POV Practice

George stared up at the woman far above his head, eyes wide as he watched her spinning midair. His breath caught as she grabbed the trapeze by just the tips of her fingers. Swinging in a wide arc across the tent, she pulled herself up so she was standing on the thin metal bar. George stood up too, despite his mother’s protests that the children behind him couldn’t see. He wanted to do that; he wanted to swing weightless across a tent full of people, hear them gasp as he swung overhead, twisting and twirling in impossible ways. Even though his mother pulled him down back into his seat and whispered a strict warning into his ear, George did not feel guilty or bad for disobeying. All he could possibly feel was exhilaration as he watched the acrobat perform another gravity-defying flip.

Katya performed another flip, her fingers almost slipping off the bar as she grabbed the next trapeze. She cursed the ringmaster under her breath in her native Russian. He was far too cheap to provide her with the rosin she needed, and there was no net beneath her like in practice. Katya tried to shake off thoughts of broken necks as she pulled herself up, her cold feet wrapping themselves around the fragile bar. She tried to forget where she was, letting her muscle memory take over and imagine she was back home, in her little family house outside Moscow. She visualized the walls of her bedroom, covered in flyers and posters for universities she never attended. In Katya’s imaginary bedroom she ignored the trophies and ribbons for gymnastics; they had only brought her troubles, not the money she needed. Bringing herself back to future and performing her next jump, she tried to empty her mind entirely. There was no point thinking of a home and future she was so far from.

From behind the curtain, Friedrich watched the beautiful Katya flip gracefully across the gap between the two trapezes. Friedrich remembered when he was the one flying through the air, in a time before his muscles and eyesight failed him. He was so happy, when the circus was just beginning, and he was a young man with dreams of world fame. But his time had passed, and now there was a new generation of young performers who had a chance to do what he couldn’t. But he knew Katya. He would watch her as she rehearsed, make sure he was the one to bring her water after shows, and sit outside her tent after curfew, hoping she would step outside and he could talk to her. And she didn’t want to stay at the circus or be a performer. He didn’t understand it really; who wouldn’t want to live in a circus, even if they weren’t allowed to ever leave? But whatever his angel wanted, she would get. He would end the circus. Freidrich held the lit match up to the butane he had thrown all around the edges of the tent before the performance, and crossed himself one last time.

First Ever Fiction Piece: Completely Unedited

The street was busy but Emily Rosen had practice weaving between the playing children, peddlers, and carriages neatly while still keeping her skirts up and out of the puddles that littered the cobblestone road. She walked smartly; she had to get back to the house with her supplies before noon, or she wouldn’t be able to help cook dinner and would get none of her own. Weaving around a game of clinkers and a woman walking her dog, she approached the grocer’s stall, barely pausing in front of it before she began filling her large basket with vegetables that were laid out on the table. 

“Morning, Henry,” She said casually to the seller, not really glancing at the older man with the bushy moustache who was already preparing her bill.

“Ah, lovely Rosen! The usual, I suspect?”

“Add on three extra tomatoes, another bunch of carrots, and three heads of cabbage. Big House is having a dinner.”

“Ohoho!” Henry stroked his face. “Who will grace the halls tonight?”

Emily glanced up and leaned against the stall, able to pause for the first moment since she had stepped outside. “Who really knows? I’ve heard it’s the Prime Governor of Sussex, an actress from the Aussies, and the inventor of the gear. But it doesn’t matter, I won’t get to meet them any way or how.”

The beefy man laughed. “Always the practical gal, aren’t ya? Any other maid would stay here gossipin’ for at least a century!”

“Well, I don’t need gossip - just my bill.”

Henry sighed, and handed over the hand inked bit of parchment. “What, not gonna help break my boredom? Never gonna attract a nice lad that way, gal.”

Emily made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat as she pulled out her small cloth purse. “It’s exact,” She said as she gave him a handful of thick silver coins.

