-Richard has had a strong voice all semester. His voice is easily heard and understood throughout all of the pieces that we have done.  A major theme that I found in his pieces was his voice and individuality and the need that he had to express his opinions, which he did well. I've learned that Richard says what he thinks, regardless of what other people may think about it. If I noticed any progression in his writing it was that he just found more ways to express himself easily.

Sarah

-Sarah expressed in many of the pieces that she was a creative writer, not a big fan of the essays. That was definitely noticeable in reading her blogs. She wrote in a simple flowing way that helped the reader to easily follow and understand the pieces. If any progression happened throughout the semester it was an improvement in Sarah's essay style. She kept her voice, but her essays seemed stronger to me towards the end of the semester.

Nicole

-Nicole is a very advanced writer, by that I mean that she uses vocabulary and styles that I have yet to find the courage to even try. She is a very clear writer; she gets her point across simply and easily, while still intriguing the readers. One advancement that Nicole made through the semester was her voice became more prevalent. In the first two it felt like Nicole may have been taking on a more academic voice, I'm glad that her voice came out so well and strongly in the final piece.

Merida

-Merida's voice was clear and strong from the first day of class. She is a very opinionated writer and her pieces have been strong and engaging from the start. Every piece of hers that I read kept me interested and let me know exactly where she was going and what she thought. She never tried to mask her writing. I didn't notice much change through the semester, other than her voice may have developed even more.

Myself

-I have always tried to keep my voice ever present and strong. I feel like this semester helped me do that.  I learned, through the reading and editing of my peers pieces, new styles and techniques that I can adapt for a fresh way to express myself. A theme that I tried to convey this semester was that a writer should write for the writer, while keeping the reader in mind. However, in the end the writer needs to be happy with their piece. I am happy with all of the pieces that I submitted this semester and now feel like all of the readers have learned about me and my voice.

It seems like the word of the semester is voice. What is this thing that we have been talking constantly about for the past two months? In his book Writing Without Teachers Peter Elbow (my favorite scholar that we have read in this class, thus far) explains voice as “the main source of power in your writing (6).” I take this to mean that without voice your writing is virtually pointless. You could be the best grammar scholar ever and know all of the ins and outs of the mechanics of writing, but your writing could end up being pointless. If you do not add a little bit of yourself to the writing (a little bit of voice) it is futile. I understand that voice is definitely the most important part of a paper, but I am still left asking myself the same question – what is voice? I have been struggling with this question as I try to write this. Is voice what I have to say, my opinions, my thoughts, my views, and my ideas? Or is it how I express myself, my word choice, my sentence structure, my style, and writing strategies?

I argued and argued with myself over this question. Finally, I came to the conclusion that voice is the way that you say things, the style. It took me a long time to get to this conclusion because I am a huge advocate of always saying whatever it is that you believe. I kind of always looked at voice as what I had to say. My ideas. But after reading and studying voice thus far this semester (and after a long argument with myself) I have come to the conclusion that the style is the voice. There are only so many things that you can say, but a nearly infinite amount of ways to say something. You can take something that somebody else says or writes and give it your own voice and suddenly it becomes something that you wrote. I am going to take a short passage from the book, On Truth, by Harry G. Frankfurt, imitate it and rewrite it. I am going to put it into my own voice (style) to try and prove my point. This particular passage represents the views that Spinoza has on love.

When somebody finds something in this world that truly makes them happy that is when they find love. They love the thing that makes them happy. According to this definition of love we can not stop loving something as long as it still continues to make us happy. People recognize what makes them happy actually brings them closer to finding and being themselves. Think about this for a minute. You find love when you find something that makes you happy, when you find this it is something that you will cling too. It is something you love. Anything that is loved, that makes somebody more joyful, is obviously something that will be important to them. Things that are important are usually things that will be protected. We protect the things we love.

Taking this passage and putting it into my own voice was fairly simple. However, going back and reading it, I realized that it does not really sound like something I would ever say. Even though I am sure that people who have read a lot of my writing would know that I wrote that excerpt. The words that I used - the repetition and the sentence structure - it is all clearly my style of writing. But under normal circumstances I would never want anyone to read my imitation of that passage. I do not even like reading it.

I usually enjoy reading what I write, or can at least stomach it, but not this imitation. I guess that it must be because I do not believe what I was writing; it is not “me.” While writing that passage I kept going off on different topics. I would take what he said but completely change what he was saying and how he said it. In reality I was just taking his topic and writing what I believed and in my own style and words. I had to keep checking myself to continue to write what Spinoza believed.

