Ditto

So the author I am going to attempt to imitate, Kathryn Lasky, usually writes non-fiction but as previously explained I have not read non-fiction for years so this will have to do.

Whence returning to my humble home after a long day of journeying through the world of knowledge at school I decided to unwind on the sofa and just let myself be entertained by the world of television. Even with my piles of homework waiting to be diminished up in my room all I could do was lay back with some chips in one hand and the remote control in the other. My father wouldn't be home 'til much later and my mother was currently seeing to her afternnon nap. All of a sudden a ruckus came from two doors down in the study. I crept along the corridor to come upon the door from where the mysterious noise came. Creepily turning the corner to see none other than my brother going at the xbox with all the concentration he could muster. "Typical Ryan," I murmured to myself as I returned casually back to my nest.

No Big Deal

I don't have a 'favorite author' per se, I read quite a few different authors, but a few stick out. Since Zanguin stole John Grisham, who's one of the greats, I'll have to go with John Feinstein. The reason you might not recognize the name is that Feinstein is a sports writer/novelist/occasional non-fiction author. And no, just because Feinstein is a sportswriter does not automatically make him garbage, he's actually quite talented. Feinstein likes to focus on characters, not necessarily the plot. Whenever I finish a book of his I feel like I've lost friends as these characters have been developed so well. Anyway, here goes....

Coach Chaunce silently walked onto the floor, eyeing the young men in front of him. This would be his 6th new school in as many years-quite a bit of moving for a man who had just had a heart attack. But he loved the game, ever since he could hold a basketball, he'd been involved with it. From watching, to playing, to coaching, he loved it all. Nearing his 40th year of coaching, his wife urged him year after year to finally put the whistle down, but he wasn't hearing any of it. Across four states, he'd coached high schools and community college teams, loving every minute of it. His path had led him to Quincy High School in southern Wisconsin, a school with a reputation for poor academics and worse athletics. He looked at the small, disorganized group of guys and thought to himself, "We've got some work to do."

King of Science Fiction

To be honest, Frank Herbert does not have a very distinctive style. Like many other science fiction authors, he is obsessed with detail and much of his writing comes in the form of dialogue. Furthermore, his writing is extremely descriptive, as he is constantly trying to add more information about his fictional setting. In addition, the author presents the subject matter in a very straightforward way, refusing to delve on one subject. On a larger scale, Herbert's stories focus on aspects of the culture of the fictional peoples described as well as on the setting. This focus allows Herbert to present his fictional universe as a highly plausible one. Anyways, here goes my poor attempt to recreate Herbert's writing.

They approached the Sabr Oasis by dawnbreak, famished from the long trek across the Great Erg in days past. The last stretch of the trek was over dunes high enough to engulf the tallest buildings of Maud'dib. As soon as the travelers reached camp, Jason motioned to Elizabeth, pointing down the crossroad to the forest, where there lay under the morning sun a brook large enough for the filtration devices in their desert suits.
"M'lady, his majesty would not forgive me for letting you perish while we still have a journey ahead of us," Jason offered.
However, Elizabeth, displeased with such a profound suggestion, contended,"No. We must assign the first day watch before we trap ourselves like rabbits in a cage at the hands of a patrol."
Soon the travelers frantically organized themselves into scouting groups and began to set up camp, all the time using the cover of the trees to prevent their movements and camp from being noticed by local patrols of Fremen.
"Quickly," insisted Hawat, who knew of the grave importance of expediency in such an unforgiving land.
As the group spread out in the brush, Jason studied the place: a huge green expanse coverd by a thick layer of underbrush and countless trees swaying back and forth in the morning breeze. The daywatch cast long shadows onto the ground, forming a dark ring around thier camp. He glanced at the Queen, joining the watch party, and noted how she failed to blend with the Fremen even though their garb was identical.

My sincerest apologies to all Sarah Dessen fans!!

