What I Talk About When I Talk About Me And Writing

For 20 years, I’ve lived entire life to get to this moment right now. I haven’t necessarily spent all that time building up to write my climatic literacy narrative for my Writing class, but rather, all I have is this moment right now. The same will be true in ten years and then, should I do this exercise again, I would certainly write a drastically different piece. As for my relationship with reading and writing, it can be summed up in 2 simple stages in my young life: 1) A long “Dark Age” with small increments of notable material - and - 2) A still existing renaissance that started about 5 years ago. Since this mental “rebirth” of the written word (and language in general) within me, I find myself constantly reshaping the way I perceive everyday. As for the purposes of this paper, I will present the logical evolution in my literacy development as well as my own memory allows. Furthermore, I will begin at the beginning.
My earliest memories of reading and writing are few and far between. My earliest, I couldn’t have been more than 4 for. Every night before bed, my mother read me the same Thomas the Tank Engine picture book. Eventually, I would read it to her. I had not mastered reading at such a young age; I simply had it memorized.
A few years later, I’d say around age 7, I was working in my phonics book in school. My teacher asked the class to turn to page whatever. As usual, she asked if anyone wanted to try to read the directions (my class and I was learning to read around this time as well). I raised my hand and said I would try. I read those directions like I had been reading for years and received three gold stars for it. It was pretty epic.
Around the same time as the direction reading affair, I was in the car with my mother and the radio was on. Some generic 90’s College Rock song was on that I happened to like at the time. When I arrived home, the melody was still in my head so I did something I now find very interesting; I wrote my own words to the tune. I wrote a song. I vaguely remember the lyrical content being about some baseball players I was a fan of and the girl across the street I had a huge crush on then, but I can’t recall specifics. I’d give quite a bit today, to have that piece of paper I scribbled that chicken scratch song onto. Unfortunately, it was probably disposed of within the few days after it was written.
Flash forward a few years and you’d find I had moved once, grown a lot, and developed a knack for not doing my homework. You would also find me, at least on one evening, in my parent’s kitchen, crying. What 5th grader wants to do a book report? As you’ve probably guessed, certainly not me at the time. I remember I had barely read the book I had to report on and my paper had almost reached the two page requirement, when my mother asked to proofread it. As soon as I handed it over, I knew trouble was on the horizon. “You have to rewrite this. There are mistakes everywhere.” Already fed up with this stupid book report, I wouldn’t have it. I got very angry first, but when that didn’t get my way, I began to cry. The last thing I wanted to do was rewrite that damn report. In the end, I lost. The paper was rewritten.
There would be a long gap in between this event of significance and the next. In that time, I moved again, went through all of middle school, got a whole new set of friends three different times and changed the person I was every four or five months. I was a very confused young adolescent. But then, like a beacon shining out over the sea on only the stormiest of nights, I found someone real to me. I was a Sophomore in high school. I was typically angry all the time, misunderstood. I had acne. I was to skinny. I hated wearing eye glasses. School was going awful. I felt terrible. I met Holden Caulfield.
It cannot overstated how much The Catcher in the Rye changed and reshaped me. Up until I read that book, I hated reading and writing. The deepest thoughts I had were what was I doing after school. Then, all of a sudden, I found myself engulfed in what this fictional kid, a year older than me had to say about a few measly days in his life. I finished the book the day after I received it. I went crazy. I reshaped every thought I had ever had. It’s harder to explain than it is to understand, but I believe it is best described as a change in direction. My ideas were reinforced by the prospect that others who read the book told me that Holden reminded them of me. I was completely reinvented. I quit the terrible band I was in and started playing by myself, and writing my own songs. I began reading every book I could get my hands on, at least if they seemed like books Holden would approve of. It was around this time I began to drink and go to parties and really expand myself socially. It all happened in an instant and yet it took more than a year. More significantly, I now know had only made a small leap in where I wanted to be. I wanted to write and I loved music. I wanted to write songs. But I hated that high school heart ache bar chord terrible monotone screaming no talent bull shit that I was listening too. I needed something else to give me something more. I found it in what I think is the greatest way I could have.
