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Written Passions

Written Passions

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Published by teacherscribe
Here is a braided essay from one of my College Comp students.
Here is a braided essay from one of my College Comp students.

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Published by: teacherscribe on Nov 25, 2009
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11/14/2012

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Written PassionsI.
Writing is not scientific. It is passion; it is soul. Science can not prove a soul exists. It can notchemically explain passion or love, and it can't prove with any type of theory that I'm sure I havesomeone sitting around in my subconscious pushing me in the right direction whenever they feel I needit.
II.
“. . . His voice turned acidic. 'Are you sure you want me to come back? Or did you really wantme to die? '“Anger rocked through me like the whiplash after a heavy punch. That was too much- he wasn'tfighting fair.“My arms were already around his neck, so I grabbed two fistfuls of his hair- ignoring thestabbing pain in my right hand- and fought back, struggling to pull my face away from his.“And Jacob misunderstood.“He was too strong to recognize that my hands, trying to yank his hair out by the roots, meant tocause him pain. Instead of anger, he imagined passion. He thought I was finally responding to him.“With a wild gasp, he brought his mouth back to mine, his fingers clutching frantically againstthe skin at my waist.“The jolt of anger unbalanced my tenuous hold on self-control; his unexpected, ecstaticresponse overthrew it entirely. If there had only been triumph, I might have been able to resist him. Butthe utter defenselessness of this sudden joy cracked my determination, disabled it. My brain
 
disconnected from my body, and I was kissing him ba-. . .”A cry of rage bursts from my snarling mouth and I hurl the book across the room. Shutting myeyes, I imagine Bella scratching Jacob’s eyes out. It takes a minute for my heavy breathing to slow.When it does I scoop up the slumped and dejected looking book and continue. The next few lines areenough to make me want to do it again.
III.
Placing pencil to paper, or fingers to keyboard, I'm immediately placed in my comfort zone, onemore exotic and more satisfying than eating all the mint filled dark chocolate in the world. I'm drawninto a place where I can finally relax, one where I can express myself as I wish I could in reality.Sometimes it's not always great, my writing, but it is a constant learning experience. Expanding,growing like the chaotic forest of ideas in my mind.What I love most about writing is that I can go anywhere. I can travel from Japan to Norwaywithout leaving my room. I am free to be as crazy as I want. I can spew every twisted thought, everydesire that wracks my body, every feeling I would never tell anyone else. I can create whole worlds,new people. This love, this passion all started when I began to read. Reading is the key to myhappiness, but originally there was one series of fictional stories that sparked my flair for writing. TheBoy Who Lived.
IIII.
Reading a really great book, it's easy to become disoriented with reality. The reader is suddenlyin the midst of the horror of destruction; they are experiencing the depression of death and loss, thehigh of love and adrenalin rushes. The people who put pencil to paper make all these glorious, fresh
 
 paper-smelling books possible. The writers made it possible by being inspired by something, usually a book, which created a reaction in them that they wanted to recreate.
V.
The influence to write is everywhere. It can be found in dreams. It can be found with the hobolying in his box in the ally. It can be found with parents, friends, enemies or teachers. It can be found indifferent countries, by seeing the part of the world that isn’t all shiny and new. Thoughts placed on a page can be used to destroy lives and countries, or to invoke peace in a time of war. The most powerfulhuman weapon we have is our brain and the will of free thinking. Writing can free a person. Or, like
 Pravda
, writing can be used to control that power, telling a society what the leaders want them to know.There are several types of writing styles, all of them powerful.
VI.
“Harry!” I scream, dashing toward the black haired boy. “Harry, run!”The boy turns toward me, surprise on his face. I'm now close enough to see his eyes widen. Igrab his hand and yank him away.“You'll never escape.” A voice slithers through the air, making my skin crawl.“Phoenix, we need to stop.” Harry's voice is tortured, his other hand clutching his scar.“No, Harry, run, keep running! You can't give up!” The wind howling around us makes it hardto hear, and I think I hear him say something about giving in. I feel his resistance, and I yank his handharder.“Phoenix, it's no use.” The pain in his voice is almost tangible. “I can't keep running. I have toface him.” Harry stopped running, his hand slipping from mine. His chest is moving quickly, his breathheavy.

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