While Sarah Dessen doesn’t have an extremely distinct style like Stephen King or some of the other authors people have written about, she’s still (in my opinion) a very good author. Her books always involve a lot of introspection and character development. So, while both of these are difficult to imitate in about 500 words, I’ll do my best.
Pine trees are sticky. This fact became abundantly clear to me about three branches up from the needle-blanketed ground, and was something I probably should have thought of before I started climbing, but then again, if I’d actually planned something out before doing it; I wouldn’t be Claudia, would I? My complete lack of forethought, coupled with my impulsiveness, has gotten me into some pretty sticky situations, no pun intended.
As I pushed through the last painful, bothersome, sharp-needled branch, a breeze washed over my face, gently at first, then more forcefully, almost threatening to knock me off my perch on top of the pine tree. I settled myself on top of one of the branches, and looked out at the roofs of all the houses stretching out beneath me, remembering one in particular.
My feet dangled from the windowsill, the edge sticking into them uncomfortably. I squeezed the berry as hard as I could, but it was too much for my seven year old fingers. I reached back in frustration to hurl the berry as far as I could and laugh as it spun through the air, but before I knew it, it was snatched from my fingers and squished between my best friend’s. He handed it back to me and I grinned as I merrily squished the berry against the fence in front of me until it stuck, red juice trickling down the fence like a dying stream. We attempted to write various words and phrases, but never got more than a few letters before the berries started falling off. I was picking one of them off when I felt the fence tremble, and looked over in time to see my friend pulling himself onto the roof. He waved at me from the top and I followed immediately, climbing as far up on the fence as I could, then hopping up to the roof.
We ran around on the roof for a bit, relishing the view and the fact that we were on the roof, definite no-no territory for any seven year old. We continued frolicking until we heard the distinctive melody of the ice cream truck jingle and my friend bolted off the roof, lowering himself over the edge until his feet touched the fence, then throwing his weight onto those few planks of wood we were vesting so much trust in. He called impatiently to me from the ground, the prospect of frozen goodies fading as fast as the sound of the ice cream truck song.
“I’m coming meany butt!” I called back. There was just one problem; I wasn’t going anywhere.
My feet didn’t reach the fence.
While jumping from the roof to the fence would be just as easy as jumping from the fence to the roof, landing would not. Needless to say, we didn’t get ice cream that day.

My Diary

There's nothing incredibly distinct about Meg Cabot's writing, aside from the diary-format of her Princess series, which is not even super-particular. Each entry is headed by something along the lines of "English Class" or "Lily's House," or provides a specific date, and sometimes hour. From there, it's Princess Mia's stream of conciousness, as is typical for teenage girl diaries. She'll talk about her family, friends, boyfriend, favorite television shows (particularly Buffy The Vampire Slayer), school and other daily activities, etc. Readers become familiar with all of these as they follow a deeper plotline. Being the diary of a single protagonist, though, the novels take a relatively limited first-person point-of-view, which calls for stronger attempts to understand various characters and situations. Which is annoyingly fun (by which I mean, Among the books I canNOT put down, even at the beach).
But speaking in terms of Meg Cabot's style, her characters are very real, with both positive and negative attributes, with no person or situation absolutely perfect. The stories have a very feminine appeal, focusing on things like pop culture and boys; plus, there's the fact that she's a princess, which is something pretty much every girl has either wanted to be or made fun of other girls for wanting to be.


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Parents' Computer, October 19th, 7:55pm (despite whatever time shows up on this blog)

You know what bugs me? Glee. No, not Glee, I'm kinda in love with it. But all these twisted plotlines in Glee. Like, where it's okay for Finn to kiss Rachel even though he has a pregnant girlfriend. It's not his baby, but he doesn't know that! And regardless, he's committed himself to someone else.
Yet he continues to take interest in Rachel. And somehow, this is okay. Because Quinn, his girlfriend, is beautiful and mean. The latter he doesn't know, either, he just knows Rachel's also cute and interested in him and they sing leads together for their glee club. And we, as an audience, are supposed to accept all this. We're supposed to root for Underdog Rachel to get the guy. Where, if the roles were reversed, if Finn was Rachel's boyfriend and he kissed the cheerleading captain, he'd be a bad guy. But, in essence, he's breaking the same social rules.
Same with main character Will: He's flirty with his co-worker Emma. And we want her to win him over even though he's married. His wife's not being totally honest with him, either (in this case, it's that she's pretending to be pregnant, rather than lying about the father). But he's completely unaware of this, and continues to have this little crush on Emma (who also, in recent episodes, has found a significant other).
I enjoy the fact that there's not absolute protagonist or good guy. But what kinda lessons are we supposed to take from this? That if you're pitiful, it's okay to be The Other Woman? I don't think so. Being loyal to someone you're committed to with is probably the most basic premise of a relationship.
It all reminds me of Taylor Swift's "You Belong With Me." Pretty, pretty song (Ismaeel sings it for us all the time on the bus). But, again, it's the sweet, "plain" girl that we sympathize for and want good things for, even if it means bringing down other people (in this case, the cheer caption that wears high heels and short skirts).
(I'd also like to point out that in the music video, it's not until Taylor's all made up at the end that the boy she's singing about leaves his girlfriend. Just something else that bothers me.)
As Rachel (real-Rachel, not Rachel from Glee) likes to say, Speaking of.. actually, nothing that we were just talking about.
Or I guess this relates in that it's something else getting on my nerves lately. But really it's irrelevant. Texting. Like, typically it's totally fine, and a convenient way to communicate with multiple people while doing multiple other things. But when you start to have a heart-to-heart with somebody via text (which, I guess the moral of the story would be to find a more efficient way to communicate, but we don't do that), your words are less or overly effective, people misunderstand one another, and all kinds of new drama can be created.
When I'm upset with someone, I feel awful about not sending smiley faces. It makes what I'm trying to say almost stubborn, which isn't the effect I'm going for. So I'll re-work what I'm saying, and sometime throw in a couple smileys. And then when people don't get that I'm angry with them, it's totally my fault.
Or the opposite happens. I'll send a quick text and forget Haha's and faces and exclamation points, and then worry that people will think I'm angry when I'm totally not.
And the worst is getting people mixed up. Typically for me, it's my mother and boyfriend. I can't tell you how many Can you pick up clear nail polish?'s or We're out of milk.'s or Your genius daughter got an A on the spanish test.'s I have sent to Will since we started dating. Kind of embarrassing, especially the genius daughter ones because, obviously, if I were a true genius I'd be able to recognize the difference between Madre and Will.
But I still text. And watch Glee. And love Taylor Swift. So I'm thinkin' I just need to get over all this. Good to get it out of my system, though.

