Someone once told me,
"Being a writer is like being a prostitute, really. At first you're only doing it for yourself, then Ты decide to tell a few friends, let them in on the action, then Ты decide to let a couple strangers in, pretty soon you're welcoming the entire world."
Such a very accurate quote. When I heard this, I was at a very formal luncheon with a few kids from my journalism class in which we produced the school's newspaper: The Jagged Edge. It was an awards ceremony for individual work as well as our newspaper as a whole to be recognized. Granted, it was a local newspaper that was sponsoring the event, nothing major, but it was a big deal for me - for us.
In our class - Digital Design- I can't explain what it's like. I don't know if any of Ты have been in such a class before, but we're like family. There aren't many of us, but I'd say about 80% of us are dedicated to journalism, all aspiring to be journalists. That 80% was there with me, sitting around the таблица all dressed up, proud of our lowly funded newspaper. The newspaper without color, without someone sponsoring us, giving us all the money we needed, without gifted artists and a committed school. Just us, teacher included. I'm the only freshman there, many of them are seniors who have been with the paper for several years. This is their last go around the track, their final show, yet they welcome me with open arms, teaching me what they know. They're clearly in charge, but they work with us, asking for our ideas and molding them into the plan.
As evidenced by former students who have moved on to become journalists, the class mimics a real newsroom. We don't go in every день and do work out of a book,or off the board, nothing like that. We don't even ask our teacher what we need to do; we know. We're out getting quotes, doing interviews, researching what we need for our articles, thinking up ideas to improve the newspaper, designing the layouts, getting the ads for funds, asking our editors when we have a question, taking pictures, looking to our teacher for approval - we do it all. We help each other. We work as a team.
Then, at the end of the year, as we sat at that таблица and listened as the awards were called out, we smiled. A few of us collected awards for our articles, our layouts, etc. There were perhaps 20 schools, each with a party of 8-10 students, and we all hollered and cheered as every student went up. Cheering them on for their dreams. Sure, we were especially proud for our awards, but it felt like we were cheering everyone on all at once. Ты could see it in the eyes of the winners, the familiar wet glaze over their eyes, the satisfaction that they're pursing what they want to be with all their heart. It's magical, really. We didn't win amazing, but then it was time for the final award. Adviser of the Year. It's an award that goes to the teacher who really put their сердце into the newspaper and had outstanding effect on the students. I'm sure Ты can all imagine the kind of criteria I mean.
Rather than calling the winner's name and then Чтение off the reasons why they were chosen, the reasons were сказал(-а) before the name for this award. Two или three of the seniors wrote letters, as was asked, highlighting the reasons our teacher should win. Two of them sat by me as the Описание was read, the other at Главная sick. I glanced back at my teacher (like everyone else at our table), but she was shaking her head as if she knew she wouldn't win, yet as the judge continued to talk I could hear the hushed whispers of the seniors saying 'that sounds like what I wrote, I think I mentioned that in my letter, do you-' but it was cut off as our teacher's name was announced. To be truthful, all of us got a little teary eyed as our teacher stood to get her award. She walked to the seniors beside me, hugging them tightly before moving to the front to accept the prestigious award and get her picture taken. She came back in silent tears, smiling, and we were all so very proud.
It was during this time that I realized again why I Любовь writing. The feeling of being rewarded for your hard work, the people Ты work with close at hand, ready to give Ты a pat on the back for a job well done, your name plastered over a piece of work that you're proud of, seeing and Чтение the Комментарии of those that enjoyed your work, those that may not have, and the unexplainable feeling Ты get when everything is over.
In class now, I stand at the white board with the marker, Письмо down ideas for Далее year. The older kids told me to do it - my friends, told me they were passing the marker to the Далее generation with this joking tone and goofy grins, but when I look in their eyes I know they mean it. They're ready to go, sad, but ready, and they know I'll be here Далее год filling their shoes. And they're proud. We're all proud. I know they'll come back Далее year, criticizing the newspaper with a new eye, laughing, hugging me and a few others in a small reunion, spilling their accomplishments to us, and again I'll get that feeling. That inexplainable, wonderful feeling, and I'll remember why it is I write.
"Being a writer is like being a prostitute, really. At first you're only doing it for yourself, then Ты decide to tell a few friends, let them in on the action, then Ты decide to let a couple strangers in, pretty soon you're welcoming the entire world."
