Michael Crichton!

As you can tell from my title, I'm going to attempt the style of Michael Crichton. Now he wrote mainly fiction, but due to his medical degrees he also did a few non-fiction pieces. 2 were medical based, and 1 was more of a rather large tutorial on how to use a computer. One of the big things he did in his non-fiction was make it autobiographical. He talked of things he did. In his two medical books he wrote of patients he had, the first book was titled "Five Patients", which helps get points across. So the list of things to attempt: 1. Make it Autobiographical in nature 2. Make it have some relevance to the medical and/or scientific field(s) 3. Keeps it interesting!

Patient 3

The most important patient, in my eyes, that I had in my first year practicing. I was working in the emergency room that night, a slow night as usual. The random, over hyped cases that had easy fixes, and really had no need for a visit. The occasional deep cuts, we stitched them up, or the occasional high fever, there was nothing that was out of the ordinary. That is until we heard the familiar sirens of the ambulance on the way, and the voices on the radio. 32 year old man, suffering of what, they didn't tell us. One of the many problems at the hospital after I looked back on the night, half of the time they wouldn't tell us what was coming. We had no way to prepare, which eventually led to the loss of this man's arm. So we ended up getting ready, for what, we didn't know.

We waited, for what seemed only moments before the they burst through the doors, a man with severe wounds on the mans arms. They were rather deep cuts through his arm. There was blood, everyone, I had to turn, I was getting a bit queasy. The sight of the bone, and blood was an awful site for me to behold, nothing compared to what I had seen before, or of what the cadavers had shown us during college. This first encounter was repeated on a lesser scale later on, but over time I grew accustomed to the sites, continuing my career as a doctor.

Trying to write like a crazy man..

Ugh. I have to try to write like a crazy-right-winged-man now. Glenn Beck is weird. Really weird. Half of his stuff makes sense if you really think about it- but the other half makes pretty much no sense at all.. all entertainment. He's generally satirical. He pokes fun at people, places, events, ideas, and mostly himself. I am looking at his book An Inconvenient Book right now .. (yes har har, like An Inconvenient Truth) And the back says "There's something about him that suggests that, one night, he'll say something that will cost him his career..." - Keith Olbermann. Glenn actually does say some important stuff about what is going on in the world.. and has facts to back up his opinions. But seriously, I think he just sat down and decided that he would write a book about child molesters, remembering names, the UN, blind dates, and Immigration. I mean, truly random stuff here, guys. He does include many "ADD Moments" where he felt it was truly necessary to point out some random fact he happened to be thinking at the time he happened to be writing the sentence.. Anyway, I guess I will attempt to be as funny and witty as this man.. I can't say I'll succeed.


Cell Phones. I have mine, you have yours, she has hers, he has his. We all have them. I never put mine down, I am connected to every person I have ever met and the rest of the world at all times. I don't remember the last time my Blackberry actually turned off. Besides this one time when I forgot the charger on a business trip and let me tell you, it was NOT pretty in the least.
ADD Moment: What do people who don't have Blackberries do while they are on the toilet?
This connection is absolutely RUINING our society. What happened to spending time with your family? Your friends? Playing a card game? God, I don't know why, but playing solitaire or brickbreaker just happens to be a lot more fun than watching the game with Little Johnny.
ADD Moment: Did I just admit I played brickbreaker?
Today's generation is going to lose the ability to communicate face to face. They are going to have to look at each other and type messages out.. Not only that, but they will all suffer from Carpal Tunnel in their thumbs. So maybe we aren't moving forward with these new inventions- such as the iPhone- which pretty much thinks for us.. Maybe they are making us move backward in development- I know that my social skills have already begun to deteriorate. I don't really know. But I don't really care either.
ADD Moment: My brickbreaker high score is 123,232. Beat that.

This was actually fun to write...

So last time I hastily decided that my favorite non-fiction author is John Clay. While I don't regret this choice, I believe it may be difficult to capture his style of writing in a few hundred words. Oh well, I guess I can give it a try.
Part of what I love so much about his writing is the mystery-you never quite know what you're going to read. Sometimes it's the witty, or sarcastic humor, and sometimes he just writes interesting stories, pointing out interesting and often unnoticed facts in the world of sports. And his stories almost always end well, often coming full circle back to the opening sentences.

With half of the college football schedule over, I thought it would be fitting to have mid-season awards given out to Kentucky football players.

The Award: Best Defensive Player
The Candidates: Trevard Lindley is an All-American and arguably the best cornerback the Cats have had in years. He passed up the NFL draft last year to come back for his senior year. So far he has added to his school record number of pass break-ups, but has been banged up the last few games, contributing minimally.
Corey Peters is playing exceptionally this year. Coach Rich Brooks called him "One of the most underrated players we've had on the defensive line for a long time". Enough said.
We seem to be forgetting some defensive stand-outs...oh yeah.... the starting linebackers, Johnson, Trevathan, and Maxwell combined for 38 takles against Auburn. That's right 38. The leading takler on the team (Johnson) came into the game with 38 takles on the year. Pretty impressive.
And the award goes to.................the Linebackers. Okay so they're not really a defensive "player" but they're playing so well it doesn't even matter.

The Award: Best Offensive Player
The Candidates: Randall Cobb. Everyone knows about him. He can run. He can catch. He can throw. And the offense moves the best when he plays in the wildcat formation.
The fastest Cat this year: Derrick Locke. He leads the team in rushing, is third in receiving, and boasts a 4.2 yards per carry average this season, which has included games against the top two teams in the nation. And did I mention he returned a kickoff 100 yards for a touchdown?
Mike Hartline (Surely I didn't just hear some booing) whether we like it or not is the best choice the Cats have at quarterback. He isn't a gunslinger, but manages the game well and was starting to get in the swing of things against South Carolina before he was knocked out with an injury. Look for him to finish the season strongly when he comes back.
And the award goes to....................Randall Cobb. Who else? He always seems to come through in the clutch. Its because of him that the Cats have one SEC win and should've had two. (After leading a late scoring drive, Cobb was replaced by quarterback Will Fidler on a two-point conversion. Kentucky wound up losing by two after failing to get the ball to Cobb on the two-point conversion.)