Do Not Read

Dear classmates and Mr. Logsdon,

Before i start, id like to say that the letter "e" on my keyboard is messed up and i am in a hurry to get this done so i probably will forgt many e's throughout this post.

Well now that i've dealt with that, lets move on. I hope you decide right now to just stop reading my blog and either go on to the next one, or to just log off and do something useful. You will gain nothing from this blog except pain, misery, and if you forget to do it, a big fat zero in infinite campus. Trust me, i know that none of you are reading these blogs for fun, just so that you can figure out what to do it. I also know that instead of reading the actual assignment, you will just look at othrs and try to wing it.

Whatevr the case is, you have already read too much of my blog so i ask you again very humbly, to stop reading and either go on or log off.

Sorry for the inconvenience,
Ismaeel Siddiqi



I don't know how many of you have read The Series of Unfortunate Events but thy are one of my favorite series. The author is Lemony Snicket which is the name he is commonly known by. In reality his nam is Daniel Handler. The reason i like his books, espcially this series is because he is very strange. He does this thing about where he starts off with telling the audience that they should not read his book and instead just put it down and do something useful instead. This is usually the reason i end up reading his books. Plus, even if he didnt say any of that, i would read them anyways

So I forgot the description in the first post, my bad. Anyways, the author I'm attempting to imitate is Sharron Creech. One of my favorite things about her writing are her unique metaphors. One I remember really well is at the beginning of a book she compared spaghetti someone was eating to worms and dirt, which is kind of disgusting, but I thought it was an interesting approach and was surprisingly more funny than nauseating. She also has a unique way of telling an entire story. She starts with heavy description and gives you some information, but keeps you guessing, and reading. Its almost mysterious. Anyways, thats what I was trying to do.

Two Men. One Dream.

Rachel Louise Snyder began her career as a reporter on human interest stories; in many ways, she still is one. She tackles topics from the plight of overfishing in the North Atlantic to the interpersonal effects of the global garment trade not with facts and research, but with experiences learned through her relationships with those most affected. A vision of an industry's problems is not written out for you; she lets it appear through acclimation, as facts and figures seep through the complicated lives of the "characters," building up a picture of the global situation without outright stating it until the very end. It's the ultimate in "showing, not telling," and it removes any trace of non-fictionyness from the non-fiction, creating an emotional narrative instead of a textbook.

I'll try to replicate that feeling of empathy as I discuss the stresses of set construction, and how it effects the relationship between two male companions. Their names (which I have altered for purposes of anonymity and so I can make them totally gay) are Jack and Zeek.

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Jack is stressed. You can read the stress in the ruffle of his hair, the caked and hastily applied stage make-up on his cheeks, the brutal grimace which transforms his brow into a mess of ridges and wrinkles worthy of any Klingon. I lean over with my paint roller ready, and ask him if he needs help with the stage block he's finishing off. He shakes his head, a violent spasm that travels the length of his athletic frame.

"No, I don't need any godd**n help. I can paint a stupid block. Not that hard."

"He's just stressed, Greg," Zeek says, resting one great hand on his partner's back. "You should at least finish up the corners. I think Jacky needs a little break."

"Can finish my own d**n corners," says Jack, as he reluctantly slumps down his roller and stomps over to our director's inhospitable corpse-like couch.