“Isn’t it always?” Henry replied drily. 

Emily gave him a slim, polite smile and began walking back the way she came.

“Oi, gal!”

Emily turned back, having only walked a couple paces. The flow of people continued to move around her, as if her abrupt stop had already been planned and accounted for.

“Don’t work too hard, y’hear?” Henry tossed an extra carrot high over the heads of the crowd. Emily gave him another smile, this one more wry.

“But Henry, then I’d be bored like you!”

She turned and walked smartly into the crowd, satisfied at Henry’s booming laugh fading behind her. He was a good sort. Most people gave up making conversation with her the first time they experienced her slightly brusque nature, but Henry continued to ask her about her day and even laughed at some of her odd jokes. He even teased her sometimes, and even though she was too busy during the day she laughed when she remembered his jokes as she was falling asleep. After working in the Big House, the home of the three richest families in all of the Angland, for three years most of the other maids didn’t converse with her much. She didn’t mind, though: Most of them were very silly, foppish girls anyways.

Rounding a corner onto a less busy street, Emily shifted her heavy basket to one arm and bit into the carrot, tasting sweet vegetable and gritty earth. She slowed her pace, after a glance at the large clock tower that dominated the skyline reassured her that she wouldn’t be late. She smiled to herself, knowing that her previous haste meant she could now take the long way home.

Turning away from the main streets and disentangling herself from the natural flow of people, she ducked through used furniture shop, and the cut across a horse yard to get to a part of Londen town completely different from the one she was in previously. Still chewing her carrot, she made her way to a slim alley street most people missed when they walked along one of the quieter and poorer streets of the busy city.

The moment she ducked under the ragged cloth that covered the gap between the street and the alley, she was hit full in the face with a burst of steamy air, blowing a few tendrils loose from her stern bun. 

The alley was bursting with life, especially compared to the street from which it spawned off from. Little shops and stalls were crammed into the nooks and crannies, with each seller calling out to and teasing one another from their places. People were greeting each other as they walked, all frequenters of this little private space. It was full of men, women, children, elders, the poor, the rich, and everyone in between. But it wasn’t an area for social calls to be made: What everyone was focused on were the wares.

Sitting out on every table were small clockwork machines, made to perform household tasks or to amuse children. Men selling spare parts forged from junk yards or obtained illicitly from steam carriages parked on the streets were making small fortunes selling to every tinker to pass by. The one proper shop that branched off from the alley was a Mal’s Garage, where inventors could rent bench space for three coppers an hour. It was loud as bargaining, friendly chatter, and excited conversations about new ideas carried crackling and inviting as a warm fire.

Emily made her way through the crowd just as she had before, making a beeline for one particular store nestled in the back. The owner of this particular wagon of junk, Gil, was one of the oldest profiteers of the spare-part trade.

Spying Emily, Gil waved at her over his mountain of twisted metal. She twisted herself around a small crowd of excited youths and finally reached the old man’s cart.

“Whaddya got that’s new today, old codger?” Emily said, her speech pattern relaxing audibly as she adopted the more slurred, slang-filled tone of the lower-class Anglish instead of the proper tone she used at work.

“Managed to scrounge up this old flamer,” Gil said with a sly smile. Emily tried to contain her surprise. Flamers were quite expensive and hard to come by. They were able to shoot out a directed flame and were used to melt metal into any shape needed. It would cost a pretty penny, one she didn't have.

She pretended to be disinterested, gazing up to the balconies of the flats above where two boys were sending little toy zeppelins back and forth between their windows. 

“And why’s that any better than what I can rent at Mal’s?

Gil scoffed. “You know perfectly well anything is better than his naff bit o’ machinery. Can barely light a cigar, much less bend metal!” he grinned widely. “Don’t try to bluff, gal, I know ya’d kill a man fer one o’ these.”

Emily looked at him, still a bit sceptical. “Prove it works.”

