Nt1310 Unit 2 Creative Writing

Scores of composition instructors agree that writing should be taught as a recursive process, rather than a liner process, and they also agree that most writers employ certain writing strategies as they produce drafts. Sandra Perl’s article, Understanding Composing” shares these beliefs because she states: “writing does appear to be recursive, yet the parts that recur seem to vary from writer to writer and from topic to topic” (142). Perl explains that throughout the writing process, writers employ a “forward-moving action that exists by virtue of

“What is going on?” John blurted out. He stood in the doorway, his mouth hanging open. I slowly dragged myself up off of the floor.

The two didn’t have time to reply before I was running. I hadn’t expected myself to do it this way, but the 1 AM bells began tolling just as I got to the trees. Cresswell plunged in after me and disappeared further in. Comstock crawled in as I held the leaves back for him, and we both looked out into the street we’d just come from.

The curiosities that revolve around this event infatuate me. The night of the occurrence I knew something was off, I was petrified. I lied awake that night trying to remove my mind from the agonizing fear that crippled me, giving myself countless alternative reasons for the sounds that rudely awoke me. This man that did this to me was not a stranger, I spoke to him many times throughout the week and he was consistently kind, maybe it was part of his plan, so I wouldn’t suspect it. He was a regular acquaintance that I consistently interacted with, to me he wouldn’t ever hurt a fly, but that night, seconds before my death, I saw alarmingly unfamiliar resentment from the way he looked at me. I knew the noises weren’t the crickets. I hoped that

This morning I walked into your room because I heard quite a commotion of hangers hitting walls and drawers being slammed. Either you were trying to capture, kill, or scare a spider OR you were having an emotional breakdown. Either way, I was ready for it. I had Love and Logic training and knew exactly what I needed to say and how to say it…bring it on sweetie. I was not ready for you, my beautiful, kind-hearted SIX-YEAR-OLD daughter, to be throwing clothes around your room while yelling, “Mom! I cannot wear the outfit I set out last night because it makes me look fat!” Ummmm, WHAT? I wanted to scream, “You are six years old! Are you out of your ever-loving mind? You are not supposed to see yourself like that! You are six; how could you be so crazy about the way you look already?” Instead, I told you how beautiful, brilliant, and strong you are and that you are being silly. In other words, I disregarded and minimized your feelings entirely.

There was a sense of impeding doom that turned my stomach. Although I couldn't bear to look at the mask I held outreach to you, my eyes were tempted to look to you. I side-swiped a glance at you before you took the mask. My eyebrow arched as you looked at me, visibly distraught. My eyes did a double take, and my gaze fell curiously back on you. I sensed a feeling of unease from you, and became immediately confused. “Your master never teach you Torture 101, Mr. Ren?” Although I was mocking you, there was a sense of concern in my voice, as I looked over to the Dug and then back at you. “You look like you've seen a ghos-” Holding out the mask in front of you, I watched you intently as your eyes fixated on the item. My eyes narrowed at that reaction, and suddenly, it made sense to me. Perhaps you had seen a ghost. Fully educated in the many various connections within the Force, I wondered if in this moment you had seen anything. If in this moment, his darkness had fallen on you. I pondered the horrors you had witnessed... and if any one of those horrors was my own. I wondered if it was pain you experienced, and even... if that pain was my own.

Writing a paper can be difficult, there are so many components that go into the process that can be the difference between an average or above average paper. When given an assignment to construct a clear and concise paper one many be intimidated; especially when the factor that a grade will be given enters the picture. I have found that a paper takes a lot of work, through the beginning stages to the middles infamous writers block, and finally to the final draft; where you think to yourself that you stressed too much. Although everyone works differently this method has served me the best; first to begin a thinking map, then write a rough draft, and finally to make corrections and form the final draft. This may seem like the

The doctor walked in and stated, “Hi, seems like you’re awake. Do you mind telling me your name? You didn't have any ID on you.”

The detective noticed her shaking hands and approached her cautiously. "Listen. Moriarty is dead. I'm absolutely sure. Whoever this is, they are trying to terrorise you by using his name. I know this is hard-", Sherlock's train of comforting words was cut off by his wife. "Do you? I'm not that sure you do know, Sherlock. You probably feel nothing right now! You didn't raise those children, you weren't there when Clara made her first steps, or when Dorian learned how to eat on his own! You weren't there on their first fight to stop them, you weren't there when they asked me where you were and I had to lie over and over again that you'd be home soon!", she chuckled and continued, "Why would you be anyway? You had better and more important things to do, after all." Sherlock made no sound. She was right. (Y/N) was absolutely right. He could see that now. He felt disgusted by his own person. Sherlock had made his decision- once this... pantomime was over, he was going to walk away from the life of a married man. Let (Y/N) have a life. Have a beautiful life with her two children- perhaps even remarry. He said nothing, though. All he did was nod at here and lower his head. John and Mary Watson looked at each other before Mary took the phone in her own hands and typed

He rapped on the wood and said, very calmly, "I know you're in there, Sherlock. Open up."

Using the headstone for leverage, he hoisted himself up onto his feet. His leg ached, and ache that had returned when Sherlock left him, just as it had vanished when they met. He left the cemetery and made for home.

Sherlock: “We’re glad you think so . . . . I’m willing to bet you thought

Sherlock: Oh, don’t worry, it’s all good! I’m sure to give it a whirl sooner than later.”

No, Sherlock wanted to tell him. No, I am not okay. It’s loud. It’s chaotic. It’s awful, but his mind refused to do so with the insistence that, ‘John would leave if he found out,’. “I am fine!” he ended up yelling, “I am perfectly fine!” His words slurred together as his speech grew quicker and quicker as anxiety stabbed into his shoulder blade. “There is nothing wrong with me! I am fine,” Sherlock stormed off to his room, slamming the door behind

“Hey Sherlock,” He greeted swiftly, glancing at the rows of packaged goods as he passed. “How’s is going?”