Jack has been stressed like this for weeks, but it's been coming through more and more over the past few days. The play has been inching closer, and no matter how I or even Zeek try to comfort him, Jack is incapable of not worrying.

"Maybe we should go out," I say with a timid look at the still-glowering Jack. "Get tacos. Or something."

"Yeah, tacos! You love tacos, Jacky!" Zeek says.

"I do love Tex-Mex... and you," says Jack. A slight smile appears unbidden on his face.

"I love you too, Jacky-bear." Zeek leans over, lifting Jack into the air like a bride, and carries him out towards the dressing room.

Fights like this have become ever more frequent for my friends, and have for actors across the nation. Acute shortages in wood supplies, caused by the communist policies of the current American President, have raised prices on everything from swing sets to wooden saws. And without crucial wooden tools or wood with which to work, an actor attempting to construct even the most basic set faces a massive overhead. Perhaps with a more stringent policy towards wood conservation, thespian couples like Zeek and Jack would be able to enjoy a dressing room moment alone without the looming cost of their production driving them apart.

It was a crisp morning. The ground stripped with frost like a zebra, frozen only where tall trees cast their shadow on the field they were walking. She continued at a brisk pace, the small dog panting at her heels trying to keep up. The field ended and before her stood a woods still dark under the brush, even with the morning sun peaking through the tops of the trees. There was rustling about of squirrels and various animals that would cause her to turn her head sharply at times, but only for a moment. Then she would continue. Down the hills, through the woods, and over the bridge that covered the twinkling creek. It ran smoothly over large stepping stones that were once functional. From there you could see the house. A modest, one-story log cabin. Smoke crawling out of the chimney and into the sky, it would be nice and toasty inside. All ready, she could see her breath in the air circling above her head, like her own little chimney of smoke melting into the sky.
The cool weather had come early this year and it was much too soon for most peoples liking. Schools were going to close early, people were planning on moving. Something big was coming. Those who were staying were stocking up, creating food and water storage that could last as long as need be. This winter would be a rough one, and Jena was ready. Nothing was going to happen this time.
Once when the stepping stones in the creek were still in use, and Jena was a little girl, there had been a winter like this one. Except this time would be different, she would be prepared and she would win against this icy cold deathtrap of a town.

Suspense Master!

John Saul is the king of suspense. He leads you every which way when he writes. There is not a boring moment I've ever come across in one of his books, he keeps you on the edge of your seat the entire time, he is amazing at the suprise ending, occasionally i have to read lines twice because I am so suprised. I once read the end to his book three times hoping it would change everytime. I have never witnessed an end to his book where every one "lived happily ever after." In fact some of his endings almost make you want to cry. You could be having the best day of you life and you sit down to read one of his books and you ened up feeling more depressed and scared than you could ever remember feeling, ever. I once read a part of his book and couldn't go to sleep for fear that my dead aunt's ghost would rape me, i don't have a dead aunt. I've read Stephen King, I've read Dean Koontz, and in my mind nobody can compare to the style, and the knock you off your socks, make your bones chill writing of John Saul.



The Can You See Her



Prolouge

It was the end of the war, he was finally coming home. She had waited for husband years, he was the most dedicated man anybody had ever met. He had loved his wife with a passion, but smething had changed, he had seen so much, he could no longer trust anybody. As his wife looked out the window she beckoned for him to come inside, she would have rushed out into the arms but tonight it was raining harder than it ever had in her forty-eight years. She saw him start for the house, but he turned and headed for the shed, she had never been in their shed, that was his personal space. Maybe he'd had something hidden in there for her, a gift or something, she couldn't wait. But there was something in his eyes it was different she had never seen anything in his eyes except for love, ever since the day they met. What had the war done to him.

"Oh well, when he sees me his eyes will change, back to those beautiful blue saphirres they had always been." she said to comfort herself.

she was wrong, he had changed.

"God Da** this rain!" whispered the man as he slipped. "But it'll be da** perfect, nobody will ever know." He enteredthe shed, grapped his axe, and headed back to the house.



