Someone once told me,
"Being a writer is like being a prostitute, really. At first you're only doing it for yourself, then tu decide to tell a few friends, let them in on the action, then tu decide to let a couple strangers in, pretty soon you're welcoming the entire world."
Such a very accurate quote. When I heard this, I was at a very formal luncheon with a few kids from my journalism class in which we produced the school's newspaper: The Jagged Edge. It was an awards ceremony for individual work as well as our newspaper as a whole to be recognized. Granted, it was a local newspaper that was sponsoring the event, nothing major, but it was a big deal for me - for us.
In our class - Digital Design- I can't explain what it's like. I don't know if any of tu have been in such a class before, but we're like family. There aren't many of us, but I'd say about 80% of us are dedicated to journalism, all aspiring to be journalists. That 80% was there with me, sitting around the mesa, tabla all dressed up, proud of our lowly funded newspaper. The newspaper without color, without someone sponsoring us, giving us all the money we needed, without gifted artists and a committed school. Just us, teacher included. I'm the only freshman there, many of them are seniors who have been with the paper for several years. This is their last go around the track, their final show, yet they welcome me with open arms, teaching me what they know. They're clearly in charge, but they work with us, asking for our ideas and molding them into the plan.
As evidenced por former students who have moved on to become journalists, the class mimics a real newsroom. We don't go in every día and do work out of a book,or off the board, nothing like that. We don't even ask our teacher what we need to do; we know. We're out getting quotes, doing interviews, researching what we need for our articles, thinking up ideas to improve the newspaper, designing the layouts, getting the ads for funds, asking our editors when we have a question, taking pictures, looking to our teacher for approval - we do it all. We help each other. We work as a team.
Then, at the end of the year, as we sat at that mesa, tabla and listened as the awards were called out, we smiled. A few of us collected awards for our articles, our layouts, etc. There were perhaps 20 schools, each with a party of 8-10 students, and we all hollered and cheered as every student went up. Cheering them on for their dreams. Sure, we were especially proud for our awards, but it felt like we were cheering everyone on all at once. tu could see it in the eyes of the winners, the familiar wet glaze over their eyes, the satisfaction that they're pursing what they want to be with all their heart. It's magical, really. We didn't win amazing, but then it was time for the final award. Adviser of the Year. It's an award that goes to the teacher who really put their corazón into the newspaper and had outstanding effect on the students. I'm sure tu can all imagine the kind of criteria I mean.
Rather than calling the winner's name and then lectura off the reasons why they were chosen, the reasons were dicho before the name for this award. Two o three of the seniors wrote letters, as was asked, highlighting the reasons our teacher should win. Two of them sat por me as the descripción was read, the other at inicial sick. I glanced back at my teacher (like everyone else at our table), but she was shaking her head as if she knew she wouldn't win, yet as the judge continued to talk I could hear the hushed whispers of the seniors saying 'that sounds like what I wrote, I think I mentioned that in my letter, do you-' but it was cut off as our teacher's name was announced. To be truthful, all of us got a little teary eyed as our teacher stood to get her award. She walked to the seniors beside me, hugging them tightly before moving to the front to accept the prestigious award and get her picture taken. She came back in silent tears, smiling, and we were all so very proud.
It was during this time that I realized again why I amor writing. The feeling of being rewarded for your hard work, the people tu work with close at hand, ready to give tu a pat on the back for a job well done, your name plastered over a piece of work that you're proud of, seeing and lectura the comentarios of those that enjoyed your work, those that may not have, and the unexplainable feeling tu get when everything is over.
In class now, I stand at the white board with the marker, escritura down ideas for siguiente year. The older kids told me to do it - my friends, told me they were passing the marker to the siguiente generation with this joking tone and goofy grins, but when I look in their eyes I know they mean it. They're ready to go, sad, but ready, and they know I'll be here siguiente año filling their shoes. And they're proud. We're all proud. I know they'll come back siguiente year, criticizing the newspaper with a new eye, laughing, hugging me and a few others in a small reunion, spilling their accomplishments to us, and again I'll get that feeling. That inexplainable, wonderful feeling, and I'll remember why it is I write.