I had tried smoking marijuana well before the start of my senior year of high school. I did it once in a while but it was only casually and with no real developed taste for it. Two close friends of mine asked me early on in Senior year if I was interested in going out with them one night. When they picked me up, I asked where we were going. They said we were just going to drive around and as we left my neighborhood, I was handed a joint to smoke. After getting well away from the main roads we each lit up simultaneously and I heard the sound of a voice I’ll never forget hearing for the first time. “I dig a pygmy by Charles Halltree on the deaf-aids! Phase One in which Doris gets her oats!” That was all it took. John Lennon’s gibberish at the beginning of the Beatles’ album opened the door for Let It Be to kill me on the inside and left every pore of my skin to be filled up by the rest of the albums that follow. Revolver, The White Album, Abbey Road, Rubber Soul. I couldn’t get enough and the three of us at least a few nights a week met up and let them blow our minds all over again. We’d roll a few joints, get in a car, put on whatever we wanted to listen to. Soon, Pink Floyd, The Doors, The Rolling Stones, Simon & Garfunkel (among others), joined the party. It was a great awakening for all three of us and any others who joined us on random occasions. And yet I still had so much left to learn.
By the time 2007 approached, I had some direction. I wrote sparingly, mostly short stories and little pieces of songs. I began reading the classics. Tolstoy, Joyce, Hemingway all now graced my bookshelf. But unfortunately, I could not write a thing that I enjoyed or was happy with. It got worse as my high school graduation approached and I became more removed from being a student. That summer I wrote almost nothing and as college approached, I wanted nothing to do with a classroom. As my first semester progressed, I began hearing a name I always knew about, but never cared much for, all over the place. He was being mentioned in my lectures in class. He was showing up in different things I read about. He was all over the “composer” spot on the music on my computer. He was Bob Dylan.
I had never really given Bob Dylan any kind of a fair shake in my headphones. He was this enigma I knew was important in the music world who wrote ridiculous songs and couldn’t sing worth a dime. Basically, I didn’t know the guy’s work, except for a few songs that were real famous that basically everyone has heard a few times. But I made a conscious decision around this time to seek out Dylan’s work and at first I was unimpressed. His voice did annoy me. And the songs sounded like word vomit that I couldn’t grab on to. Still, I knew something was there. I pressed on listening and was rewarded like I have never been rewarded before. I can now say more than two years later that Bob Dylan has and still does ruin music and the English language for me. With Bob, I discovered how to write like me (which can sometimes seem like I am writing like him). I can be irreverent, descriptive, forceful, or tender whenever I am inclined to do so.
One of my problems, however, has been my lack of control in my ability to write. If I am not inspired to do so, I don’t. Without a creative emotion that I’m feeling, I can’t put it out onto paper. This, of course, is only with personal and creative writing. Academic writing is helped along by the idea that I have deadlines to reach. Lately another thing troubling my mind has been my lack of originality. Just recently, I’ve started creating my own based entirely off other pieces that really struck we well. This includes songs, poems, movies, books, things friends have said, my brother and it’s been quite unnerving. The only thing that gives me solace in this is a quote by Leo Tolstoy I heard sometime ago. “Good poets imitate. Great Poets Steal.”
I love writing. I write with rhythm and I always seek out correlation in my work. I bring things full circle if I can. I write songs about the things I do and poems about things I don’t understand. I want to write books. I want to write a movie. In the end, My goal is to be able to write freely; free from the constraints of everyone else and free the constraints of my own head. When push comes to shove, I just want to write.

