College poetry readings

So the coffee shop location where the readings happened was small like this. Not as tight quarters with the tables crammed together, but there is a similar vibe.

My second semester writing course focused more on persuasive writing. There was a structured formula to follow that included making an assertion, backing it up with examples and research, providing a rebuttal, refuting that, and then offering conclusions.

The structured part was intimidating, but I remember that it helped me see how it was possible to write a 5-10 page paper on the same topic.

I liked my professor. Something about her made me trust her judgement, not just in class but in general. Perhaps she mentioned her personal writing, offering a sense of more happening besides teaching classes. I forget how it happened, but her opinion was one I trusted and I shared one of my poems with her. She referred me to a friend of hers who hosted monthly poetry open mic nights in nearby Charlotte and edited a literary magazine.

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Post 100: I’m a writer!

I know that by having a blog, it should be obvious that I’m a writer. However, a recent social situation has made me take a harder look at the way I see myself.

When offering an introduction to a new group of people, the words “I’m a writer” did not flow out of my mouth. For some reason, since it’s not part of my official job, it seemed strange to identify myself in this way. So, I need to be more confident in acknowledging that I am a writer. It’s not just a secret hobby; it is very much part of who I am.

When you’re NOT interested in a guy’s attention

He was a non-traditional student, about 10 years older and I think pursuing an undergraduate degree. I had met him through PACT, but I believe the first real opportunity to talk happened on the statewide retreat. He wasn’t Catholic, but he was interested in learning about the faith.

I remember being with a small group of people at the retreat, and then slowly others broke off for other things. And it was just the two of us. I wasn’t super comfortable around him, but I couldn’t just leave him. He seemed so alone, and I felt bad for him.

Finding my voice in an opinion essay

This post shows how I was able to take a personal writing session and transform it into an opinion piece for a college class. I took real events and feelings and, by writing a first person narrative while fictionalizing some details, I found a sense of voice in my writing. It marked the first time I truly understood what that literary term meant.

Addressing sensory issues: Am I sharing a problem or demanding others to change?

In the previous post I shared how the sensory modulation side of my experience with Sensory Processing Disorder is still a problem. I explained a little bit of how previous efforts to address these problems were met with unhelpful advice, especially since I didn’t have a means of explaining why things bothered me.

Now as an adult, I do have more awareness of why a seemingly random noise can have such a strong impact on me. So why isn’t it easy to tell people?

Visible and invisible sides of Sensory Processing Disorder: A recap

As I finish discussing my high school years and transition to college, I wanted to do another recap of where I stood with sensory processing problems.

The big list details all the different ways I was impacted by my environment and the way I interpreted the sensory data I received. I’ve also done a recap from preschool through eighth grade to show the progress of these sensory issues.

Makeup, teaching, and leaving my mark

Between my junior and senior year in high school is when I officially tried makeup. Mom took me to a Mary Kay demonstration, so I had some exposure to proper application. I had been given many makeup kits as gifts over the years. That seemed to be the go-to gift for a teenage girl.

To a degree I could see how, applied well, the makeup enhanced rather than overwhelmed a look. But I also was aware of people who refused to leave their house without makeup, and I didn’t want to become that dependent.

The poking and prodding of eye liner was lost on me, though. It seemed impossible to get used to. Getting that close to my eye. I could barely tolerate someone applying it for me, so I just didn’t mess with it. And yet I felt that was a pretty important element for definition, especially when combined with eye shadow.

Senior hoops

Ellen may have been bold with her verbal communication and more direct than me, but it was the kind of push I needed. You can’t always wait for things to happen; often times you have to take matters into your own hands and act to bring the results you want.

The dawn of senior year meant Ellen became our basketball team captain. She earned that title for sure. Like many others, she could see my potential on the court, and so she pushed me to be better. She pushed me to be more of a presence in the paint, more aggressive, instead of being intimidated. She pushed me to take ownership of my ability. We were the “twin towers” under the basket, and we learned a lot about teamwork. You can’t be a successful team with a “one-man show,” and senior year certainly brought out more opportunities for working together.

Introverts, birthdays and “ohhhhhh!”

When high school began, I definitely was not ready for the high energy of Ellen. She was all about introducing herself to everyone and asking questions. There didn’t seem to be an off switch. For a major introvert like myself, it was off-putting in the beginning.

People who tend to be very loud and vocal end up getting on my nerves. It’s far too easy to write off their energy as annoying, though, so I have to be careful about that. It just takes time to understand where they’re coming from. (I’m sure many people initially think I’m not interested in what’s happening around me simply because I don’t say much at first.)

Yearbooks: A lasting impression

Seventh grade was the start of asking as many people as possible to sign my yearbook. I don’t know what prompted it because it had never been a thing before. But I asked friends, teammates, coaches, teachers, people I barely knew, people who rode the same bus as me. I knew a lot of people’s names but that doesn’t mean I knew them well or they had any idea of who I was.

It wasn’t a popularity contest of trying to get the most signatures or messages. That may be hard to believe because in high school especially I had people writing over ads and I even taped in blank sheets of paper just to create space. I brought my tenth grade yearbook with me to Governor’s School and asked as many people as I could to sign it. I received quite a number of weird looks from people as they reluctantly wrote something down.

But it was never a popularity contest. It was deeper than that. I was trying to cobble together some sense of what people thought of me. What was their impression? How am I actually viewed?