As I thought about this experience I thought that maybe I was wrong. Maybe voice is really what you are saying. Your opinions. That would make sense. I find it so much easier to write when I can write whatever I think rather then when I write about something I am told to think and believe. Then I tried the imitation exercise that way. I took the passage and ignoring Spinoza’s opinion on the subject, tried to write my own opinion, in his style. I found this much more difficult then the other exercise. I can not write in the same styles as other people. Unless I can find another author who writes in a very similar style to me, I can not change my style enough to do that exercise.

So the main conclusion that I have come to through these exercises and the writing of this paper is that voice is neither style nor content on their own. It is a combination of both of the styles. I can not write a paper if it is not what I believe. Well, I guess I can (I kind of did it earlier in this essay actually.) It will just end up becoming a piece of crap writing that I never believe to be worth reading, because it does not accurately represent how I feel. During high school I was always told what I had to write; as a teenager (stuck in my rebellious “stick it to the man” phase) I hated it. So I wrote whatever I wanted. What I really thought. Once in awhile I got in trouble for this, but usually I got respect. In fact it was in these experiences that my English teacher told me I had a strong voice and should let it shine.

However, there is no way that style does not play into voice. While I cannot write what other people believe. I also cannot write a paper in another person’s style. I have a style that some people love and some people hate. I write my sentences in weird lengths (either to choppy, or to long.) I write in a very repetitive style. During workshops and group editing, some people tend to dislike my style. I take what they say as advice, but it is nearly impossible for me to write in a forced style. I write in a very repetitive way. I like to force my point into the reader’s minds. Style is something that a writer needs to hold onto.

This thing called voice that we have been talking about for the past two months is something everybody has. Everybody knows their own opinions. Everybody has their own way of writing those opinions. Once you find your voice, go with it. Because, as Elbow says, “It’s your only source of power (7).”

It seems like the word of the semester is voice. What is this thing that we have been talking constantly about for the past two months? According to Peter Elbow, (my favorite scholar that we have read in this class, thus far) in his book, “Writing Without Teachers” it is, “the main source of power in your writing (6).” I understand that voice is definitely the most important part of a paper, but I am still left with the same question – what is voice? I have been struggling with this question as I try to write this. Is voice what I have to say - my opinions, my thoughts, my views, and my ideas? Or is it how I express myself - my word choice, my sentence structure, my style, and writing strategies?

I argued and argued with myself over this question. Finally, I came to the conclusion that voice is the way that you say things, the style. It took me a long time to get to this conclusion, because I am a huge advocate of always saying whatever it is that you believe. But, (after a long inner argument) I have come to the conclusion that the style is the voice. There are only so many things that you can say, but a nearly infinite amount of ways to say something. You can take something that somebody else says or writes and give it your own voice, and suddenly it becomes something that you wrote. I am going to take a short passage from the book, “On Truth,” by Harry G. Frankfurt. I am going to imitate it and rewrite it, put it into my own voice to try and prove my point. This particular passage is the views that Spinoza has on love. I am still going to be saying the same thing that Spinoza believes, but I am going to put it into my own words.

Imitation:

When somebody finds something in this world that truly makes them happy that is when they find love. They love the thing that makes them happy. According to this definition of love we can not stop loving something as long as it still continues to make us happy. People recognize what makes them happy or brings them closer to finding and being themselves. Think about this for a minute. You find love when you find something that makes you happy, when you find this it is something that you will cling too. It is something you love. Anything that is loved, that makes somebody more joyful, is obviously something that will be important to them. Things that are important are usually things that will be protected. We protect the things we love.

Taking this passage and putting it into my own voice was fairly simple. However, going back and reading it, I realized that it does not really sound like me at all. Granted, I am sure that people who have read a lot of my writing would know that I wrote that, but it still does not really feel right. The words that I used - the repetition and the sentence structure - it is all clearly my writing, but under normal circumstances I would never want anyone to read my imitation of that passage. I do not even like reading it.

I usually enjoy reading what I write, or can at least stomach it, but not this passage. It must be because I do not believe what I was writing. While writing that passage I kept going off on different topics. I would take what he said but completely change what he was saying and how he said it. In reality I was just taking his topic and writing what I believed and in my own style and words. I had to keep checking myself to continue to write what Spinoza believed.