Players to Watch: Morgan Newton, Alfonso Smith, and Chris Matthews. The UK defense has been playing stellarly lately. If the offense is to come alive to win games, these guys should play a large, though largely unnoticed role.

So after six games, the Cats are 3-3. The schedule gets lighter with games against such foes as Eastern Kentucky and Louisiana-Monroe. I'm thinking this is a good start to what could turn out to be a great season.

Parafilm. No joke. It's honestly a story. about parafilm.

Aigh-tuh. so. the style of Dean Koontz (no joke, I accidentally wrote Dead Koontz first time around.) is pretty basic; Part 1- a swift, mind blowing introduction with the capability to cause your head to pop like your mom's popcorn. Part 2- A kickin' body. Not as in "Daaaaaang. Dat gurl got a kickin' body." As you may hear in the hallways of henry clay. Though I will concede that our hero does, in fact, have a kickin’ body. Part 3- An end. Now of course, I'm not gonna include this part, but I just thought you might want to know that it does exist. oh yeah, and as a whole, his pieces tend to be not overtly descriptive, but mostly plot driven.

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She found it by accident really. Her troupe was taking a rest on a relatively dry spot of land and Para de Film had gone off by herself to… well… use the facilities. If you can even call it that when the only thing surrounding you is dense foliage. Para de Film was walking back to camp, about fifty feet away from the rest of the troupe when she felt the ground buckling underneath him. Before she had time to cry out, she fell down ten feet into a man-made tunnel stretching into the distance with its dark distances. Curiosity aroused, she decided to explore the hidden passageway. The tunnel had burning torches on mounted brackets every fifty feet. Taking a knife from her belt, she carved a large X into the wall, for whenever she decided to come back. Taking a torch from its mounted bracket, she continued down the tunnel after inscribing a large à symbol pointing in the direction she was headed. After walking downhill for roughly half a mile or so, she walked into a fantastically huge natural cave with a twisting pathway leading to the center where a stone pedestal rose up into the center of the cavern to rest slightly above the level of the ultra-clear water that filled half the cavern. Where the tunnel had obliviously been man-made, and crudely, at that, the massive cavern that stretched at least a mile across was clearly natural, with its rolling, smooth ceiling and walls. The water was entirely clear and Para de Film could see all the way to the bottom – more than fifty feet down. The water was so silent and undisturbed that it would be all too easy not to realize that it was there, but for the eerily glass-like reflection cast by the torch Para de Film held above her head. After extinguishing it on the ground, Para de Film put her torch into a bracket inlaid into the wall as if specially designed to hold the torch for any visitor. Having done so she realized there was a glowing light cast by the water that dimly lit up the entire cavern.

Awestruck, Para de Film walked to the pedestal resting barely above the water as if in a daze. Amazed by the beauty that Mother Nature had displayed all around him, she fell to her knees, her armor making a noisy clank that echoed twenty times over as it bounced around the walls of the cavern. Crawling to the edge of the platform, she nearly ripped off her gloves in her fervor and plunged her hands into the cool water, causing ripples to spread throughout the cavern. Drinking the water that she raised to her lips with slightly trembling cupped hands, causing water to dribble from between them and splash back into the water. As soon as the liquid touched her tongue, she realized that it was not ordinary water. While it had been refreshingly cool on her hands, as it entered her mouth it had started to warm. By the time, she swallowed it down her dry throat it was almost scorching hot. The water seemed to have an almost tropical taste. She knelt there on her hands and knees for several minutes until she was whisked away. Suddenly, Para de Film was sitting on soft white sand staring at a calm sea on a beach she had never seen, watching a beautiful sunset. Para de Film wanted to get up and try to find out why she had unexpectedly been transported to this serene landscape. She found that she was unwilling to move, afraid she would break the tranquility of the scenery she found on every side.

Suddenly, she was back in the cavern, lying on the ground, curled into a fetal position on the smooth stone surface of the podium. She realized that the landscape she had earlier found herself in was merely a figment of her imagination. Somehow, she knew that it had been real. There was no way it could have felt so real and simply have been fake. She wondered what had caused him to go into her self-induced excursion when she felt the torrid water bubbling up inside of him. Fearing she had been poisoned, her eyes grew wide with panic. She got to her knees and began to pray feverishly, asking her Almighty Lord to save him from a slow, painful death; that she would shelter him from the pain. Once she had spouted every plea for forgiveness that she could fathom, and the words began to falter on her tongue, she slowed and finally stopped. Then she sat down and folded her legs into a lotus position, appreciating the deadly beauty all around him.

She had found the fountain.

The entire camp was in a state of panic. Para de Film had vanished; disappeared into thin air on a trip to empty the tank. Everyone had searched high and low for him but not until more than ten minutes after it was time the group should have begun moving again. It was not a matter of loyalty, far from it. The men had wanted to turn back the moment their boots sunk into the stagnant mud. It was not even, because Para de Film had had the maps with him when she disappeared. It was because Para de Film was the only man in the entire company that knew how to actually read the maps. And God knew that it had been hard enough for him, too, a man that had devoted her life to the study of such things. Without him, there would be no returning home. Without him, they would be stuck in this uncultivated, jungle-themed hell that she had led them into for the rest of their lives, which, if they did not find him soon, would be shorter than they could hope.