Gil picked up a useless old spring that had lost its sprung in one thick-gloved hand. He pressed a button on the gun-shaped machine where a trigger would have been, and out shot a jet of bright golden flame.

Emily jumped back at the sudden heat the machine threw off. She had expected Gil was exaggerating, trying to scam her as he had tried when she had first ventured into the alley. But when the old man carefully stuck the thick piece of metal under the jet of flame, Emily could see it turning a glowing red and becoming softer. Then, hands in thick leather gloves, he pulled on the ends of the spring, pushing bits in and out until it was shaped like a heart and dunking in in his water bucket to kill the flames

“Only the best for the fine lady,” Gil jested, holding out the cooling piece of metal to her.

Emily took it carefully, touching only the bit Gil held when he heated it. The once-tarnished metal shone like new, and it looked as fine as any metal wreath an rich gentleman would buy for his sweetheart, albeit undecorated. 

She looked up at him, all attempts of bargaining for the flamer gone from her mind. 

“Whaddya want for it.”

Gil laughed at her resigned tone. “Actually, this being a special piece, I have a bit of a special asking price for it.”

“Don’t tell me I have to fix your stove again,” Emily shuddered. She usually did odd jobs for the old man to pay for the things she bought on her days off, but that had been the worst of it. She spent the entire day covered in grease with her head inside the lit oven, trying desperately to get the proper gears to turn the turkey-spit. By the time she had finished her back ached, her clothes were ruined, and she went back to the Big House and almost slept through her next work day. 

Gil twitched. “T’weren’t that bad,” he muttered.

“Oh yes it way, you sly old man. And all I wanted was one itty bitty wrench…”

“That was an incredibly fine wrench and you know it.”

Emily was about to argue back when a lad in a fine embroidered vest and pageboy cap came up next to her. “What do you have today, Mr. Gilbert? Something new, I see?”

“Clear off,” Gil said angrily. “Can’t ya see I got a deal goin’ through?”

“I’ll pay you double what she is,” he said excitedly, pulling a silk drawstring purse. 

“Bah!” Gil flapped his hands at the youth. “Clear off, young ‘un! Respect yer elders!”

The young boy fled, looking shocked and perturbed. Emily turned back to Gil, and incredulous look on her face. “You’ve never said no to extra money before,” she said, now suspicious. “What’re you playin’ at?”

Gil shifted uncomfortably.

“And why’re people calling you Mr. Gilbert now?!”

Gil started rubbing the back of his neck. He wouldn’t meet Emily’s eyes. “Yer just a gal. Y’don’t understand how things’ll change as ya get older.”

“Gil, I swear, don’t give me any of that cryptic shite.”

The old man closed his eyes. “Just.. I’m tired. I’m old. I got no kids to inherit th’ shop. I was thinkin’ I’d be wantin’ an apprentice t’ take the stuff when I start to go barmy. I was gonna give ya th’ flamer if ya agreed t’ do it.”

“Well, that’s not as bad as I thought.”

Gil’s eyes popped open. “Y’aren’t offended?”

“Why in the name of that god-awful hammer you sold me once would I be offended?”

“Cuz’… Yer a lady! Ye should be wantin’ t’ settle down and ‘ave little ‘uns and…”

Emily laughed. “I’ve never cared about any of that? I’m too young for it anyway. I’d like nothin’ more than to come work here with ya.”

“Ye’ll have ta quit the Big House.”

“Bollox on the Big House. It’s a bunch of useless work for people I’ve never actually spoken to.”

“Ye’ll have to move near here.”

“I’d like nothin’ more. This is possibly my favourite place.”

“Ye… Ye won’t get benefits!”

“Do ye’ want me t’ work here or not.”

“…Yes…”

Emily smiled, triumphant. “Good. I’ll see you as soon as I can get away from that place. But now… I have to go back to that place.”

Gilbert smiled too. “If yer sure… Yer flamer will be here fer ya.”

