Definition Of Creative Non-Fiction- An Assignment

I had never before heard of Creative Non-fiction before this spring 2008 semester. If you had asked me last year, I would have guessed. And yet, as this semester comes to a close, and I have spent what is almost 16 weeks with Professor Farley, I have a much better understanding of what was unknown to me, and truly, a deeper respect and love for the genre. I now have a definition that I could inform and educate others with- a definition that has changed me as a writer forever.

To define creative non-fiction as best I could, it would be a genre that acknowledges life as a whole- a reality that has been transformed into a beautiful, well written piece; making a piece of reality an enticing work. And yet, these words that describe it so perfectly cannot suffice for the true definition that I understand as a person and writer. The definition does not come from a book, or from any resource; it comes from me and my growing as a writer. The time and place where I truly began to experience and learn about the genre (more importantly, appreciating it) was with my blog. My blog, although personal, is written with a certain flair and touch that it becomes a work of art- my thoughts that bounce around all day have become my creative expression of my daily routine- my crazy antics that are truly non-fictional, and yet, are written completely creatively.

The two books we have read in class, “All Around the Town” and “The Curve of Binding Energy”, although they are more historical, are great examples of the genre. They are written in an aesthetically pleasing vernacular- enticing in the way that one wants to read them, and yet- they are completely and truly non-fictional. It helps one to understand that this genre is one of the easiest to write under, as it is completely open ended. It has the beauty of being able to be completely over exaggerated, melancholy, or even nostalgic- any emotion known to man- and be true and real at the same time. It is the almost perfect genre for college students, much like myself, to learn to appreciate as well as write under, as learning to write in such a way that hooks and entices readers as well as educates them, while getting a writer’s point across is vital to any one subject; creative non-fiction is not limited to one topic. While creative writing connects to the writer, and many oftentimes, the reader, it does not have the same level of intensity as its counterpart, non-fiction. Non-fiction carries a part of the writer itself, and is oftentimes the more preferred of the two as it is easier to lets one’s inner experiences and soul out into a piece as such; The open ended-ness and ability to be extremely frank with readers is almost like a drug that entice writers and readers alike to this specific genre.

Creative non-fiction is the one genre I had never known about, at yet, it is the only one that has changed my writing style and capabilities, not only for the better, but for good. As a writer and lover of the arts, I could never look back; I have found my niche in the lack of boundaries that I have discovered- a style that allows me to be random, be creative, to be me.

My Sincere Apologies, Monsieur, But You Must Understand...

I don't know why I forget to blog. I really don't. And I do realize that I don't. For those of you who read my blog faithfully and are my audience, I deeply apologize. You see, it's a difficult thing to explain. For me, writing isn't an assignment- it's a way of life. It's the expression of feelings, whether it's anger, despair, ingenious design or sheer bliss. This whole 2 blogs a week thing doesn't work for me- especially with mandated papers that must be written, as if they are such a simple task. But my blog is different.

While the other papers are structured, gathering my opinions and thoughts on certain topics controlled by my brain and conscience, my blog comes from my soul. It's like my art- it just happens; my art could never be forced because it becomes, in the same instant, an assignment- completely void of any importance to me.

One can therefore derive, my faithful readers, that this page, although simple in appearance, using simple words to tell the story of a simple girl, very simply gives me a stage in which to portray and display my soul. Not many humans do what I do. Who knows why. Probably fear. Fear of being made fun of. Of being looked at differently. Of having their personal business displayed, their dirty laundry hung-to be naked in the eyes of the public. The way I see it? Well, everyone has their dirt and their flaws. Mine just happen to be particularly entertaining ;-)

April 18th 2007- April 18th 2008: A Year In Perspective

Very simply speaking, Friday was one of the worst days of my life. And as impossible as that sounds, given the circumstances of my usual day-to-day hysterics, it was. For weeks, it had been a day I was least looking forward to, praying that by some sheer miracle I could skip over it and wake up Saturday morning. Memories I am forced to relive everyday are now on a more emotional level, and are fixed on a set path that is more traveled than not, and yet, the more I try to build a fence to lock those memories away, I find myself more often tearing down what little progress I have made to lovingly visit what I can reach out an try to grab to only, once again, painfully wake to the reality that what I recall is the past and will never again be my present.