In 1514, Para de Film returned to Spain with astonishing news of a discovery that would change the world forever. However, a fact less known to the public, the discovery of a new land was not the only reason for her sudden return. She also returned to tell the people of Spain about the fountain of youth.
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Log­: We are on the last leg of the journey and it is hard to believe that in a matter of weeks I will be home; back in the city that I have grown to know and love throughout the upbringing of my childhood. But more on that later.

When I first discovered the fountain, my first thought was of the look on the queen’s face when I told her of my discovery. Would she be able to speak? Would she demand that I take her along with me on my next journey? Would she even believe me? Then, I began to think. What would this world be if it were inhabited by undying creatures? Would the surface of the earth simply fill up with undead persons until the whole structure became so heavy that it would eventually collapse and fall into the fiery pits of Hell itself? Perhaps there was a reason that the almighty God banished the human race from the state of immortality? Would re-spreading immortality to the human race invoke the wrath of God herself? Would he reach down with her all-powerful hand and smite me? Was I really doing the right thing?

Finally, I came to a decision; I would have to destroy the fountain. Fortunately, I told only one person of the fountain itself. The only man that I discussed this with was my dearest friend and companion, Francisco Romano. Luckily, after many hours of deep pondering and debate in her cabin, (I found out later that the men thought that I was having an affair with my wife and that Francisco had been lying to me. Ha! The very thought of it!) We finally came to this same conclusion. So, we made a formal decision that we should speak nothing of the fountain and announce the voyage to be a failure in everything except the discovery of a new land. Else, someone else might discover the fountain before we can return. We concluded that we would return to the oversea island in exactly one years’ time to destroy of the shrine…
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- When Para de Film returned home, she became the subject of a lot of ridicule for her alleged “failure.” However, she stayed strong and, with the exception of her wife, did not tell a soul of the fountain.

The times changed and the seasons rolled on. Eventually, a year passed and Para de Film began to make plans for her next voyage to America…

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5/18/14

Log- After having decided to delay the voyage because of the particularly harsh winter, Francisco and I decided to meet again in approximately five months. Having done so, we had our supplies put onto a ship, hired some sailors, and set off. There is only one thing that presents itself as a problem and worry to me; my wife. Upon hearing the danger of our mission, she insisted that she come with me. I told her that it was too dangerous for a woman, and she became enraged. “I don’t care!” she screamed as she stormed about the house, “I can’t stand to wait for you to come home and then you not return for nearly a year! I’m going with you whether you like it or not!” So, I allowed her to come along. However, if there is any chance that she may be put in harms way, I will immediately return home and plan another voyage; one that I will not let her come.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Para de Film arrived at Florida a few months later. Upon arrival, the sailors began to set up camp while Para de Film and Francisco stayed in their ships cabin and worked hard over a map to plot the course of their previous voyage. Para de Film’s wife, Doña, walked in with a slight swagger.

“Now, honey,” she said with a slur, “you need to come ‘elp the rest of us set up camp.” Even from across the small cabin, Para de Film could smell the alcohol on her breath.

“I will. I only need to talk a little longer with Francisco.”

“But you need to ‘elp ‘em now!” Her face suddenly blotched up turning her face to a dark angry shade of red. "B****! You don't know me!" Then, she broke. She fell to the floor sobbing.

Unmoved, Francisco cast a look to the concerned face of her friend. Para de Film walked to her wife and helped her to her feet. Looking deep into her eyes, she said, “Doña, please, listen to me. You are drunk. Go to your cabin, and sleep. I promise, you will feel-“suddenly, she was cut off by screams from the outside.

Alarmed, Para de Film and Francisco ran outside followed by a staggering Doña.

The camp was in a state of absolute chaos. Men were running around on the beach below. The men still on deck were running also, but for a different reason. They were searching for the guns that they had had packed in crates. This was done for a very viable reason. No one would regret later on that they had packed the guns; they were packed to prevent the rusting on the parts. The salty sea air sped the process up more than twice as quickly. They would regret, however, that they had not had the guns unpacked as soon as the ship touched the smooth sand of the shore. Instead of doing, so, nearly all the men had rushed to the beach, desperate to have their feet on solid ground again. The rather small, pathetic, fraction of a camp that they had managed to set up thus far was being attacked.

When Para de Film and Francisco stumbled out in their dumbfounded stupor, this was what they saw. Hesitating for only a second, they quickly jumped into action. They ordered the men on the beach to use tent stakes, pans, tent poles, or anything else that could be used as a weapon. In the meantime, they were to retreat and draw back to the ship.
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Log- From the unexpected assault, there were fortunately only four casualties. Unfortunately, however, there were more than 50 injuries. (At least, by the most recent count there were roughly fifty.) In addition, there was another unpleasant incident; the natives that attacked us have taken my wife prisoner. It was in the midst of the retreat that I saw her. Somehow, in her drunkenness, she had left the ship and gotten to the beach without me having noticed. I can only suppose that I was so caught up in trying to save the lives of my men that I forgot to protect my own wife. At any rate, the last that I saw of my wife was of a native holding her up by her hair with a gruesome look upon her face. Then, they were hidden from my view by a mob of sailors running to the ship. By the time I had regained a view of the spot, the pair were gone. Knowing we had to retreat, I cast off. We have waited for three days to attempt to board the mainland. These past two nights have been the hardest and sleepless of my entire life. Both nights I was plagued by horrid visions of ghastly fates becoming my wife at the hands of the natives, as I was held captive and forced to watch. Among these outcomes were episodes such as being boiled alive, having her face sewn together while alive, being buries alive, having her organs extracted through her stomach, and others that are too vile to recount. The most horrifying element of these though, was that they were performed while she was alive. Tonight, this living nightmare will end. The outcome, though I do not know what it is, must be better than this uninformed fear. In one hour, a party of four other men and I, totaling five in all, will go ashore in search of my wife and to confirm the dead. We will board a small lifeboat that was on the ship for just such a reconnaissance mission. I must get ready now, for I must be prepared to go ashore.

