Prospecting for gems in a prospect for my prospectus project

This particular project has been challenging in unique ways. In my own masochistic fashion, I decided to select a restaurant training manual as my non-fiction work for the proposal. I like works that I can approach, enjoy, relate to, and delve into without feeling like a victim in a dentist's office. Reading other training manuals was like pulling teeth, page by page without Novocaine. Do these people realize how violently disgusting they have made their prose? Stereo instructions poorly translated from Chinese would have been preferable to these books. In any case, the research is now behind me. ON TO THE DRAFT!

Oh wait. I finished the draft. The rough draft, even with word 2003's recalcitrant behavior, is done and posted. And there was much rejoicing, yay.

I did not enjoy writing about myself in the 3rd person, but I did enjoy the hell out of bashing those instruments of torture those other authors called training manuals. Tonight's rant is for those of us who consider ourselves writers... save your sanity. Make sure you write in a vein that you deeply enjoy. Forcing out a work on something you may like but in a style you resist is like drinking a gallon of liquid Drano; it hurts a lot and leaves you feeling hollow inside.

Indecent proposing

Our discussion last class regarding publishers and books has left me with a wide vacant chasm inside. Do we, as writers, really stare into the faces of the stone-faced gorgons of the publishing companies with any shred of hope? I have worked for years in the writing center environment and found the soul of the pen slowly draining away to its LCD arch-nemesis. Dust gathers atop old books while new ones are shelved in a digital storeroom for half the price and one-tenth the royalties.

I am a writer; I am an endangered species being hunted to extinction while no child will be left behind. NO SURVIVORS! Sometimes a light shines in the darkness, and occasionally, it is not an oncoming train. I have seen one or two writers emerge each semester. Not some aspirant e.e.cummings or Tolstoy or Cyber-Shakespeare, but some fresh new mind with a new perspective and desire to create worlds in words.

During those rare jewels in existence, I fight the overwhelming urge to weep and mourn a fate that has not transpired. The end of literate learning. Try as we might, good writers, our very existence is challenged by a world of efficiency, scientific dominion, and the bigger-better-faster-upgraded-supersmart word processing program that turns our craft into a binary sequence. Rise above and write.

A rhetorical analysis and a dash of short story

The assignments have blended together in a wash of misused time and procrastination. I have embarked on a journey of pointless wastes of time and consumption of beer to return hungover and wiser.

The rhetorical analysis was almost fun. The article I chose was annoying; the voice of the writer was angry and arrogant, and the selected questions delved deeply into his message to unveil a happy-go-lucky streak of argumentation. Huzzah.

The short story I am writing for the next assignment has proven to be quite challenging but absolutely hilarious. Flannery O'connor is some fun readin; I am enjoying emulating her style and parodying one of her great works. She'd probably laugh and chalk it up to some kid borrowing her crutches for a couple minutes. Thank you Flannery. I am glad I had this chance to slap the grandmother around; I have been waiting a few years to do it.

Once upon a time, I thought I could make a living writing fiction. The truth arrived through the end of two very inspirational people in my life. My grandmothers passed away last year around this time. They both wanted me to teach. So do I.