As I thought about this experience I though that maybe I was wrong. Maybe, voice is really what you are saying. Your opinions. That would make sense. I find it so much easier to write, when I can write whatever I think rather then when I write about something I am told to think and believe. Then I tried the imitation exercise that way. I took the passage and ignoring Spinoza’s opinion on the subject, tried to write my own opinion, in his style. I found this much more difficult then the other exercise. I can not write in the same styles as other people. Unless I can find another author who writes in a very similar style to me, I can not change my style enough to do that exercise.

So the main conclusion that I have come to through these exercises and the writing of this paper is that voice is neither style nor content. It is both. I can not write a paper if it is not what I believe. Well, I guess I can (I kind of did it earlier in this essay actually) it just end up becoming writing that I never believe to be worth reading. During high school I was always told what I had to write; as a teenager (forever stuck in my rebellious phase) I hated it. I usually wrote whatever I really thought. Once in awhile I got in trouble for this, but usually I got respect. In fact it was in these experiences that my English teacher told me I had a strong voice and should let it shine. I also can not write a paper in another person’s style. I have a style that some people hate. I write sentences in weird lengths (either to choppy, or to long.) I write in a very repetitive style. During workshops and group editing, some people tend to dislike my style. I take what they say as advice, but it is nearly impossible for me to write in a forced style.

This thing called voice that we have been talking about for the past two months is something everybody has. Everybody knows their own opinions. Everybody has their own way of writing those opinions. Once you find your voice, go with it. Because, as Elbow says, “It’s your only source of power (7).”

“Your mother and I are getting divorced.”

I was in shock. I couldn’t believe that my family-the ‘perfect’ four children, two parents family-had been ripped apart by these simple words.

The teachers at my small private school had always described my family as “The Brady Bunch.” We seemed perfectly happy and were always together. Every morning we all arrived at our school and hopped out of the family van, our blonde hair bobbing as we skipped into the school. Our parents were there for every sports game we played, every play we starred in, and every academic thing we did.

That was all about to change. Sixteen years of living a perfect family life and now it was over. My parents left us with empty promises of, “We will still be a family,” and “Nothing will ever change.” It was all a lie.

I stormed up to my bedroom and slammed the door. The wind from the motion blew the pictures off of my wall: pictures of my family smiling at the beach, playing in the back yard, and posing in front of our lit up Christmas tree. I picked them up, ripped the rest of them off of the wall, and shoved them into a KSwiss shoe box and threw it into my closet. I couldn’t think about the fun our family used to have.

I grabbed my composition book and started angrily scribbling away. I wrote about how I hated my parents, how selfish they were being, and wondering what the hell was I going to do now that I was a divorced kid. After writing out my angry feelings, I flipped through the rest of my journal. It was full of proclamations of my love for this boy and that boy, hatred for my teachers, and gossip about my best friends. I hated how shallow I sounded. Up until this divorce nothing bad had happened to me, but I lived my life like a traumatized teenager. In a fit of rage I grabbed every notebook and journal in my room and shoved it into my pink plastic butterfly trash can. I grabbed the trash can and brought the entire thing to the dumpster and left it there, a gift for the garbage men the next morning.

Looking back, I wish that I had never thrown away those journals. While they were immature and shallow and by no means wonderful pieces of writing, they were a piece of me, and my writing. There are times when I wish I could go to my closet and grab my journal box and flip back to the entries about my first crush, first kiss, and even fights with friends. But I couldn’t now. Now I keep everything I write; stupid little limericks scribbled on syllabi, quick rants about my roommates, and long entries about an inspirational thing I experienced during my day.

A few months after the announcement of the diorce Tarin, my sister, and I were driving home in the family van. She was digging in the glove compartment for some change so that we could go to Sonic and get slushes. Instead she found a small blue notebook, filled with my dad’s handwriting. She had found his journal!

I pulled over and parked behind a red Volkswagen and grabbed it from her. She stared at me, in disgust that I was going to betray my dad’s trust and read his journal. I didn’t care. I wanted to know how he felt about the entire divorce situation. At least I thought I did.

I was skimming through the thin, slanted, black words until I came across something that made me sick. There, in the same handwriting that had written sick notes, signed permission slips, birthday cards, and scribbled notes on lunch bags, was written five words I will never forget reading. “My wife cheated on me.”