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The night was abuzz with the incessant roar of woodland sounds; the chirping of crickets, the hoot of owls, the final squeak of their prey, and an ominous crunching sound, signaling the termination of their existence. Para de Film asked her God to bless these sounds only to ask for a curse to befall them a few moments later. she was thankful that the undulating roar of the swamplands on all sides muffled the sounds that she or her men unintentionally produced, and yet, at the back of her mind, she knew that if the rolling blackness that engulfed him actually masked her presence, it would mask that of an enemy, too.

So far, they had identified three of the corpses. They were now searching for what they hoped to be the final corpse.

Roughly a minute later, Para de Film nearly fell over the body. At first, she peered at it curiously, thinking that it was an oddly shaped log. Then her mind finally put together the image. She finally realized that she was staring at a corpse. Raising her head to whistle in an imitation of a whippoorwill, the noise agreed upon to be the signal, she flipped the body over. Then before she could utter a sound, she realized that she was staring into the face of her now-dead wife. Her tongue froze in her mouth, making any communication that she might, or might not, need, impossible. Now, however, she did not have the faintest desire to do any such thing. All she wanted right then was to curl up on the mossy, damp ground, and lament for the loss of her beloved wife. She was startled out of her reverie by the hooting of a barn owl, startlingly close to him. She looked up to see a native, glaring at him with hatred in her eyes, running towards him, completely silent. Then the night was split by a war cry. Startled, she realized that the bellow came from her own mouth.

Too much icing IS bad for you!

Lemony Snicket, the author of the Series of Unfortunate Events, has a unique style of writing that is rarely surpassed by that of other children’s authors. He tells you the meanings of words that a child most likely wouldn’t know. Take this passage: “Please get out of bed and get dressed,” he said briskly. The word “briskly” here means “quickly, so as to get the Baudelaire children to leave the house.” And don’t forget his quirky descriptions of characters and how he relates them to an object or characteristic.
Here is my introduction.
Hanswort awoke with a start when he realized he was no longer holding his favorite stuffed rabbit, Twinkles. It was the most prized one of a collection, crafted by stuffed rabbit artisans in the sweatshops of Burma. The glowing turquoise rabbit resembled more of a dragon and was the supreme ruler of his sovereign bunny state. All told he was a bunny fanatic. Fanatic meaning he was more interested in bunnies than Jesus himself! He flailed his chubby arms hopelessly under the covers of his undersized bed, but to no avail! the words “ to no avail” means he couldn’t find it. He grabbed a nearby rabbit from his bedside table, waiting for tomorrow to come so he could find search for Twinkles.

Obama's Nobel Peace Prize

Joel Stein (LA Times Columnist and frequent Time Magazine Contributor) has a sarcastic, humorous style of writing. He employs plenty of pop culture references both for humor and to emphasize his points, which are usually on current events or his own experiences. Stein’s columns and articles aren’t meant to be profound, but to get the reader thinking (and laughing) about topics heavily reported on in the news today, or just about things that all of us experience: people who talk on their cell phones while driving, Harry Potter mania, and Donald Trump’s ridiculousness.
And now for the hard part…I am going to (try to) write about Obama’s recent Nobel Peace Prize (a topic he would typically cover) in Joel Stein’s style. Here it goes.
For those of you living out of CNN.com zones, let me be the first to inform you that our president, Barack Obama, has just won the Nobel Peace Prize for something I don’t think anyone, including the Nobel people, can quite identify. Officially, he won for his "vision" and inspiring "hope" at the beginning of his presidency. So, essentially, for the same reason Keanu Reeves is a famous and successful actor: who knows? Previous winners include Franklin Delano Roosevelt for easing Russian-Japanese tensions and Al Gore for his tireless work to inform the public about the looming environmental crisis. Obama’s speechmaking abilities totally rank up there with those. Maybe the Nobel people really do think his presidency has already changed the world. Or maybe they just like Portuguese Water dogs a lot, too.

No clue what to call this...

In the 7th grade, my entire class was required to read “The Hot Zone” by Richard Preston. I couldn’t resist smiling when many of my friends because nauseous due to the graphic descriptions of the effects of the Ebola virus on the human body. These in-depth descriptions are one of the many reasons that Richard Preston is my favorite writer. He has the ability to seamlessly mesh real events with events that could have been to result in a truly chilling, but realistic story line.

To fit with the recent “swine flu panic,” I thought it would be fun to question…what if there was a real pandemic….?

Within 5 days of being exposed to the virus, fever sets in, accompanied by sharp headaches. On the fifth day after his arrival in Mexico City, Jackson Shelby awoke with a fever of 100.1, but was determined to enjoy his short stay in the city. He packed his backpack and set off for his guided tour. Shelby was a tall man with bronzed skin and a bright white smile, which he often used to get certain favors from his lady friends. However, this particular day, his skin was covered in a thin layer of sweat, even in the air conditioned tour bus, and his smile was dimmed. As the day progressed, his fever grew worse, and he developed a cough. That night, after retiring to his hotel room, he called the airport and booked the quickest flight back home to Chicago.
The next morning he boarded Flight 474, not knowing that within his body he carried a microscopic stowaway.

Bwahaha.

I never know what to title these!

Whilst enjoying the ever-encapsulating pedagogic stylings of Mr Pope during 4th hour US History, I stepped back, mentally, from the content at hand in order to have a conversation with one of my favorite people in the world: Jeremy Bradford!