Such a very accurate quote. When I heard this, I was at a very formal luncheon with a few kids from my journalism class in which we produced the school's newspaper: The Jagged Edge. It was an awards ceremony for individual work as well as our newspaper as a whole to be recognized. Granted, it was a local newspaper that was sponsoring the event, nothing major, but it was a big deal for me - for us.
In our class - Digital Design- I can't explain what it's like. I don't know if any of Ты have been in such a class before, but we're like family. There aren't many of us, but I'd say about 80% of us are dedicated to journalism, all aspiring to be journalists. That 80% was there with me, sitting around the таблица all dressed up, proud of our lowly funded newspaper. The newspaper without color, without someone sponsoring us, giving us all the money we needed, without gifted artists and a committed school. Just us, teacher included. I'm the only freshman there, many of them are seniors who have been with the paper for several years. This is their last go around the track, their final show, yet they welcome me with open arms, teaching me what they know. They're clearly in charge, but they work with us, asking for our ideas and molding them into the plan.
As evidenced by former students who have moved on to become journalists, the class mimics a real newsroom. We don't go in every день and do work out of a book,or off the board, nothing like that. We don't even ask our teacher what we need to do; we know. We're out getting quotes, doing interviews, researching what we need for our articles, thinking up ideas to improve the newspaper, designing the layouts, getting the ads for funds, asking our editors when we have a question, taking pictures, looking to our teacher for approval - we do it all. We help each other. We work as a team.
Then, at the end of the year, as we sat at that таблица and listened as the awards were called out, we smiled. A few of us collected awards for our articles, our layouts, etc. There were perhaps 20 schools, each with a party of 8-10 students, and we all hollered and cheered as every student went up. Cheering them on for their dreams. Sure, we were especially proud for our awards, but it felt like we were cheering everyone on all at once. Ты could see it in the eyes of the winners, the familiar wet glaze over their eyes, the satisfaction that they're pursing what they want to be with all their heart. It's magical, really. We didn't win amazing, but then it was time for the final award. Adviser of the Year. It's an award that goes to the teacher who really put their сердце into the newspaper and had outstanding effect on the students. I'm sure Ты can all imagine the kind of criteria I mean.
Rather than calling the winner's name and then Чтение off the reasons why they were chosen, the reasons were сказал(-а) before the name for this award. Two или three of the seniors wrote letters, as was asked, highlighting the reasons our teacher should win. Two of them sat by me as the Описание was read, the other at Главная sick. I glanced back at my teacher (like everyone else at our table), but she was shaking her head as if she knew she wouldn't win, yet as the judge continued to talk I could hear the hushed whispers of the seniors saying 'that sounds like what I wrote, I think I mentioned that in my letter, do you-' but it was cut off as our teacher's name was announced. To be truthful, all of us got a little teary eyed as our teacher stood to get her award. She walked to the seniors beside me, hugging them tightly before moving to the front to accept the prestigious award and get her picture taken. She came back in silent tears, smiling, and we were all so very proud.
It was during this time that I realized again why I Любовь writing. The feeling of being rewarded for your hard work, the people Ты work with close at hand, ready to give Ты a pat on the back for a job well done, your name plastered over a piece of work that you're proud of, seeing and Чтение the Комментарии of those that enjoyed your work, those that may not have, and the unexplainable feeling Ты get when everything is over.
In class now, I stand at the white board with the marker, Письмо down ideas for Далее year. The older kids told me to do it - my friends, told me they were passing the marker to the Далее generation with this joking tone and goofy grins, but when I look in their eyes I know they mean it. They're ready to go, sad, but ready, and they know I'll be here Далее год filling their shoes. And they're proud. We're all proud. I know they'll come back Далее year, criticizing the newspaper with a new eye, laughing, hugging me and a few others in a small reunion, spilling their accomplishments to us, and again I'll get that feeling. That inexplainable, wonderful feeling, and I'll remember why it is I write.