I literally almost vomited. I couldn’t even drive home. How could my dad keep something like this from us, from his own children? Needless to say, all the anger I had about the divorce was immediately transferred to my mother. I felt like she had not only cheated on my dad, but she had cheated on the family. The only person whom she had thought about when having an affair was herself. I didn’t know what to do about the entire situation. But, I was left with thinking, “How could my dad hide something like this?” How could something this big remain hidden for so long?

The answer was clearly in front of me. He could hide it so well because he wrote about it. He got it out of him by writing it all down. He wrote about it in a place where he expected it was going to remain private forever. He could freely write what he thought and felt and no one would see it. Strangely, I was inspired by this event to restart my writing hobby.

Reading that my mother wasn’t the woman I had grown up admiring was not the thing that I thought would trigger my happiness. But it was. Well not at first. At first, I was angry. I wrote about my anger daily, and was able to hide it from my family, who assumed that I was still just a little mixed up from the divorce. They didn’t know the half of how I really felt.

Being a sixteen year old girl was traumatic and confusing enough. Adding a divorce, a cheating mother, and a broken family to that could definitely break a girl down. I was angry. I was hurt. I started writing it all out. My school notebooks were full of my feelings rather than notes about world wars or isosceles triangles. I started being able to hide everything from everyone with the help of a pen.

This way of writing had both its ups and its downs. I was becoming a writer that much was obvious. I wrote daily and my writing was improving. I no longer was stopped by writers block, or the fear of saying what I wanted to say. Words seemed to just leave the pen and appear on the page without me even thinking. I realized that this was not publishable writing, or even something that was interesting enough for someone else to read, but they were writings that were only a few steps away from being to the point that others could enjoy it.

The down side didn’t have to do with my writing at all. It was more about myself. I thought I was getting rid of the bad feelings when I was writing it out, but that wasn’t the case. Instead I learned that it was unhealthy to not be able to actually get feed back on my feelings and actions. It was entirely too easy for me to pretend that things weren’t really happening if I could write about them

It was writing that helped me to escape from the fights with my best friends. It helped me to vent about break-ups. However, it also helped me hide one of the most disturbing things that I ever experienced. Something that I should probably not have hidden.

Every junior in high school experiences pressure. Pressure to impress family, teachers, and friends. When my parents added a divorce to the things that I had to worry about I cracked. I don’t blame what I went through on my parents divorce, but with all the commotion of that I was able to hide it easier.

Half-way through my junior year I crumbled from everything that I had to deal with. I became bulimic. It might have been a cry for attention; it might have been me just finally giving in to the pressures of being thin and beautiful. Regardless of why it happened, it did. I didn’t tell anyone what I was going through. People could tell that I was bothered by something and that I was upset, but all they knew was that I was going through my parents divorce. Because I could write about how I felt I never had to tell anyone.

Eventually people realized that something else was going on. I was constantly tired, rapidly losing weight, and even passed out at tennis practice. Still no one knew about my disorder. Our principal just recommended I go talk to a therapist about my feelings. Angry about the audacity of my principal thinking I needed professional help, I turned to my notebooks. I read what I had been feeling through the past few months and was disgusted. I knew that what I was doing-binging and purging-was wrong, but I kept doing it.

I hid behind my writing and used my writing to hide my feelings. I had taken that from my dad. I thought that he was able to be as happy as he appeared because he wrote out his feelings. So I did the same thing, I realized that writing couldn’t make you happy by hiding your feelings. After my experience with an eating disorder I stopped using my writing as therapy. I still use writing to express how I feel, but my pieces are a lot less full of emotions. I have progressed from writing only from my heart and feelings and now write more about my ideas and thoughts.

Writing has always been my escape. My way to get away from most other things in life. However, through my experiences I have come to the realization that I was abusing writing. I was expecting too much out of it. I expected it to fix my problems, instead of me actually facing my problems myself. Writing is not a cure all and now that I have learned that I write easily on carefree and fun topics. Venting through writing is healthy, as long as you don’t expect the writing to hide and destroy all of your problems.

“Your mother and I are getting divorced.”

I was in shock. I couldn’t believe that my family-the ‘perfect’ four children, two parents family-had been ripped apart by these simple words.

The teachers at my small private school had always described my family as “The Brady Bunch.” We seemed perfectly happy and were always together. Every morning we all arrived at our school and hopped out of the family van, our blonde hair bobbing as we skipped into the school. Our parents were there for every sports game we played, every play we starred in, and every academic thing we did.

That was all about to change. Sixteen years of living a perfect family life and now it was over. My parents left us with empty promises of, “We will still be a family,” and “Nothing will ever change.” It was all a lie.