The conversation we had, riveting as usual, led to the weekly English blog upon which I currently write. I promised my dear friend that I would write my blog (imitating the style of my favorite author) about him. Here goes: 

The boy sits idly under the comforting branches of the tall Oak tree, unaware that he was being watched. The more one observes the creature, the more one feels they understand him, and seeing beyond the surface observations, are at one with the whole of his being. There are certain factors which none could ignore, and do deserve mentioning. The dashing looks and serene manner of the boy were superceeded only by his keen intellect. His eyes, guarded by black-rimmed glasses which served as a gate to the extraordinary, shone hazel like the Autumn sun, and held the look of intrigue, as if he were thinking about what lies beyond. 

The boy thought about his home. He thought about them. All the turmoil they had caused. He remembered his mother's eyes before the poison took her; they were beautiful, like his own. They must be stopped. But how? He was after all just a cog in the machine of society, insignificant, un-thinking, and numb. Just like the rest of them. Right?..

No. This boy was different.

Even the Best of Us

Well, Mr. Logsdon, in the eternal words of Kanye West, "I'mma let you finish, but..." this is one of the most boring blog posts of all time. And by "boring," I mean "good golly, I suck at this blog post."

The style of my author, Antoine de Saint-Exupery, is as enjoyable to read as it is difficult to emulate. He writes with a personal flair, making it seem like a tale recounted to you personally. His prosaic style lends itself to casual reading, but it's not thick. It's light and descriptive, providing ample imagery without getting the reader bogged down in the minutia, but it has a weight to it: That is, it's meaningful; I don't say weight as in heavy reading - because, after all, I already noted that it's light - but rather that it has an effect that lingers in your mind after you finish the book, like a loitering teenager hanging around a store at closing time that you just can't bear to turn out because, after all, he really is pretty interesting. I don't foresee being able to replicate this effect of leaving a vestige in the reader's mind of the ideas I had meant to convey, but I shall do my best. That's all any of us can hope for, right?

- - -

IF IT SEEMS AS IF I AM WRITING ON THIS SUBJECT WITH SOME RELUCTANCE, I MUST APOLOGIZE. I offer my sincerest apologies to you, reader, for I am attempting to recreate a scene that does not sit well in my mind, and although it will, no doubt, strike you differently than it does me, I hope that it conveys a fraction of the same emotion.

My grandmother was, without question, a wonderful woman, for as long as I can remember. She was fiercely stoic in her beliefs, and caring yet firm when the situation called for it. Her health had been cyclical for a number of years, modulating from poor to fair to fine to fair and once again to poor, in a seemingly endless and unequivocally painful circle of physical deterioration and medical rehabilitation. I recall clearly looking at her, alone in a hospital bed, and not comprehending the meaning of what I saw. With time, the image became clear to me, and I wept at the course nature took.

I remember having a dog named Tash, who was very dear to me. She was as loving as one could hope for in a dog, and I regret only being too young to accept the significance of her death. She passed away when I was young, perhaps four or five, and I shed many tears on her behalf, but at such an age, many tears are shed over many things, and the amount of sadness cannot be said to be in direct proportion of the sadness of the event that caused the tears.

Several years later, my uncle passed away while visiting from Arizona. It was very sudden, and again, I couldn't comprehend it. I was shocked at losing him, and although I was old enough to comprehend death, it still puzzled me. Life is so mysterious, and one can never truly unravel its enigmatic ways.

It is no small wonder, then, that when I got into the car one day in eighth grade on a snowy December afternoon, the conversation that transpired saddened me, but did not shock me. I had only just stepped into the car when Maya, my youngest sister, brazenly shouted the words I had expected but dreaded for so long.

"Grandma died."

In two words, I had had the wind knocked out of me, and I felt dizzy. I had expected this, but at the same time, I hadn't: I knew it was true, but I could never accept it. To this day, I don't think I've fully accepted it. The death of my grandmother still remains a pungent memory, and it's entirely possible this narrative will be nothing more than words once you hit the 'x' on your browser, but one day, this may happen to you, and to you I say this: Even the best of us must face the death of a loved one. It is an ordeal that all of us face, but you should take comfort in that. It is a universal ordeal, and with the recognition of that comes the realization that you mustn't despair, for, reader, even the best of us must undergo that time of trial.

Don't Worry, I'm Just Borrowing it for a Sec

Stephen King. I would like to have more variety with my favorite authors, but I've only been reading his books lately. Hah.
As most [should] know, Stephen King is one of the greatest writers of our time, specializing in horror and science fiction. He has written many short stories, novels, and even articles for magazines.

When it comes to style, King is very unique. You could pick up one of his novels without looking at the cover and know it's his. He has a very distinct way of writing. His words are very blunt and informal, he adapts to a variety of dialogue styles and isn't afraid of using harsh language to sound realistic, and he is very well-known for his way with details and descriptions.

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I can't count how many times I've been asked the same question. Hell, I've even had the same question asked twice by the same person.

"How did you learn to draw?"

If it weren't for the constant mind bombardment of this question, I would have never given it a single thought. How did I learn to draw? It's the most unnecessary question in the world of art.

Yet I ask the same question to myself when I come across a great piece of art. No, I never voice the question. (How?) But as the little mountain-climber-of-an emotion, known as jealousy, reaches the far end of the cavern of my mouth, I hear the quiet voice of my mind whispering. (How?) So how did I learn to draw?

I was never one for school outside of school. It was a waste of time. You learn what you learn from experience. And you get experience by practicing. Practice, practice, practice. Cliche, whatever you want to think. But you will get no where without it. I had papers and pencils wherever I went. My artistic 'first aid kit' always had such things. Even if I didn't have my necessary tools, I scoured the place--wherever I was--for what I needed until I found anything of the like. (Used matches? Same feel as a pencil. Back of a used napkin? As long as it wasn't easy to rip.) I practiced wherever I was.