Blog 7

For all these long winded research essays we read, I couldn't take much from any of them. It just isn't in my nature to learn that way. I read them, almost in their entirety and got the gist of what each one was saying. The fact is, the authors of each of these only have a slight idea what they are talking about. They, like any other person in relation to writing, can only see it as far as their own perspective allows them, no further. All the research in the world can't change what each commentator has been through from birth up until the moment they finished their critique. Because writing must be something experienced. It isn't tangible or malleable, except for in one's own mind. It is one of the most existential concepts man has; the written word. It's impossible to put someone in the middle of reading Breakfest at Tiffany's by telling them what the story is about. Even seeing the movie doesn't convey the tempo and mood of each sentence and paragraph that hit Truman Capote's typewriter so many times over. Perhaps more significant is, every draft he wrote was a window into his mind, if only for a brief moment and; it is the only window that can stand out longer than the moment his thoughts are spoken from his mouth. Writing is a wonderful, eerie, unperfected, ridiculous form of expression. Anyone who thinks they really understand it, can't really understand much.

Literacy Draft

For 20 years, I’ve lived entire life to get to this moment right now. I haven’t necessarily spent all that time building up to write my climatic literacy narrative for my Writing class, but rather, all I have is this moment right now. The same will be true in ten years and then, should I do this exercise again, I would certainly write a drastically different piece. As for my relationship with reading and writing, it can be summed up in 2 simple stages in my young life: 1) A long “Dark Age” with small increments of notable material - and - 2) A still existing renaissance that started about 5 years ago. Since this mental “rebirth” of the written word (and language in general) within me, I find myself constantly reshaping the way I perceive every day. As for the purposes of this paper, I will directly relate my developments in literacy with my reaching the age of reason, as well as; I will present the logical evolution in my literacy development as well as my own memory allows. Furthermore, I will begin at the beginning.
My earliest memories of reading and writing are few and far between. My earliest, I couldn’t have been more than 4 for. Every night before bed, my mother read me the same Thomas the Tank Engine picture book. Eventually, I would read it to her. I had not mastered reading at such a young age; I simply had it memorized.
A few years later, I’d say around age 7, I was working in my phonics book in school. My teacher asked the class to turn to page whatever. As usual, she asked if anyone wanted to try to read the directions (my class and I were learning to read around this time as well). I raised my hand and said I would try. I read those directions like I had been reading for years and received three gold stars for it. It was pretty epic.
Around the same time as the direction reading affair, I was in the car with my mother and the radio was on. Some generic 90’s College Rock song was on that I happened to like at the time. When I arrived home, the melody was still in my head so I did something I now find very interesting; I wrote my own words to the tune. I wrote a song. I vaguely remember the lyrical content being about some baseball players I was a fan of and the girl across the street I had a huge crush on then, but I can’t recall specifics. I’d give quite a bit today, to have that piece of paper I scribbled that chicken scratch song onto. Unfortunately, it was probably disposed of within the few days after it was written.
Flash forward a few years and you’d find I had moved once, grown a lot, and developed a knack for not doing my homework. You would also find me, at least on one evening, in my parent’s kitchen, crying. What 5th grader wants to do a book report? As you’ve probably guessed, I certainly didn’t at the time. I remember I had barely read the book I had to report on and my paper had almost reached the two page requirement, when my mother asked to proofread it. As soon as I handed it over, I knew trouble was on the horizon. “You have to rewrite this. There are mistakes everywhere.” Already fed up with this stupid book report, I wouldn’t have it. I got very angry first, but when that didn’t get my way, I began to cry. The last thing I wanted to do was rewrite that damn report. In the end, I lost. The paper was rewritten.
There would be a long gap in between this event of significance and the next. In that time, I moved again, went through all of middle school, got a whole new set of friends three different times and changed the person I was every four or five months. I was a very confused young adolescent. But then, like a beacon shining out over the sea on only the stormiest of nights, I found someone real to me. I was a Sophomore in high school. I was typically angry all the time, misunderstood. I had acne. I was to skinny. I hated wearing eye glasses. School was going awful. I felt terrible. I met Holden Caulfield.
It cannot be overstated how much The Catcher in the Rye changed and reshaped me. Up until I read that book, I hated reading and writing. The deepest thoughts I had were what was I doing after school. Then, all of a sudden, I found myself engulfed in what this fictional kid a year older than me had to say about a few measly days in his life. I finished the book the day after I received it. I went crazy. I reshaped every thought I had ever had. It’s harder to explain than it is to understand, but I believe it is best described as a change in direction. My ideas were reinforced by the prospect that others who read the book told me that Holden reminded them of me. I was completely reinvented. I quit the terrible band I was in and started playing by myself, and writing my own songs. I began reading every book I could get my hands on, at least if they seemed like books Holden would approve of. It was around this time I began to drink and go to parties and really expand myself socially. It all happened in an instant and yet it took more than a year. More significantly, I now know had only made a small leap in where I wanted to be. I wanted to write and I loved music. I wanted to write songs. But I hated that high school heart ache bar chord terrible monotone screaming no talent bull shit that I was listening too. I needed something else to give me something more. I found it in what I think is the greatest way I could have.
I had tried smoking marijuana well before the start of my senior year of high school. I did it once in a while but it was only casually and with no real developed taste for it. Two close friends of mine asked me early on in senior year if I was interested in going out with them one night. When they picked me up, I asked where we were going. They said we were just going to drive around and as we left my neighborhood, I was handed a joint to smoke. After getting well away from the main roads we each lit up simultaneously and I heard the sound of a voice I’ll never forget hearing for the first time. “I dig a pygmy by Charles Halltree on the deaf-aids! Phase one in which Doris gets her oats!” That was all it took. John Lennon’s gibberish at the beginning of the Beatles’ album Let It Be killed me on the inside and left every pore of my skin to be filled up by the rest of the album that follows. Other Beatle albums followed: Revolver, the White Album, Abbey Road, Rubber Soul. I couldn’t get enough and the three of us at least a few nights a week met up and let them blow our minds all over again. We’d roll a few joints, get in a car, put on whatever we wanted to listen to, and get high as hell. Soon, Pink Floyd, The Doors, The Rolling Stones, Simon & Garfunkel (among others), joined the party. It was a great awakening for all three of us and any others who joined us on random occasions. And yet I still had so much left to learn.

