WriteOn! & My Own Creative Writing..

Recently I was a judge for the WriteOn! Albania, a creative English writing competition that is an international Balkans project. I was assisting my friend Joyce who did a great, stead fast job to bring this all together. The results were record breaking with a total of 1297 essays submitted. Many others did a terrific job of teaching classes, hosting and assisting the large scale writing sessions and being attentive to getting those best students up there for a try. From Saranda, we had six applicants and three placed and are attending the national conference!While reading these and seeing so often some common themes of creativity, like.. aliens taking over the world. Don’t get me wrong, at one point I marveled out loud, ‘why can’t life be like this’, as I was thinking about all the strange ideas that come into fictional writing. One of the best writers of our age for example, inspired a generation of us who dreamed of living the life of wizards and witches. We shared and laughed and genuinely enjoyed ourselves marveling at the answers to the competition’s prompts.

With it, and being so close to the conclusion of service, I wondered what results we’d get in America. While also considering, how would I have written my own. Re-reviewing the prompts I found there was a professional level option, and without further ado, I set off to write a response myself for an hour this Monday night, the time allotted for the students. Even finishing this blog article within the time, and I will not be giving myself rights to future alteration of the following essay:

2. If you could change one event in your life, what would it be and why? How would the present be different?

The room was always dark. It was in part due to the slideshows regularly being displayed and the dark, seventies inspired interior, wood with exposed grain that drew your pen to trace over and over them on the back of a chair. Easier to do than pay attention to the details of the gothic.. the romanesqeu..

This is after the dash in the rain, another lovely junior year day. In sweatshirts sitting on the couch all night reading theories of gender in the toasty warm one-floor-up, brick and mortar apartment complex. The place is just enough different with posters from gallery shows, awkward gold birdcages and rickety old-school cabinets. A warm haven, to stare out of forlornly at the snow and rain that fell upon our thin glass windows.

Return to the darkness of this classroom basement, this class I had signed up for that I desired to learn. That blankets me and leaves me napping off to the side.

With a trip in time, I sit up more straight. Remembering that generations before me have come here, that if I desire to be better at something, I must try harder and see things through. Pen to paper, the notes flow and the earnest learning, participation and time-based paper is submitted.

Acing the class, puts me ahead. Introduces me to a world of art and possibilities, with better abilities to pepper my conversation with the artists of the mad-dash gallery I am employed. My comments hold more gravity and substance and I recognize the influences, flow and imagery that is employed in the pieces we display.

The Sistine Chapel a year or so later, inspires in me the history of the work of this generation, the cutting edge of the artistry that millions so many years later flock to see, compressing you and moving with the crowd as we all stand still and start straight up, catching our glimpse of magnificence.

While now, demonstrating collage making in another language, far from the dark classroom, my knowledge of this field misses that slice of understanding that was available to me. With continuous personal pursuit I’ve tried to make amends for the trip in time I’m unable to make-up; to self-teach slowly in word, experience, sharing with others and different fabrics of life what the three credit hours would have shown me of Art History 101.

 

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