I stormed up to my bedroom and slammed the door. The wind from the motion blew the pictures off of my wall: pictures of my family smiling at the beach, playing in the back yard, and posing in front of our lit up Christmas tree. I picked them up, ripped the rest of them off of the wall, and shoved them into a KSwiss shoe box and threw it into my closet. I couldn’t think about the fun our family used to have.

I grabbed my composition book and started angrily scribbling away. I wrote about how I hated my parents, how selfish they were being, and wondering what the hell was I going to do now that I was a divorced kid. After writing out my angry feelings, I flipped through the rest of my journal. It was full of proclamations of my love for this boy and that boy, hatred for my teachers, and gossip about my best friends. I hated how shallow I sounded. Up until this divorce nothing bad had happened to me, but I lived my life like a traumatized teenager. In a fit of rage I grabbed every notebook and journal in my room and shoved it into my pink plastic butterfly trash can. I grabbed the trash can and brought the entire thing to the dumpster and left it there, a gift for the garbage men the next morning.

Looking back, I wish that I had never thrown away those journals. While they were immature and shallow and by no means wonderful pieces of writing, they were a piece of me, and my writing. There are times when I wish I could go to my closet and grab my journal box and flip back to the entries about my first crush, first kiss, and even fights with friends. But I couldn’t now. Now I keep everything I write; stupid little limericks scribbled on syllabi, quick rants about my roommates, and long entries about an inspirational thing I experienced during my day.

A few months after the announcement of the diorce Tarin, my sister, and I were driving home in the family van. She was digging in the glove compartment for some change so that we could go to Sonic and get slushes. Instead she found a small blue notebook, filled with my dad’s handwriting. She had found his journal!

I pulled over and parked behind a red Volkswagen and grabbed it from her. She stared at me, in disgust that I was going to betray my dad’s trust and read his journal. I didn’t care. I wanted to know how he felt about the entire divorce situation. At least I thought I did.

I was skimming through the thin, slanted, black words until I came across something that made me sick. There, in the same handwriting that had written sick notes, signed permission slips, birthday cards, and scribbled notes on lunch bags, was written five words I will never forget reading. “My wife cheated on me.”

I literally almost vomited. I couldn’t even drive home. How could my dad keep something like this from us, from his own children? Needless to say, all the anger I had about the divorce was immediately transferred to my mother. I felt like she had not only cheated on my dad, but she had cheated on the family. The only person whom she had thought about when having an affair was herself. I didn’t know what to do about the entire situation. But, I was left with thinking, “How could my dad hide something like this?” How could something this big remain hidden for so long?

The answer was clearly in front of me. He could hide it so well because he wrote about it. He got it out of him by writing it all down. He wrote about it in a place where he expected it was going to remain private forever. He could freely write what he thought and felt and no one would see it. Strangely, I was inspired by this event to restart my writing hobby.

Reading that my mother wasn’t the woman I had grown up admiring was not the thing that I thought would trigger my happiness. But it was. Well not at first. At first, I was angry. I wrote about my anger daily, and was able to hide it from my family, who assumed that I was still just a little mixed up from the divorce. They didn’t know the half of how I really felt.

Being a sixteen year old girl was traumatic and confusing enough. Adding a divorce, a cheating mother, and a broken family to that could definitely break a girl down. I was angry. I was hurt. I started writing it all out. My school notebooks were full of my feelings rather than notes about world wars or isosceles triangles. I started being able to hide everything from everyone with the help of a pen.

This way of writing had both its ups and its downs. I was becoming a writer that much was obvious. I wrote daily and my writing was improving. I no longer was stopped by writers block, or the fear of saying what I wanted to say. Words seemed to just leave the pen and appear on the page without me even thinking. I realized that this was not publishable writing, or even something that was interesting enough for someone else to read, but they were writings that were only a few steps away from being to the point that others could enjoy it.

The down side didn’t have to do with my writing at all. It was more about myself. I thought I was getting rid of the bad feelings when I was writing it out, but that wasn’t the case. Instead I learned that it was unhealthy to not be able to actually get feed back on my feelings and actions. It was entirely too easy for me to pretend that things weren’t really happening if I could write about them

It was writing that helped me to escape from the fights with my best friends. It helped me to vent about break-ups. However, it also helped me hide one of the most disturbing things that I ever experienced. Something that I should probably not have hidden.