This next detail is almost as important as practicing. You must be observant. Not just borderline, "Oh, that man has a big nose and white teeth." You'll never live amongst artistic kings. Not even artistic farmers. "His nose takes the majority of his face, falling in between the eyes and curving down at the tip like a hawk. His teeth look like perfect white squares, stacked one-by-one in a neat line under his lip." There is a difference, and if you see the importance of the difference, you understand.

This final piece will keep you among the artistic kings for the rest of your career. Reminding yourself of this fact makes you an artist. Your work is never perfect; you can always improve. If you've ever drawn anything in your life and thought, "Wow. It doesn't get better than this." then give up. There's no room for you here. Even the best of men in this field cringe at their work (How?) when others drool at their superiority.

Alison Croggon

Part One:

Best known for her intense and passionate poetry, Australian author Alison Croggon creates vivid images in her novels that take readers from their present world and immerses them in the world within the pages. She uses little dialogue (at least compared to the usual amount in a novel), but the dialogue she does include provides information significant to the story as a whole, propels a scene along, and is never extraneous. Croggon is one of my favorites because of the reasons given above and continues to be because her style allows me to escape this life and join in on the adventures of another.

Part Two:

"Enough!"

Twelve pairs of eyes flicked to the head of the long, black table. One pair glared back. Clad in a blood-red dress that clung to her lean body and a black cloak that draped over her left shoulder, the queen was fearsome. Her presence was more intimidating than those of the warriors around her, though she stood at least a foot shorter than every one of them.

With amethyst eyes, she scoured the scene before her- the Cyron ambassadors with their sickly pale skin, flashing silver bangles, and hands at the hilts of their swords; her own counsellors' red faces and sweating brows- before proceeding. She rested her penetrating gaze on the man she assumed was the Cyron leader for he had the most silver on his wrists. He stiffened.

"I demand that you leave my city immediately. Go back to Cyro and tell your king we are not interested," she spoke using all of her willpower to keep her voice level.

The man scowled in disgust. "I hope you know what is coming then...Lady Lianna," he spat. With a flick of his wrist, the leader motioned for the other Cyron warriors to follow him and left the room.

I know what's coming. War is imminent, Lianna concluded somberly, as she watched the rival ambassadors exit through the great iron doors to her left. With a swish of her cloak, she turned and left through the set of doors behind her.

Grisham

My favorite author is John Grisham. He seems to really know how to make writing flow and he incorporates it quite well. He is able to foreshadow quite well so he can create his suspenseful works. His writing is often increasingly tense making the unexpected plot twists all the more effective. Grisham has often been criticized for having underdeveloped charachters and simple thrillers but I believe these charachteristics are just regarding his style. He doesn't dive too deep into the irrelevant parts of the story but rather he puts most of his effort into the actualy twists and suspense of the story allowing the reader to become fully attentive. Alot of his pieces are based on crime, law, or sports. I enjoy these topics and his writing allows me to engulf myself in it.


It was Monday, the beginning of another week at this hell we call high school. As i walked past the JROTC kids making out in the hall and made my way into the chemistry lab, there was a different air about the class, or maybe it was the smelly kid in my seat. Regardless, Mr. David was preoccupied with a kid looking down at him with short red hair. I sat down waiting for the bell to ring so we could start class, and i could begin my nap. However, to my surprise the kid was new and he was being introduced. He leant back against the chalk board, with his hand in the other, as his sweat glistened off his freckles and he fixed his glasses.
"Hello, I'm a junior and my name is Matthew," said the kid.
"How was your old school?" asked Mr. David.
"It was okay, but I was getting sick of it there, too much news coverage surrounding the area," he proclaimed.
"Oh okay, well take a seat next to Derek," said Mr. David.
Wow, this kid is going to sit next to me. Too much news coverage? I'm not too sure what this meant but it sounded funny and I was interested. He walked toward the seat, his pale ankles occasionaly poking out from underneath his khakis and he took a seat in the purple chair. He said hey, I knew better than to respond. We sat in silence for the remainder of the class, i knew to watch out for this kid.

Matthew Powell on the Style of Roberto Bolano

I've got a lot of authors that all fall into the "favorite" echelon. but one whose style i find particularly interesting/strange/confounding is Roberto Bolano, the late great Chilean author who died just a few years ago at 50. assuming that his Spanish-English translator Natasha Wimmer has done a good job translating, this description of his style should be fairly accurate (altho might i preface this by saying that his style is hard to define because it is inconsistently consistent, so i'll just name some prominent characteristics in his writing): 1. he is wordy, but not necessarily because of over-descriptions, 2. he uses LOTS of parentheses, 3. he sometimes goes off on tangents, 4. he focuses on narrative (i.e. "these are the facts" or "this is how it happened"), and 5. he leaves endings open for the reader to figure out himself

ok now HERE is parte dos:

Fernando heard his stomach rumble. He walked into his living room and got on the phone with Felipe. He asked whether Felipe would like to go get some food with him. (The conversation lasted fifteen minutes. The word taco was said four times, hamburger three times, car four times, expensive three times, and no twelve times.) In the end they decided to go to McDonald's.

Felipe's truck pulled up in front of Fernando's apartment half an hour later. Fernando got in the passenger seat, noticing the flies buzzing around the old chocolate wrapper by the gas petal. There was dirt on Felipe's boots and his fingernails were black. Felipe's truck rattled out of the parking lot and onto the seven-lane road that bisected the town. Fernando and Felipe talked about Felipe's work at the farm and the cockfight last Saturday. A sedan swerved right past the truck's flank, Felipe yelled, "Asshole!", and they laughed.