“Keepin’ my first pay check? Sneaky old man!”

Again Emily departed a marketplace to the sounds of booming laughter. She ducked under and around the crowds back onto the street and started heading back to the Big House at a near run, slipping the metal heart into her basket as she dashed back to the main street. She was excited, and happy that Gil trusted her enough to want her to take over his stall. Her secret passion had been inventing, just making little metal devices that amused her mostly, but it was the craze. All of the empire had become obsessed with the Gear Trend, as it was called, ever since it was discovered that carriages could be powered by steam instead of horses. Now every house worth mentioning boasted as many steam and gear devices as they could, and every young person had dreams of getting their device sold in a store like Gremlins or made en mass by a company like Steelworks. Everyone thought they had something to offer. But for the average person, it wasn’t a realistic goal. However, now there was a possibility for her. She had a chance to get involved in the beautiful, strange, gear trade.

She just had to figure out how to get out of her indentured servitude first.

Non-Fiction Writing Piece: Graffiti

While driving around in Victoria, B.C. searching for Chinatown with my mom this summer, I started looking around at all the old, unfamiliar buildings from the rental car. The buildings were very archaic, mainly painted shades of dusty grey and made of old yellow stone. But I kept seeing glances of bright neon colours peeking out of alleys as we wound our way through traffic…
You can see it in every major city; an illegible name scribbled in spray paint, an anti-government message hastily scrawled on a trash can, or a beautiful yet disturbing mural on the wall of an abandoned building. Graffiti is a very common crime, accounting for 35% of all property damage, and costing cities millions of dollars to scrub off or paint over each year. It’s good, you may think, that we get rid of it. Graffiti does contribute to urban decay, and roughly 10% is gang related or contains racial slurs. But what about those other pieces, the big murals that stick out in your mind, the ones made with care, the ones you can’t stop thinking about? And there’s got to be some sort of artistic skill involved in making those intricate signatures you find on the wall everywhere, right? 
I took a look on Wikipedia to try to get more information on graffiti artists from the inside, since Wikipedia is basically the scrawled-on wall of the internet. I found out that graffiti artists don’t even identify as “graffiti artists”. They prefer to refer to themselves as “writers”, because they mainly specialize in fonts. The messy signatures written around the city are more commonly referred to as “tags”. Writers do not tag out of a narcissistic drive to put their name on everything, as some people believe, but to compete with other writers. Coming out after dusk wearing dark hoodies, sneaking around  like raccoons bent on stealing from trash cans, the writers try to have the most creative tag, in the best, hardest-to-reach spots, and in the highest quantity. There are unwritten rules of etiquette that prohibit writing over other people’s tags, and even the dubbing of the most impressive taggers as “kings”. 
Even more respected than the taggers are the graffiti artists who paint murals. These massive works of art, done mostly illegally and under the cover of night, usually have messages regarding the current government, state of the human population, or relate to some other charged issue. These pieces are much harder to accomplish, but can bring much more notoriety to their creators. One particularly famous street artist goes by the tag name Banksy. A still-anonymous painter who began his graffiti career in England at a very young age, his art is usually satirical and portrays his strong political views. Today he does many gallery shows all around the world, and a piece of Banksy original art can go for thousands of dollars; though he gives away most of his work to causes he supports. 
Another philanthropic graffiti artist, Shamsia Hassani, uses her art to try to create better surroundings. She works within the city of Kabul, and frequently has to dodge land mines and bombings in order to create her work on the broken-down walls of the city. She paints murals in order to promote woman's rights and to beautify areas of Kabul that have been torn apart by war. Though she is frequently heckled by passers-by for creating “american art” and for being a woman while she does it, she is looking forward to starting graffiti workshops on the street to help get others involved in her quest for beautification.
Through my traversing of Toronto and the ever-useful internet, I can start to see a line dividing within the graffiti world. There are those who wish to create public art, spread their messages, beautify their city, and even compete with people who have similar interests as them. But there is also the brand of graffiti made to destroy, to cover up what others have done or deface things important pieces of public property. Some graffiti artists have acknowledged this; on websites which document the beauty of street art before it is scrubbed off they have posted instructions on how to remove unwanted graffiti and where to buy paint graffiti cannot stick to. Likewise, some anti-graffiti community websites have statements that talk about the difference between “graffiti” and “street art” as well as providing opportunities to hire local artists to paint murals on blank walls to encourage the type of art they want to see and instil community pride.
Fact of the matter is that graffiti frequently causes damage to private property and can be harmful or offensive to those around it. The ever-obsessive taggers will sometimes feel so compelled by their need to cover space that they draw over important public signs, landmarks, and even the work of professional mural artists. This type of graffiti can be incredibly hurtful and expensive for cities to handle.
However, the law still does not see the difference between art and defacement. Many convicted graffiti artists have their black books, where they create their stencils and practice fonts, confiscated permanently by the police. Huge works of art that takes months to plan and whole nights to execute are cleaned off or painted over in half a morning, before anyone can see them. Messages conceived over weeks and painstakingly planned and drawn are destroyed quickly and with equal malice given to scrawled f-bombs on public washroom walls. 