As the blare of my radio forced me out of bed, my eyelids blink violently to force out the light that was then flooding into my now naked pupils, fully dilated after my night of tossing and turning. Going through the movements of pulling myself out of bed, merely 10 minutes after 6 in the morning, I scratch the leg of my Sponge Bob Squarepants pajama pants and glance in the mirror of my paiopa wood dresser, the shell etched designs framing my appearance. Dark, almost, as my frame of dark black curls hang, leaving one perfect spiral to rest alongside my bare shoulders. I remember. I don’t know why, but I do, and, without any further notice, my chest tightens and I feel my throat close around the perfect swell that has formed. I choke as the stinging pain from what seems to stab from my brain to the backs of my eyes brings back a sensation better left and sadly, better known. What knives that stab the backs of my retinas now slide silently down my plump cheeks, rosy and tanned, the result of months spent in a tanning booth. I push them away and suck up my tears- try to pull together what hard shell I have grown over the past year; a steel shell that is only a false appearance to shield the world from what liquid state that my body has assumed. What little remnants remain of my heart have become solid stone- in a sick response to its lack of warmth, affections and the increased amount of rejection aimed at it directly. I relive, standing in my room at dawn, the soft embrace of what was our first kiss. My waist still tingles in the spot where his arms once wrapped me tightly close to him, my ears echoing his voice as clearly as that night…”…Alyssa, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Baby, you’re my everything. I’d never hurt you. Please…don’t ever leave me…”

That was one year ago. 365 days passed since my meager life had finally come to some pinnacle. 8,760 hours since my Cinderella story became my reality. 525,600 minutes standing as soldiers in between myself and the only person I’ve ever loved. And better yet, 1 single moment to rip apart my soul. 60 seconds to allow the person I loved so dearly, who so carelessly threw words around with no consideration of what would occur some 9 months later when their validity would be tested to walk out of my life by simply hanging up the phone. And now the slow waltzes are gone, and the arms that held me from danger suddenly let go- and I’m falling. What footsteps mirrored mine on my life path have slowly disappeared and now I only see my own.

He said it quietly, in a quick kind of way. Almost as if I’d understand what he was saying because I’d heard him say it hundreds of times before. “Uhm, so, listen. You deserve a lot. Actually you deserve a lot better- definitely more than I could ever give you because I have so much going on in my life that I need to sort out and a lot of it is unnecessary- you’re unnecessary. Make believe you never met me; forget me-that’s what I’m going to do to you. So, have a good life, Alyssa, you deserve it.”

Unnecessary. Such a simple word; a word I had said and passed thousands of times in my life, and yet, never had such a strong gravity until that one moment, where I learned that it only takes 3,600 milliseconds to completely destroy a person. A year later I still hear his vindictive words echoing as I awaken myself; That I’m in my room. That the tears of acid that burn and fall from my swollen eyes have rolled down my plump cheeks and pool around my chin. That I need to get ready for school. That it’s April 18th 2008. 2008. A year later. And he’s not by my side…

Looking Back On the Things I've Done...

I guess I've always had this knack for writing. As I sit at my desktop, Friday night, reviewing my old files for some weekend-kick, I find something I wrote, very literally, on the eve of my birthday- the transition time between my sweet 16th year and my, what would turn out to be, sour 17th. It is a description of my life- the person I am, the person I aspire to be. I'll leave it here- for the simple reason that its time I write a new one; as I read it over, I've seen how it emvbodies the person I was, not who I am any longer...well, then again...that's for you to decide =)