Every junior in high school experiences pressure. Pressure to impress family, teachers, and friends. When my parents added a divorce to the things that I had to worry about I cracked. I don’t blame what I went through on my parents divorce, but with all the commotion of that I was able to hide it easier.

Half-way through my junior year I crumbled from everything that I had to deal with. I became bulimic. It might have been a cry for attention; it might have been me just finally giving in to the pressures of being thin and beautiful. Regardless of why it happened, it did. I didn’t tell anyone what I was going through. People could tell that I was bothered by something and that I was upset, but all they knew was that I was going through my parents divorce. Because I could write about how I felt I never had to tell anyone.

Eventually people realized that something else was going on. I was constantly tired, rapidly losing weight, and even passed out at tennis practice. Still no one knew about my disorder. Our principal just recommended I go talk to a therapist about my feelings. Angry about the audacity of my principal thinking I needed professional help, I turned to my notebooks. I read what I had been feeling through the past few months and was disgusted. I knew that what I was doing-binging and purging-was wrong, but I kept doing it.

I hid behind my writing and used my writing to hide my feelings. I had taken that from my dad. I thought that he was able to be as happy as he appeared because he wrote out his feelings. So I did the same thing, I realized that writing couldn’t make you happy by hiding your feelings. After my experience with an eating disorder I stopped using my writing as therapy. I still use writing to express how I feel, but my pieces are a lot less full of emotions. I have progressed from writing only from my heart and feelings and now write more about my ideas and thoughts.

Writing can be an escape. But I would not recommend using writing as therapy. It feels good to get your thoughts out, but realize that when you write you are just venting. You are not actually fixing anything.

“You’re mother and I are getting divorced.”

I was in shock. I couldn’t believe that my family, the ‘perfect’ four children, two parents family, had been ripped apart by these simple words.

The teachers at my small private school had always described my family as “The Brady Bunch.” We were seemingly perfectly happy and were always all together. Every morning we all arrived at our school and hopped out of the family van, our blonde hair bobbing as we skipped into the school. Our parents were there for every sports game we played, every play we starred in, and every academic thing we did.

That was all about to change. Sixteen years of living a perfect family life and now it was over. My parents left us with empty promises of, “We will still be a family,” and “Nothing will ever change.” It was all a lie.

I stormed up to my bedroom and slammed the door. The wind from the motion blew the pictures off of my wall: pictures of my family smiling at the beach, playing in the back yard, and posing in front of our lit up Christmas tree. I picked them up ripped the rest of them off of the wall and shoved them into a KSwiss shoe box and threw it into my closet. I couldn’t think about the fun our family used to have.

I grabbed my composition book and started angrily scribbling away. I wrote about how I hated my parents, how selfish they were being, and what the hell was I going to do now that I was a divorced kid. After writing out my angers I flipped through the rest of my journal. It was full of proclamations of my love for this boy and that boy, hatred for my teachers, and gossip about my best friends. I hated how shallow I sounded. Up until this divorce nothing bad had happened to me, but I lived my life like a traumatized teenager. In a fit of rage I grabbed every notebook and journal in my room and shoved it into my pink plastic butterfly trash can. I grabbed the trash can and brought the entire thing to the dumpster and left it there, a gift for the garbage men the next morning.

Looking back, I wish that I had never thrown away those journals. While they were immature and shallow and by no means wonderful pieces of writing, they were a piece of me and my writing. There are times when I wish I could go to my closet and grab my journal box and flip back to the entries about my first crush, first kiss, and even fights with friends. But I can’t. Now I keep everything I write; stupid little limericks scribbled on syllabuses, quick rants about my roommates, and long entries about an inspirational thing I experienced during my day.

A few months later Tarin, my sister, and I were driving home in the family van. She was digging in the glove department for some change so that we could go to Sonic and get slushes. Instead she found a small blue notebook, filled with my dad’s handwriting. She had found his journal.

I pulled over and parked behind a red Volkswagen and grabbed it from her. She stared at me, in disgust that I was going to betray my dad’s trust and read his journal. I didn’t care. I wanted to know how he felt about the entire divorce situation. At least I thought I did.

I was skimming through the thin, slanted, black words until I came across something that made me sick. There, in the same handwriting that had written sick notes, signed permission slips and birthday cards, and scribbled notes on lunch bags, was written five words I will never forget reading. “My wife cheated on me.”

I literally almost vomited. I couldn’t even drive home. How could my dad keep something like this from us, from his own children? Needless to say, all the anger I had about the divorce was immediately transferred to my mother. But, I was left with thinking, “how could my dad hide something like this?”