I think that as a society, we need to begin differentiating between what harms our city and what helps. There is a lot of public art in the world that could be seen as a benefit to society through its messages and the colour it brings to the city, which we have destroyed because it does not fit our idealized public image. Instead of focusing negatively on the small portion of the art we consider inappropriate (because of its location or content matter), it might be better if we tried to focus positively, by making more space available to artists so they may paint legally and appropriating graffiti as a legitimate form of artwork. If we showcase good works of graffiti instead of putting a blanket ban on an entire style, perhaps we can encourage the artists to create works of art that we are proud to have in our cities. I am sure I am not the only one who has spotted glimpses of neon amidst buildings and become fascinated with what the careful-yet-messy spray-painted images might mean. Wouldn’t it be so much easier for us to embrace what is clearly a natural and beautiful part of the urban landscape and city culture instead of waging a constant battle against it?

Personal Narrative Project

The first concert I attended, I didn’t even know the band. I was fourteen, and some close family friends had tickets that they couldn’t use. They sold them off to my parents for cheap, and my whole family decided to go together.

It was my mom who was the Hedley fan, not me. I had heard a few of their songs, but I had never paid any attention to bands before. I just liked to listen to single songs. In fact, I partially expected to hate the concert, as I had delicate ears and was never a fan of loud noises in the first place. My parents even got ear plugs for my sister and I, which we promptly forgot at home before heading out to Hamilton.

After eating our free lukewarm buffet dinner in a small restaurant above the amphitheatre, we headed down to take our seats. There were two opening acts left before Hedley came on, both rappers with a single hit song and dozens more that no one cared about. They were good enough with what they did, but neither of them could hold my attention. One of the performers seemed to think that he was the headliner, and behaved as if he were a teenaged girl and the audience was a giant cell phone for him to take selfies with. He walked, danced, and sang with little regard for the crowd except for when he asked some screaming girls in the front if they wanted him to take his shirt off. The other performer was better, in that he didn’t annoy me just by existing, but didn't perform as well as I thought he could have. I barely remember what he sang, and he had nearly no stage presence. His songs sounded like elevator music to me, completely devoid of any emotion. I think I left halfway through his set to get an ice cream

When he left the stage, the crew came out to switch around the equipment, which took nearly half an hour. I wondered how long the rest of the show would take and when I could go home and read.

But when the lights dimmed again and the announcer said in his stadium voice that Hedley was about to come on stage, the mood changed. The casual atmosphere the audience had maintained previously, joking and talking during the songs and not really paying much attention to the performers, shifted abruptly to a very serious air. Every single person in the theatre was suddenly on their feet as if for the national anthem instead of a simple rock concert. The atmosphere was more contagious than a bad idea, and I found myself excited as any of the diehard fans that surrounded me. My family and I were forced to our feet in order to see over the heads of those in front of us.