Literacy Method Notes

My writing process consists completely of moments of inspiration. I used to let them waste away when, due to lack of motivation, but I’ve wised up. I can only write anything of value to me when I’m emotionally/psychologically/aesthetically/sub-consciously inclined to do so. I have no control over it, although having my mind tinged a bit doesn’t hurt. That’s really it. I don’t do a lot of pen exercising.

Literacy Narrative Themes

Personal Growth. That’s my theme. At every stage I’ve had some breakthrough with reading and writing, it’s generally lent itself to helping me grow as a person. Whether I was 4 years old with that Thomas the Tank Engine book I memorized, or if I was 15 and with friends out and about, spending time with the influences of our influences. I arrived at this theme listening to music in my room. With Funkadelic in my ear (I was enjoying the title track of their best album, Free Your Mind… And Your Ass Will Follow), I realized that I wanted to be real (Hence, why I brought it up in class). The stories I will use to be this real are:

Childhood:
Thomas the Tank Engine Book, Reading the directions when no one else could, the Pokémon game boy games, reading the sports section with the cat

Turning Point:
The Let It Be Affairs in the Mustang, The Smokey Car Jamboree, My first poem, Dylan ruining music and words for me forever, Sitting in that stream/Make You, Finding how to use the mood and the inspiration… Yep

Blog 2

As I read the socially driven theory on writing, I saw a lot of relative ideas in it to me. It made sense. Now this may be because it was simply easier to read, but for our purposes lets just say it clicked logically with me (at least more than the hardwired writing theory). I really recognized the idea that one's association with reading and writing could be directly related to a few isolated situations ion one's early life. This makes sense to me cause it comes as no surprise to me. In many psychological studies in recent years, it is found that trauma in one's young childhood is one of the largest factor that shapes their adult self. It's a kicker really, your parents can only do you harm it seems . . . Besides the fact that this was 14 times easier to read than our previous assignment, I also liked the ideas about the stereotype of literacy. It definately has at least some merit. The guy that can't read is typically looked at as the guy who doesn't bath, and in truth, the two are not mutually exclusive. Yea.

Blog 1

I did not enjoy reading the information about writing being hardwired in people. The idea of this really interested me, but I can't stand reading research papers as much as I can't stand writing them. The part that really did catch my attention though, was the micro stuff I was assigned to read. The idea that writing evolved along with the rest of us is an idea that I find intriguing and could see as real possibility in how we have gotten to this point. I don't know if writing is a naturally ordained trait the evolved human possesses, but if it is, this theory certainly makes sense to me. Overall, all the content in this is very interesting but very uninterestedly presented.