Listen, my dears, and you will hear the story of a girl ♥

Now, this isn't a story like all those other fairy tales you kids live off of. There are no princes, daring swordfights, magic spells, dragons, evil sorceresses or all that jazz, even though, that was all she dreamt of. It is just the simple story of a simple girl just simply trying to live. She was just a girl, not a day over 17. She wasn't what one would consider popular; she didn't wear the newest and most expensive fashions and she didn't give in to everything deemed cool for the time. She was a nerd, a loser in every sense of the word. She broke her glasses often, and she often spent Fridays at home with a book. She didn’t drink, she didn’t smoke and she never did any drugs. She tumbled down stairs as frequently as possible and tripped up them just as often. She might not have been popular, but God was she well loved. She surrounded herself with the people who made her happy, the people who made her laugh, smile, and cry, scream, and raise every emotion she never thought she had. These girls completed her life, and she would have never survived her high school years without them. They were there when she was down, when she was up, when she needed a shoulder, as she was there when they needed her no matter what. They saw past everything else, really saw her soul, and that’s all that mattered, both to them and to her. She wasn’t what one considered “wildly gorgeous”, and she definitely wasn’t one of those model type girls. She was beautiful in her own way, with delicate and soft features, though most saw her as being more on the hard side. Her conceit and self-absorption certainly came off as strong, but not even she could lie about it, it was a cover-up to hide her own visions of her perfectly plentiful flaws. She was perfectly flawed and that was all right. She was ingeniously smart, although it didn’t always show. She had the brains any man would die for, but it was all at academia. She could quote the best of any classical author, whether it was Homer or Margaret Mitchell. She lived for the arts, and only felt at peace with herself when she was simply drawing. It was her smallest joy in life, that reaped the greatest rewards and achievements she ever thought would be possible in her mediocre life. She had the drive, the ambition, the desire, and god damn she could really draw as of late, but it still wasn’t enough to her. It was her only hole to confide in, her drawings were her only things to hold on to, her security, her being. Quite frankly, it was her only constant, the only thing in life she could truly control. While the rest of her life crumbled around her, it was her only perfection. She was articulate, outgoing, warm and giving; intelligent in every sense of the word.

Once let out into the outside world, forced to deal with real issues, real people- life, she was a failure. She searched and searched for love, the truest love, the one you find in those fairy tales. She constantly waited for the day her prince would come, come and take her far away from her world on his white horse. She was influenced and led by Disney and a world of make-believe, where in the end of every story, there would be a happy ending, no sorrow, no heartbreak; a happily ever after. Such a story never happened for her. Time after time she gave her heart away, never receiving anything back in return. She always fell fast and hard, and for all the wrong ones; the ones that would take her breath away, the ones who would help her to deny her better judgment. A big smile and a gorgeous pair of eyes could set her off for months, helping her hold on to him tighter and tighter, never to let go. Her stories were always the same; the gorgeous guy would sweep her off of her feet, flash a smile and she’d be hooked. Friendliness to her was always perceived as love, because she truly never knew any better. She always held on too tight, because she always lost them in the end, and always to someone better than her. There was always someone better than her in their eyes. When properly sized up, the other girl really didn’t have all that much on her. The truth remained the same; she was ready to love but there was no one worth her devotion. Because of these bad relationships, she beat her self up emotionally, tearing herself apart over people not worth her time. She cries often, and wrecks herself on why she is still alone. She tells herself over and over again and eventually convinced herself that she hadn’t met the right one, while she really knew deep down she wasn’t good enough.

The story isn’t a Cinderella story, where the one magically sweeps in and saves her from her solitude. No villain is against her; her only enemy is time. There are no obstacles, magic spells, just the magic lacking from her life. There aren’t two handsome princes fighting over her, where the one she truly loves triumphs over the undeserving opposing suitor. It ends without a prince, without the big white wedding, without the happily ever after. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a happy ending. She’ll eventually teach herself to pick herself up, and to move on. She’ll see, once again, how much she has to offer, and eventually she’ll be all right and pull herself together. She always does.

I always do.

Nothing Left To Say...

This is not like me. At all. This actually is no where near my style of writing, and yet, I'm letting it all out. My current thought for the moment is blah. Just, blah. And as English class ends, and I pull my bug-eyed sunglasses on, I can't help but rush across campus to my car, blast my radio and drive to work...