"Being a writer is like being a prostitute, really. At first you're only doing it for yourself, then tu decide to tell a few friends, let them in on the action, then tu decide to let a couple strangers in, pretty soon you're welcoming the entire world."
Such a very accurate quote. When I heard this, I was at a very formal luncheon with a few kids from my journalism class in which we produced the school's newspaper: The Jagged Edge. It was an awards ceremony for individual work as well as our newspaper as a whole to be recognized. Granted, it was a local newspaper that was sponsoring the event, nothing major, but it was a big deal for me - for us.
In our class - Digital Design- I can't explain what it's like. I don't know if any of tu have been in such a class before, but we're like family. There aren't many of us, but I'd say about 80% of us are dedicated to journalism, all aspiring to be journalists. That 80% was there with me, sitting around the mesa, tabla all dressed up, proud of our lowly funded newspaper. The newspaper without color, without someone sponsoring us, giving us all the money we needed, without gifted artists and a committed school. Just us, teacher included. I'm the only freshman there, many of them are seniors who have been with the paper for several years. This is their last go around the track, their final show, yet they welcome me with open arms, teaching me what they know. They're clearly in charge, but they work with us, asking for our ideas and molding them into the plan.
As evidenced por former students who have moved on to become journalists, the class mimics a real newsroom. We don't go in every día and do work out of a book,or off the board, nothing like that. We don't even ask our teacher what we need to do; we know. We're out getting quotes, doing interviews, researching what we need for our articles, thinking up ideas to improve the newspaper, designing the layouts, getting the ads for funds, asking our editors when we have a question, taking pictures, looking to our teacher for approval - we do it all. We help each other. We work as a team.
Then, at the end of the year, as we sat at that mesa, tabla and listened as the awards were called out, we smiled. A few of us collected awards for our articles, our layouts, etc. There were perhaps 20 schools, each with a party of 8-10 students, and we all hollered and cheered as every student went up. Cheering them on for their dreams. Sure, we were especially proud for our awards, but it felt like we were cheering everyone on all at once. tu could see it in the eyes of the winners, the familiar wet glaze over their eyes, the satisfaction that they're pursing what they want to be with all their heart. It's magical, really. We didn't win amazing, but then it was time for the final award. Adviser of the Year. It's an award that goes to the teacher who really put their corazón into the newspaper and had outstanding effect on the students. I'm sure tu can all imagine the kind of criteria I mean.
Rather than calling the winner's name and then lectura off the reasons why they were chosen, the reasons were dicho before the name for this award. Two o three of the seniors wrote letters, as was asked, highlighting the reasons our teacher should win. Two of them sat por me as the descripción was read, the other at inicial sick. I glanced back at my teacher (like everyone else at our table), but she was shaking her head as if she knew she wouldn't win, yet as the judge continued to talk I could hear the hushed whispers of the seniors saying 'that sounds like what I wrote, I think I mentioned that in my letter, do you-' but it was cut off as our teacher's name was announced. To be truthful, all of us got a little teary eyed as our teacher stood to get her award. She walked to the seniors beside me, hugging them tightly before moving to the front to accept the prestigious award and get her picture taken. She came back in silent tears, smiling, and we were all so very proud.
It was during this time that I realized again why I amor writing. The feeling of being rewarded for your hard work, the people tu work with close at hand, ready to give tu a pat on the back for a job well done, your name plastered over a piece of work that you're proud of, seeing and lectura the comentarios of those that enjoyed your work, those that may not have, and the unexplainable feeling tu get when everything is over.
