Autobiographical Sketch

Monday Blog
PG=100

So I am applying to this intensive workshop in Virginia for Play/Song writing and they asked me to write an Autobiographical Essay. After pestering Ms.Aladren I belive I have a basic comprehension of what I needed to do. So after many trials of wording--- this is what I came up with. I need to submitt it by the end of the night so if anyone wants to comment feedback....ya...that would be AWESOME.

PROMPT: An autobiographical sketch that details your reasons for wanting to attend the Workshop and captures your identity, interests, and influences as a writer.

MY RESPONCE:

I would never strictly call myself beautiful. There are many imperfections that stand out on a face. It’s only human to notice the faults in the skin rather than focus on the flawless features of someone else, but that is only because as a race we are taciturn to others by nature. I’ve learn to pretend not to care, or maybe forget that it mattered: somewhere in between lying and being accepting I’ve come to the terms that I would never be the blooming rose. I find myself tossed among the weeds, but I have discovered that the weed is stronger than the rose. Roses die in winter, but Weeds always grow back because nothing can kill it. It is better to be an independent weed than a dependent beauty.

I’ve heard many synonyms for the term “weed” but my favorite is “artist”. It’s enigmatic why I always go back to art, but it is a mystery best remained unsolved. Art fuels the fire that kindles my life, and I consider it an eternal flame. In short, I have become so enthralled with the written language that art has become my life. Literature is the nectar of the gods, and I being foolish drank too much. Yet I will never regret the taste of metaphors on my tongue, nor forget the smell of sweet synonyms chilling in the binding of pages.

 I consumed words like food in my early ages, and my hunger was never satisfied with the verses I was given. The words hollowed out my esophagus and made it hard to swallow premature sentences. As I grew older my desire for prose followed my evolution exponentially, yet the more I craved the less I was able to attain. It was so easy to grasp yet intangible. However my hands never stopped holding themselves out asking “Please sir, may I have some more?”  Therefore when I was given nothing and left to my own devises, I came to the conclusion that if I could not find the words to mollify me I would have to create my own

I’m very cavalier when it comes to my own writing. I tend to it like a garden, and care for it like an infant child, and I protect it like a life. Some see this as being tenacious but I see this as being a true artist. My words speak for themselves. It’s humbling yet hubris to find such content in one’s own words. It’s a viscous cycle that I would never dream of ending. Although I am exultant of my own words I don’t write for myself: writers who write for themselves have no purpose in writing. We write to share words with others, after all that is the pure bliss of writing. I write to affect others, to cause change in composure and to catalyst a movement of new phrases, verses and ideas. Roses grow in packs of red and pink, but weeds grow in a plethora of colors that I’m not entirely sure how to describe.

Describing art is equal to trying to smell the color nine: impossible. I’m not going to sit here and tell you about the girl in third grade that pushed me down the stairs, or the boy that cut my hair in gym class: for obstacles in life don’t make an artist. It is the strategy that the artist puts into action that creates the art. The past is called the past for the reason, and as cliché as it sounds the present is a gift. I write for the voices of now that fight against those who dwell into the past. Change happens so rapidly in front of our eyes that we miss the revolutions tomorrow will be talking about. Something everyone always forgets is that we are living history. I desire to fill the pages of the next generation’s textbooks with words that will blow their craniums through the ceiling. It is up to today to generate adventures to inspire the actions of tomorrow. A personal goal of my own is to change the cosmopolitan and make the rose the outcast. By attending this intensive workshop in writing I believe I can concentrate my voice into a clear message that follows as such:

The weed is beautiful because it grows anywhere there is hope for life. The rose is superficial. Why be a rose when you can be a wild-flower?

----Hayley Michelle