They entered the McDonald's restaurant and walked over to the brightly illuminated counter. The adolescent at the counter asked what they wanted to eat. (The boy was Arturo Gonzalez, the son of Sebastian Gonzalez, the actor who had gathered a cult following in Mexico for his portrayal of Fabio the mechanic in Un Noche en la Sonora. Un Noche flopped in theaters but was a huge success on videocassette, and a sequel was under production until Rosa Mendez, the lead female from the first Un Noche, died of a drug overdose. Sebastian had a few more roles in feature pictures, but he soon lost popularity among moviegoers and was promptly forgotten by all those who never saw Un Noche.) Fernando ordered a Big Mac and Felipe a Quarter Pounder. Fernando finished his hamburger in five minutes and Felipe finished just a few seconds later.

E. Eric S. Schlosser

After reading Fast Food Nation, I realized that I enjoyed Eric Schlosser's writing style, and the way that he persuaded me to believe his cause. After analyzing his peculiarities, I noticed how he uses a less threatening and logical standpoint at the beginning, then proceeds to conclude each segment with more specific and surprising facts at the end. For example, he starts the book section on the history of fast food very positively by expressing how much progress has occurred from the technology to the time saving, but then later explains this simple situation by showing how much harm there is behind the scenes. This allows the audience to side with Schlosser early on, and not to create a mental barrier between himself and the reader. Another thing he does is bombard the audience with an intense amount of facts that force acceptance, and makes disagreeing seem ridiculous. They simplify the situation into something the reader believes can be fixed easily. Although little of the following is true, it is an example of what Schlosser might write.
Every year over forty million cats, dogs, and other mammals fall victim to the most feared predator- the automobile. Because of the expanse of roads and other forms of transportation, humans have effectively ceased the mass migrations of animals. But, still many groups persist in trying to keep with their natural impulses.Because of this catastrophe, cars need to be required to have a horn like structure built into the front of the vehicle so that when they come into contact with an animal, they will simply scoop them up, and push them aside(similar to the front of a locomotive). Twenty thousand trains have already made this advance and have saved over fifteen million lives of rodents and rabbits. The only way that we are going to get these laws passed to save animals is by your participation by contacting your local officials.
-Eric Schlosser

Along with John Grisham and Ted Decker, who are probably my two favorite, DJ MacHale and with his Pendragon series is up on the list with them. There is nothing extreme or elegant about how DJ MacHale writes, it's more like your reading a normal persons dialogue. Sentences that don't have a subject and a verb, interjections, uncompleted thoughts, stuttering, and simple explanations of the plot fill every page. But what makes DJ MacHale is not how he presents the plot, but the plot(s) themselves. He always has two, sometimes more stories going on in different places that all have a connection that you don't know until the end. It's this that makes DJ MacHale high on my list.



The grass crunched under his feet, the cold winter freezing the whole ground. He closed the gate, shutting it slowly to not wake the neighbors, and turned looking at the house.
"Home sweet home," he whispered. He began to curl up the ends of his lips, almost smirking and then made his way to the back door.
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Susan watched him drive off until she couldn't see the car anymore, and continued to stare for some time, reflecting on the night. What a great guy.
She strode up her walkway listening to her heels on the concrete: click, clack, click, clack.
What a great guy. His smile, his personality, it was a perfect first date.
She continued up the walkway, thinking of what may become of the two of them. She laughed, remembering one of the jokes he made over dinner.
What a great guy.
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He jerked the door open, the ice cracking around the frame. He paused, listened for any movement and then closed the door behind him. He shivered.
"It's even colder in her." He paused, looking around, trying to catch his bearings. He took a few steps, now calm, and began to search the room.
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Susan opened her front door, hoping to see him standing there with arms wide inviting her in. But instead, she entered her dark house alone. She had never been so happy with someone since her divorce almost twenty years ago.
She closed the door behind herself, feeling alone again by herself. She already missed him.
She made her way to the kitchen in the dark, knowing her way from her long lived life in the house.
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The door opening the the other room made him freeze. His eyes strained to find the source in the dark, his ears opened for the littlest of sound, and his breath slowed into long silent heaves. There was a pause and he relaxed, telling himself it was him imagination. But then he froze again: click, clack, click, clack.
A dark figure entered the room at the other end, followed by the flick of a light switch. A woman stood there, dumbfounded for a minute staring at him. And then her eyes filled with fear.
------------------------
Susan flicked on the kitchen light, paused for a moment and then screamed.
"Get out! Get out! What are you doing in my house!"
The man dressed in all black scurried to the back door and threw it open. He took a quick glance back at Susan and then darted across the backyard and over the fence.
Susan continued to scream and ran for the phone, dialed 911 and feeling more alone than ever.

Jared Diamond isn't the most interesting writer, he doesn't give any amazing metaphors or similes. He doesn't give us a cliffhanger or something to think about while we read the book. But Diamond uses anecdotes to show us how everything happened, and how it connects to why certain things happened in place of others. For example, in the prologue of Guns, Germs, and Steel, Diamond recalls how he first became interested of the subject. In New Guinea, Diamond comes across Yali, a local politician. Yali eventually questions why "white" people were able to bring cargo, "but we black people had little cargo of our own". Diamond didn't have an answer, and soon he was off to find out why so much of history happened instead of alternate ones. The writing style is usually simplistic, making it much easier to understand and analyze. Diamond also asks us a lot of questions, making us think along the way to possible changes in history. Even though I can't write a huge book and elaborate on all of the details, it's still a good example of how Diamond writes.