In class now, I stand at the white board with the marker, escritura down ideas for siguiente year. The older kids told me to do it - my friends, told me they were passing the marker to the siguiente generation with this joking tone and goofy grins, but when I look in their eyes I know they mean it. They're ready to go, sad, but ready, and they know I'll be here siguiente año filling their shoes. And they're proud. We're all proud. I know they'll come back siguiente year, criticizing the newspaper with a new eye, laughing, hugging me and a few others in a small reunion, spilling their accomplishments to us, and again I'll get that feeling. That inexplainable, wonderful feeling, and I'll remember why it is I write.
"Andrew? Andrew? Are tu okay?" Andrew hear Elizabeth's gentle, velvety voice as his consicness returned to him. "Hey honey, you've been asleep for awhile now." She seemed very concerned, considering she had only known him for a few hours. After the room stopped spinning, Andrew sat up and looked around. He was still in the hotel, but, he didn't recognize the room. When his gaze fell on Elizabeth, the room started spinning again. "So, when tu said, "When I was alive." did tu mean that you're a ghost?" Elizabeth's face was grim and solemn. "Yes. I'm a ghost." Suddenly, Andrew smelled cinnamon, honey, and something he didn't recognize. "Andrew I have to go. I'll be back tonight. por the way, call me Liz." She flashed him a dazzling smile, and she was gone. "Wow."
I make mistakes
I mess up
but it was nevr enough
I no longer cry for you
no más pain
that means I will no longer stand it
tu took my corazón and ran it strait into the planet
now I'm taking control of this relationship
command it
that means I no longer die for
no longer cry for tu
no más pain
but tu always win
as th blood trickles down my arm
I wisper tu name into the dark
Cierra
the pain I went through for you
no longer
is anyone out there
feels like I'm talking o myslelf
feels like I'm going insane
feels crazy
guess I keep talking to myself
why in the world do I feel so alone
nobody but me
I'm on my own
is there anyone out there
that feels just what I feel
guess it's just me.
------------------------------------------------
just to let tu know.I'm no sewisidle o crazy.just a kid who's been through alot and has grown up faster
I mess up
but it was nevr enough
I no longer cry for you
no más pain
that means I will no longer stand it
tu took my corazón and ran it strait into the planet
now I'm taking control of this relationship
command it
that means I no longer die for
no longer cry for tu
no más pain
but tu always win
as th blood trickles down my arm
I wisper tu name into the dark
Cierra
the pain I went through for you
no longer
is anyone out there
feels like I'm talking o myslelf
feels like I'm going insane
feels crazy
guess I keep talking to myself
why in the world do I feel so alone
nobody but me
I'm on my own
is there anyone out there
that feels just what I feel
guess it's just me.
------------------------------------------------
just to let tu know.I'm no sewisidle o crazy.just a kid who's been through alot and has grown up faster
Pride is a belief in myself (or someone else) that within me is something no one else has just like me. Pride can be a wonderful thing. My coaches are proud of me when I execute a mover perfectly. I am proud of my efforts when I get the right answer to a test question. However, pride can have a negative connotation. If I am prideful of my canto talent o of my sports accomplishments, then I am not feeling the right kind of pride. Yes, I can be pleased with my abilities; but when I let it go to my head, then I am full of pride, just like Odysseus often was. por believing that I am the only person with that talent, I inflate my ego. I believe myself to be “the best of the best,” and this can damage my relationships with others. They would not want my company if the only things I spoke of were my own accomplishments.
Meghan ran to the bus stop, where she saw Pompika. Thankfully Pompika looked at her politely and dicho “You know I saw Reg but ya know, how she’s jus’ across the street, she seems a lil’ mad!” Meghan thought for a segundo and thought ‘why lose Pompika?’ and said, “Geez I don’t know?” Now she wished she had told the truth, instead of lying. “Oh I wish ya did.” Pompika said. “Tsk-Tsk, bad grammar Pompi” dicho Meghan. “Sorry, fine I wish tu did. There ya… tu go” “Hhhmmm, nice save.” Meghan said. “Hey look, Reg’s a comin’” dicho Pompika. “Great that’s good… wait REG!!!” dicho Meghan. “What?” dicho Pompika. "nothing."