The band began playing just milliseconds before the lights came up, their song starting with a crash and a bang echoed by the screams of the crowd. The sound levels skyrocketed faster than the stage lights could begin their pulsing, mechanized dance.

When the lead vocalist began to sing the first lines of the opening number, it felt almost like the melody was already familiar to me even though I had never heard it before. I could anticipate and predict every coming note, and yet I was still surprised and amazed by the music that was being created live and right in front of me. It felt like the melody was being physically drawn out of him, like he was slowly feeding it out to the audience who kept demanding more. He didn’t dance so much as skip across the stage, interacting with the other members of the band, who all seemed to be slaving away over their guitars and drum set and yet somehow completely at ease, as the singer whirled around like a child's’ pinwheel, fast and colourful. He was not a good dancer by any stretch of imagination, but the sheer enthusiasm and bravado that he moved with made it seem like he was better than any professional.

I think for the first few numbers I just stood there grinning like an idiot, loving every ear-blasting, heart thumping minute of it and feeling myself get caught up in the music, but also not wanting to dance in front of my parents. I then transitioned to trying to capture every minute of it I could, taking as many videos and photos as my phone would allow, never wanting the concert to end.

The concert flowed smoothly, the heavier, angry songs leading down into soft, acoustic melodies, and back up into happy and upbeat numbers. Almost everyone in the audience seemed to know the words, and so beneath each song was a cacophony of repeated lyrics, cheering, and screaming. The loudness I thought I would hate surrounded me, and instead of being overwhelmed, I felt oddly peaceful in the middle of all the craziness.

About halfway through, my mom pulled at my sleeve and yelled to me that my dad had left with my sister because she couldn’t handle the noise level, and that we had to leave. I didn't even noticed them go, I was so engrossed in what was happening on stage. As the music faded behind me I promised I would come to another Hedley concert some time in my life, and stay the whole way through.

“So, Mere, what did you think, huh?” asked my mom in the car as we began the drive back from Hamilton to Oakville. I could hear the smile in her voice. She knew I liked it, and was glad to have converted me into fan of one of her favourite bands.

It took me a couple of seconds to realize she had even asked me a question. I was too busy trying to remember lyrics to google for song titles, the bass from the concert still beating in my chest like a second pulse. I had requested we leave the radio off, because I wanted to retain the memory of those songs in my mind.

“It was great,” I said. “I loved it. It was so cool!”

As we drove home my parents discussed trivial things, my sister stared out the window sleepy-eyed and ready to go to bed, and I could still feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins. 

Descriptive Practice

Getting Test Results From a Doctor

The air is heavy in the room, the anticipation palpable and thick like chlorine in an indoor pool, sticking to it’s occupant’s hair and clothes and leaving a brand of fear. Everyone looks at magazines, or books they brought, or even texting away on their phones, but no one is fooled. Who can pay attention to such trivial things like knitting patterns and business deals here?

Or

 The nature of the oncologist’s waiting room borders on animalistic, like making the roman gladiators scheduled to fight each other have a nice sit-down dinner together before entering the colosseum. Publicly they may all wish each other well, but deep in their minds they only care about getting out alive, regardless of the fate of the others.

Traveling 150 MPH

A sudden need to disregard the rules brought his pedal to the metal on that open country road. As he accelerated past 50, 100, 150, he felt the sheer and utter joy mixed with terror that came with breaking the law as well as pushing the limits of what is safe to do. He felt like a burglar who had just pulled off a diamond heist as he braked and pulled back on to the highway; tired, exhilarated, and a million dollars richer.

A Walk in the Rain

For some reason the rain always drove other people away, but not her. The rain cleared her head, and made everything sharper. It was like putting a giant pair of glasses over the entire world, and it always showed her what she was missing out on in her fast-paced life, even though she had never noticed how much she was missing before.