Pokemon, we've all seen them, why was/is it a big hit in society? Even though there had always been trendy video games, such as Mario, Yugioh, to the more recent Halo series, none has had the wide success of Pokemon. Pokemon has successfully been made into books, cards, cartoons, dolls, as well as the infamous gaming series. When I was younger, I remember going to many Chinese parties and seeing all of my comrades getting worked up about this thing known as Pokemon. When I finally got my hands on a gameboy, I was so excited to have my first Pokemon duel with someone.

"HA, my awesome Pikachu beats your pathetic Squirtle."

"Well, obviously electric beats water."

"You're just jealous that I won."

I was so disappointed that I had lost, I remembered that strange urgency to train my Pokemon and to make them stronger so that I could brag among my friends that I was better than them. The original concept of fighting with your own little pets, and then making stronger so you could kick butt was an amazing new kind of motivation. It definitely made children fantasize about having real life Pokemon and then being able to use them.

For the future however, Pokemon will probably become less and less successful as time goes by, old concepts become boring, and new ideas always spring up. We might never know why Pokemon was so successful, but we do know that it has made a huge impact in society.

Jodi Picoult

After much consideration, I decided that Jodi Picoult is one of my favorite authors. Although her writing is under the fiction category, she writes about intense situations that actually occur and includes actual facts about these. For example, in her book 19 minutes this is bout a high school shooting. Her unique writing style is to write in first person from every main characters perspective about the event.

So over this weekend my mom, me, my friend Annette, and her mom all went on college visits through out North and South Carolina and Georgia. This is what my writing will be about through the writing style of Jodi Picoult.

Mrs. Farmer: Long road trips aren't really my favorite thing to do and its my anniversary, but this will be a good experience for Annette and I will just hope for the best sacrificing a little bit this weekend. I mean it can't be too bad; I'm going to get to spend some quality time with my daughter and my best friend. We finally arrived at the universities and it is pouring down but even through this weather I can just tell how beautiful the campus is and so glad that my daughter could have an opportunity to go here; it would be a great experience.

Mom: I've just got so much on my mind lately with everything that is happening back home, but despite that it's going to be so nice to relax and finally see Natalie on the weekend. We used to go on all these swim trips, but now I mainly just get to hang out with Lauren on the weekends. I'm just so excited to pump Natalie up about her academics and really get her going on the right path in order to get into these schools. Wow will this rain ever stop? I just did my hair and make up because I keep bumping into some of my old college buddies, ughh I really want to be looking my best. After all it has been a few years since I've seen them; this is amazing that Natalie is about to be starting her best years here in a little bit.

Natalie: Finally, don't really have to worry about homework or anything else on my mind. I really think the Georgia is going to be impressive especially since we get to stay with Charlotte in her dorm; I just can't wait to meet all her sorority sisters and get to see the college from the students perspective. We've got so much driving to do but atleast I get to be with my best friend the whole weekend and maybe get to go to some really nice restaurants. Also, my mom has just really been a bad mood lately so I hope I can get her to loosen up a bit like it used to be.

Annette: I don't know about some of these schools, but what I am excited for is tonight spending the night with Charlotte. She's just been so sweet and I hope some girls feel comfortable with me to want and visit my college later on. Really, I just can't wait for college, with my brother gone and bragging about how much fun he's always having it's hard not to. Yea, the tours around campus are helpful and show how great the campus, but the best is when I get to stay with my brother at Wofford. He's always introducing and showing me off to all his friends because after all what are big brothers there for?

Elaine Viets sounds really interesting Neha. The ending is a really good cliffhanger.

Being Like Mitch Albom

So…what I’ve read of Mitch Albom’s is really down-to-Earth. He uses simple language and writes in the first person. His writing has action, but at the same time it’s deeper, with deliberate thought and honesty. It usually centers around a personal experience that has a universal meaning. Under everything obvious is a bigger story.

I think people think nothing important ever happens in nursing homes. They’re ugly places, where the man who once built his own home can’t remember his name and the woman who used to love to dance can’t get out of bed. They’re the end of the road, and everyone there knows it- the families, the workers, and most importantly, the people who are stuck there. That’s why they’re important- they’re where people give up their last hope.
I realized this when I was eleven. My grandma’s sister lives in a nursing home in Michigan. I don’t know much about her, except that she used to be tough as nails and spent most of her life in Vegas. Her name, ironically, is Hope. I hate going there, but it never seems to bother her- she doesn’t mind that my siblings and I avoid talking to her and spend our time staring at the floor. It’s like a contest for the people who live there, my grandma told me once, to prove how many people still care about them.
After we said goodbye to Hope my family left- a parade of my grandma, mom, brother, and sisters. I was last, and as they all walked out of the building into the parking lot, I stayed, and stared at an aviary that was set up in the lobby. The birds seemed so out of place, with exotic names and bright feathers, and I wonder now what awful luck had brought them there. They were stuck, too, just like the man who had once upon a time built his own house and the ex-dancer.
I looked up, realized my family was out of sight, and turned to leave. I was half way to the door when a woman came up to me. She looked older than what I usually thought of as old, like she had stopped talking a long time ago and was drifting in time. She grabbed my right hand with both of hers, and although she was much smaller than I was, I looked her right in the eyes. They were a vivid blue and rimmed in red, and I watched as they filled with tears.
I should have hugged her, or told her I understood, or I knew, or whatever she needed me to say. But I didn’t. I smiled what I hoped was a warm smile, but it was probably looked rather insincere in reality. We didn’t stand there long. A woman who worked there who I knew walked over to us and separated our hands. She said something soothing to the woman, and led me over to a sink and told me to wash my hands. I felt ashamed, then, but I didn’t understand why.
I didn’t see the old woman again, which I was neither happy nor upset about. I knew I would remember her, though. I walked out of the building, followed by the eyes of some of the residents, and hurried through the parking lot to the people who were waiting for me.