The answer was clearly in front of me. He could hide it so well because he wrote about it. He wrote about it in a place where he expected it was going to remain private forever. He could freely write what he thought and felt and no one would see it. Strangely, I was inspired by this event to restart my writing hobby.

Reading that my mother wasn’t the woman I had grown up admiring, was not the thing that I thought would trigger my happiness. But, it was. Not at first. At first, I was angry. I wrote about my anger daily, and was able to hide it from my family, who assumed that I was still just a little mixed up from the divorce.

Imitation: The girl sat in a dark room, outside of the light from the bright small lamp.

Model: If one must worship a bully, it is better that he should be a policeman than a gangster.

Imitation: If you are forced to tell a lie, it should be a small white lie than a big hurtful one.

Model: The real art that dealt with life directly was that of the first men who told their stories round the savage campfire.

Imitation: The real person who is themselves is one who does what they want despite the angry critics.

As a high school student, just beginning my journey into the field of writing, I was faced with a dilemma. I never knew what to write about; I always seemed to be stuck on the same few topics (eating disorders, Marilyn Monroe, and childcare) that I wrote about every time. I chose to write on these topics constantly, because I knew that my reader’s views were likely to be the same as mine; for example, who is going to say eating disorders are good? My junior year I started taking an Advanced Placement English class. My instructor would lead the class in a free writing exercise every morning before class started. Everyday he would give us a prompt; he would say a random word, ask a simple question, or show us an inspiring picture and we would have to write about it for any given amount of time. This free writing exercise is one of the things that I feel needs to be explored further in most writing classrooms, because of the help that it gave me as a writer.

There are many people who have arguments against free writing. Bartholomae says, “there is no writing that is writing without teachers (63).” He says this because, people always write under the influence that there will be a judge somewhere in the process. He goes on to argue that free writing does little to help a true writer progress. Bartholomae believes this because, he believes that all writing is academic writing. I am completely against the view that free writing does not help the average writer. The in-class prompts that the instructor gave us led me to write some of my best and most creative essays. Many writers have the same problem that I used to have, the fear of judgment on pieces that they produce. When writing on the prompts given by my instructor, my classmates and I easily took up the entire amount of given time scribbling away on the topic or whatever came to mind when the prompt was given to us. We were able to write away, without caring, because we knew that we would not be judged for what we wrote. We were free to express our feelings and ideas.

This brings me to another argument that some scholars have against free writing exercises: that there is no reason for a piece of writing, unless there is going to be an audience. In my experiences with free writing that is what made it such a good exercise for me. In free writing one gets to express their point of view with the knowledge that there will not be a judgmental person, or audience, reading it. I could say anything. I was able to write, without having to hold back, about whatever the topic brought to mind. If I thought a piece that I came up with in the free writing sessions was worth being read, I could expand and edit that essay into one that was appropriate for an audience.

That being said, while free writing is a great way for a writer to get ideas out, it does not necessarily help a writer grow in the grammar and organization of the writing that one should produce for an audience. This is where the instructor in a classroom is necessary. Grammar exercises are needed for a completely different reason in the classroom. Without being able to write clearly and grammatically correct, the message that writer’s are trying to get across will not be taken as seriously as a well written essay. So, while it is very important to be able to use free writing to get fresh ideas and topics to write on, grammar has some importance as well.

The argument that is made against free writing that pieces need an audience, as well as the argument that every piece should be directed towards an audience, is something that I definitely do not believe. I do however, agree with the question that some people ask; what good is a piece of writing if it is not written to be seen? This is a legitimate question. Writing should be seen, but not because it was written to be seen. It should be seen so that the readers can see what the writer thought. They can take it as they want to, but at least, in any case as long as the writer is getting his or her thoughts out, that’s what truly matters. It was having the freedom from judgment and grading which led to my desire to be a writer. Sometimes being judged is one of the problems that many people face when beginning their own journeys toward becoming a writer. The honest thoughts and views of a writer, not the edited versions, are what need to be shared, which is the overall point of writing. That is why I actually do agree that writings should be seen, but I still do not believe that they should not be created for the audience. It is about the writer. Not only is a piece of work at stake, but if one is truly able to write what they feel then their views and beliefs are also at stake.