Hi today i will tell Ты haw to become a mermaid
Side effects:
-itchy legs
-drinking lots of water
-singing allot
Method:
Get into the душ take your shower.
near the end say this spell:
Mermaid magic come to me
I would like a tale not two feet beuaty be upon me рыба of all kinds let me see when im finished in the sea when im dry let my feet return to me SO MOTE IT BE
When Ты say it make sure your wet
Then dry up
Далее time Ты touch water close your eyes imagine Ты being a mermaid and count to ten out loud then Ты should fall over and open your eyes
FIND THE MAGIC TALE
WARNING
THIS MAY NOT WORK FOR Ты
I DID NOT MAKE IT UP MY SELF
I GOT IT FROM Youtube
BUT IF IT WORKS TELL ME ILL TYPE IN еще SPELLS
THIS IS MY FIRST ONE
STAY TUNED
Side effects:
-itchy legs
-drinking lots of water
-singing allot
Method:
Get into the душ take your shower.
near the end say this spell:
Mermaid magic come to me
I would like a tale not two feet beuaty be upon me рыба of all kinds let me see when im finished in the sea when im dry let my feet return to me SO MOTE IT BE
When Ты say it make sure your wet
Then dry up
Далее time Ты touch water close your eyes imagine Ты being a mermaid and count to ten out loud then Ты should fall over and open your eyes
FIND THE MAGIC TALE
WARNING
THIS MAY NOT WORK FOR Ты
I DID NOT MAKE IT UP MY SELF
I GOT IT FROM Youtube
BUT IF IT WORKS TELL ME ILL TYPE IN еще SPELLS
THIS IS MY FIRST ONE
STAY TUNED
When hate is in your heart
Don’t be afraid to tear yourself apart
Through your demonic fear
Until Ты hear
The Ангелы sing
Thy blessing
When Ты hear heaven’s
Yell Ты wonder if the seven
Of sins were committed
It was Ты who committed them
And Ты wil burn for sin
Ты are consumed by wretched flames
And through everyones aims
Ты are never hit
Nor bit
By the огонь consuming you
Screams from hell
Sound like ringing from a bell
Things of silence
Are really screams
People of benevolence
Have bright beams
Of hope and light
Ты are consumed by wretched flames
And through everyones aims
Ты are never hit
Nor bit
By the огонь consuming you
We are listening
We aren’t missing
We know what lies within
So raise your chin
Look at the world with your pessimistic gleam
And seem
All so picture perfect
Don’t be afraid to tear yourself apart
Through your demonic fear
Until Ты hear
The Ангелы sing
Thy blessing
When Ты hear heaven’s
Yell Ты wonder if the seven
Of sins were committed
It was Ты who committed them
And Ты wil burn for sin
Ты are consumed by wretched flames
And through everyones aims
Ты are never hit
Nor bit
By the огонь consuming you
Screams from hell
Sound like ringing from a bell
Things of silence
Are really screams
People of benevolence
Have bright beams
Of hope and light
Ты are consumed by wretched flames
And through everyones aims
Ты are never hit
Nor bit
By the огонь consuming you
We are listening
We aren’t missing
We know what lies within
So raise your chin
Look at the world with your pessimistic gleam
And seem
All so picture perfect
How are the winners determined from the losers? Easy. Whoever gave in first.
And if no one gives in?
Giving in is often easier. But not the desirable choice.
Taylor tapped the glass coated floor. The tiny black droplet that bloomed on her forefinger fell with a soft plink on a треугольник of glass below.
Taylor cautiously lifted the shard to the light. There it was. A small stain, barely the size of a pinhead, darkening the glass.
That's all I am. Just a flaw on an otherwise clear surface.
Just a flaw. A mistake that was never meant to be.
"I'm leaving," Taylor muttered to herself, getting back to her feet. She strode towards the corner, vanishing just as soon as the shadow fell over to embrace her slight form.
She closed her eyes and felt the end of her plait, fumbling with it until wove free.
She knew where she was going, if only this once.
But when she got there? She hadn't thought that far.
And if no one gives in?
Giving in is often easier. But not the desirable choice.
Taylor tapped the glass coated floor. The tiny black droplet that bloomed on her forefinger fell with a soft plink on a треугольник of glass below.
Taylor cautiously lifted the shard to the light. There it was. A small stain, barely the size of a pinhead, darkening the glass.
That's all I am. Just a flaw on an otherwise clear surface.
Just a flaw. A mistake that was never meant to be.
"I'm leaving," Taylor muttered to herself, getting back to her feet. She strode towards the corner, vanishing just as soon as the shadow fell over to embrace her slight form.
She closed her eyes and felt the end of her plait, fumbling with it until wove free.
She knew where she was going, if only this once.
But when she got there? She hadn't thought that far.