me on a consistent format and keep my words flowing. Another important aspect to observe from these two essays is the use of personal pronouns such as 'I.' Most essay writing discourages, or even forbids the use of personal pronouns, so finding out that we would be writing an essay that required it was very interesting. Reading the two blogs and observing how they use personal pronoun and write in a narrative fashion, while still composing a clear essay was very educational and helpful. I'm certainly looking forward to writing my own essay, and implementing what I've learned.

Joshua J. Romero

Joshua J. Romero