The Smell of a Tree Fort Twenty Years Later

As he stuck his head up into the tree fort through the hole in its floor the damp smell of rotting wood hit him hard and full on, like the had been breathing recycled air all his life and this was his first time getting a dose of the fresh stuff. So many memories were left within the small makeshift house, all now damp and covered in unidentifiable tree stuff. It reminded her, strangely, of a ship kept in a bottle, memories of a happy time, kept in a capsule and left to become dusty on a shelf.

Project 1 - Writing About a Topic to an Unfamiliar Audience Using Simile, Metaphor, and Analogy

I see you over there with your mohawk and your piercings and your heavy-metal-pop-dubstep music blasting out of your expensive 8-decible headphones. But do you know what really rocks?

Classical Music.

No, don’t you walk away from me. Sit down son, you’re going to learn something today.

First off, most of the classical music you think you hear isn’t actually classical music. The first era of organized western music was Baroque, then came Classical, then Romantic and finally 20th century, which is weird as heck. But I digress.

Second off, the musicians of the past really knew how to wow an audience. Handel dropped the bass more than Skrillex does. They had the challenge of performing for people who could go to see different shows everyday, not just once or twice a year in desert music festivals. And the people they performed for were so rich, they could just walk out of the concert! Concerts were treated more like an IPod on shuffle than a special occasion; they could skip whenever they wanted. So imagine basically if Fall Out Boy had their audience fall out halfway through the first song. That can do some serious confidence damage.

So composers had to have real confidence to go on stage and put a piece out there. They would have people not only walking out, but sometimes falling asleep during their concerts too! Handel actually wrote the Surprise Symphony to wake up people who had the gall to fall asleep while he was performing. Go listen to it on Youtube on loud. I dare you.

So you may think that some pop musicians are amazing, having started playing at age 10. Do you know how old Mozart was when he wrote his first song? That BAMF was two years old. He wrote “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”, which means you actually do know some Classical music. Ha! Anyway, he was taken on tour with his money-grabbing dad who noticed his kid had a talent for banging on the piano in an ear-pleasing way, and landed a spot at court writing music for the King of France, where he would reportedly not write down a single note any earlier than the day before a show, because he composed everything in his head. He eventually kicked out of the court for flirting with all the ladies. He was like the Lindsay Lohan of the music world.

You may now argue that the music of today has far more “meaning” and is more “revolutionary” than the music of the past. But may I remind you that it used to be only acceptable to listen to music in church. It was very limiting, like if Deadmau5 was only allowed to use 1 turntable with 6 different noises. But then the musicians of the past decided it wasn’t cool to only be able to write songs about god, and decided to do whatever the heck they want. If that isn't revolutionary, I don't know what is.

You may like your metalhead rock, and thats fine, but guys like these are what got us here. They discovered what cadences worked, what instruments sounded good together, and how to really wow and audience. So don’t scoff at the greats for not being as “hardcore” as the musicians of today. They were hardcore before hardcore was invented.

Hey There!

Hello there!

If you are reading this (and I'm kind of surprised you are, as things tend to get buried on the internet), this is intended to be my writing blog for my Writers' Craft class in school. I hope it will evolve into a record of my writing that will serve to track my progress for the rest of eternity. I acknowledge that when I look back to the beginning of this blog in a year or so, I will most likely be appalled by my own writing, but I'm just going to put whatever I make on here to try to motivate myself to keep writing, to help myself improve, and in order to get a decent grade in my class.

I... think that's all I need to say, for now. I appreciate any and all constructive criticism any reader can offer me, but since this is the internet, I feel the need to ask for you to make sure it is constructive and not just criticism. I'm sorry if I do something stupid like mess up you're and your, but I swear I don't mean to offend.

All right, I hope you enjoy yourself here!

Meredith