The point that I am trying to make is when people begin writing for themselves and writing the things that make them happy that is when we get some of the best pieces of writings. Continually trying to please whatever audience you are ‘writing for,’ will lead you to long nights of editing, drafting, and fretting over making the perfect piece that no one will be able to judge. Writing for oneself will lead one to write what their true thoughts are. This is helpful because when people are talking about things that they believe in, they tend to do so more easily than when they try to write what they believe the reader wants to read.

This is the problem that we see in most academic settings. Students are afraid to step on any toes, especially the toes of the ‘ultimate judge,’ the instructor. Therefore students tend to shy away from writing, especially writing what they really believe, especially in classrooms where instructors make their point of view so clear that they let it get in the way of their grading of students’ works. The instructor should grade a student’s work on how they state their opinion; they should never judge a work on what the student says. This being said, while it is not fair for a student’s opinion to be stifled, it is also unfair for an instructor’s opinion to be completely silenced. However, as I have stated previously it should not get in the way of their unbiased grading.

Today, as a college student, I still have a daily desire to write. In fact, my desire has grown immensely. Many of my college instructors lead me in free writing exercises. It has led me to free write, by myself on a daily basis. I love writing anything I want, knowing that I am the only one who can judge what I say.

There are many people who have arguments against free writing; they say that it does no good for the real writers in this world. I am completely against the view that free writing does not help the average writer. The in class prompts that the instructor gave us led me to write some of my best and most creative essays. Many writers have the same problem that I used to have, the problem of coming up with a topic for an essay or piece of writing. When writing on the prompts given by my instructor, my classmates and I easily took up the entire amount of given time scribbling away on the topic or whatever came to mind when the prompt was given to us.

An argument that some scholars have against free writing exercises is that there is no reason for a piece of writing, unless there is going to be an audience. In my experiences with free writing, that is what made it such a good exercise for me. In free writing you get to write with the knowledge that there will not be a judgmental person, or audience, reading it. I could say anything. I was able to write, without having to hold back, about whatever the topic brought to mind. If I thought a piece of writing that I came up with in the free writing sessions was worth being read, I could expand and edit that that essay into one that was appropriate for an audience. It was having the freedom from judgment and grading which led to my desire to be a writer. Sometimes being judged is one of the problems that many fellow writers face when beginning their own journeys toward becoming a writer.

The argument that some scholars make against free writing about pieces of writing needing an audience as well as the argument that all writings should be directed towards an audience is something that I definitely do not believe. Granted, I agree with the question that some people ask; what good is a piece of writing if it is not written to be seen? This is a legitimate question. Writing should be seen, but not because it was written to be seen. It should be seen so that the readers can see what the writer thought, they can take it as they want to, but at least in any case as long as the writer is getting his or her thoughts out that is what truly matters. Their honest thoughts and views, not the edited versions, are what need to be shared, which I believe is the point of writing. That is why I actually do agree that writings should be seen, but I still do not believe that they should not be written for the audience. It is about the writer.

What I am saying is, when people begin writing for themselves, and writing the things that make them happy is when we get some of our best pieces of writings. Continually trying to please whatever audience you are ‘writing for,’ will lead you to long nights of editing, drafting, and fretting over making the perfect piece that no one will be able to judge. Writing for yourself will lead you to writing what your true thoughts are and when people are talking about things that they believe in, they tend to do so more easily than writing what the writer believes to be the audience’s views.

This is the problem that we see in most academic settings. Students are afraid to step on any toes, especially the toes of the ‘ultimate judge,’ the instructor. Therefore students tend to shy away from writing, especially in their own voice. Especially in classrooms where instructors make their point of view so clear that they let it get in the way of their grading of students’ works. While, I feel it unfair to stifle the opinion of the instructor completely, instructors need to realize that instead of judging the opinions of the students, they need to judge the writing instead; the grammar, organization, spelling, all of these things. They should not grade the student based upon the ideas that the student is sharing, but upon how these ideas are presented in the student’s writing.

That being said, while free writing is a great way for a writer to get ideas out, it does not necessarily help a writer grow in the grammar and organization of their writing. This is where the instructor is necessary. Grammar exercises are just as important as free writing exercises and just as helpful in the writing community. Without being able to write clearly and grammatically correct, the message that writer’s are trying to get across will not be taken as seriously as a well written essay, even if the opinion is completely opposite the opinion of the reader.

All of the arguing about what we need in the writing community is pointless. It is tearing apart the community, when all that needs to be done is to look at it from the other side. A large majority of the arguments that are had in our community seem to be arguing about different kinds of writing.