Chapter 1

"It's perfect!" she exclaimed. " "We'll take it." Althogh Joan had told her husband that she would wait for him to make any decisions she was so blown away by this housethat she couldn't wait."He might be a little angry, but when he sees how amazing this house is! And the price, what a steal." She was excited, but curious. "If you don't mind my asking, why is the house so cheap?"
"Well The locals believ it's haunted, a man killed his wife, chopped her head clean off with his axe. He buried her right here on these grounds, then people believe he dug a ditch, chopped his own head off, and the rain covered him up. Three years ago a family was diggindg for a pool, they found the two bodies, and the axe. Spooked'em right outta the house. But you seem like a rational person, you don't have any problem with that do you?" The real estate agent had told this story so many time she was almost spooked by it. Bad timing is always a b****, just as she had told the story Joan's seven-year-old son, tyler had walked up.
"Mommy, i don't think i want this house that story is scawy." He said almost crying.
"It's okay, we'll have daddy shoot the ghosts if they bother us." Joan told her son in the most motherly voice anybody had ever heard. Sean, her hsband, was a war veteran.
As they left the son looked back to see his new house he was actually kind of excited about his new house. He had explored it, picked out his room, and as he looked back at the window he saw an ball looking floatig object. Was it really haunted? It didn't matter his daddy would get rid of the ghosts, his father the war veteran.

The Problem with Hot Student Teachers

My author, Simon Rich, takes a surprisingly casual approach to his writing. He uses dialogue and anecdotes (which may or may not be real) to make his points. For example, by exaggerating the President's concern with student protests, we understand that the President in fact could not care less. Through Rich's anecdotes, we come to realize that a lot of people couldn't care less. And that's what I like about Rich. He's sarcastic, and he shoots down this I-am-amazing-and-people-constantly-pay-attention-to-me mentality that so many people have adopted. And sometimes Rich just likes to poke fun at circumstances that happen to everyone--like situations where small talk goes horribly wrong (oh. You did see the game? Oh, the ball hit your son in the face? He's in critical condition where?) or how teenagers always find out if their parents are reading their diaries or not. It's a funny, easy read, but created so cleverly that I'll hardly be doing it justice in a recreation.

The Problem with Hot Student Teachers

A lot of the time, the first days of teaching a class can be a little daunting to student teachers. Not only do they come to realize they're working with students who don't pay attention in general, but if they're attractive, the class's attention span decreases dramatically.

Teacher: Ok, class....good morning. I hope everyone is doing well. Um, this is actually my first day; I hope I don't let you guys down. But you know what they say, hehe: those who can, do, and those who can't, teach!

silence from the class

Teacher: (coughs) Ok, class, today we'll be...

Student 1: (whispering) Ok. He's hot.

Student 2: (whispering) Oh, I know, right? Totally a fan.

Student 1: How long do you think he'll be teaching?

Student 2: I don't know. When did he get here?

Student 1: I have no idea. How long have we been in this class?

Teacher: Excuse me, ladies, what's the square root of this integer?

Student 1: 13. (whispers) What's the square root of HIS integer? (snickers.) Am I right?

Student 2: No. Maybe next time, though.

Teacher: Ladies. Are you paying attention? This is very useful stuff, you're gonna need to know this.

Student 2: Know what?

Teacher:......square roots? Haven't you guys been studying this with your teacher for the past three weeks?

Student 1: What?!

Teacher: Yeah, you guys should have been to complex roots by n---

Student 2: You're hot.

Teacher: What was that?

Student 2: Nothing.

"Hey, Could You Stay After Class? I Need to Speak With You..."

The HCHS Academy students' mentality can be a little much for teachers sometimes, especially this feeling of self-entitlement.

Teacher: Miss Matveeva, I understand you worked really hard on this paper. But I just can't give you higher than a B on the assignment.

Student: What?! But I spent sixteen hours on this. I'm running on two and a half hours of sleep! As a matter of fact, I've spent over thirty hours this week on this class alone!

Teacher: But....I'm gonna be honest. This paper isn't very good. At all.

Student: With all due respect, what part of thirty hours did you not understand?

Teacher: You're missing about thirty periods, and it looks like the third page was cut off after your explanation of the Earth's orbit around the sun. And by the way, the essay was supposed to be on your favorite painting---

Student: Were you in an academy at your school? Do you have any idea what's it like to be constantly beleaguered by those who think they're better than you are?!

Teacher: Yes. Yes I do.

Wow! Picking a favorite author is quite a challenge but I think Sue Monk Kidd is perfect. Especially the Secret Life of Bees. She creates individual characters that help to shape and create the story. But also the way she creates all of the enviroments. I was reading over the book for this assignment and I realized that as the characters were making breakfast and fixing a car. I actually could picture the whole world and exactly what the characters were doing. I loved it! In order to create the characters the way Sue Monk Kidd does I would need to write a whole book. Instead I will simply try to create a world as she did.



As the music blaired from the dingy boombox in the corner, Samantha danced around the kitchen, holding a spoon covered with batter in one hand and in the other a measuring cup about to spill all of its choclate chips.
" Sam, be careful." her mother warned as she crossed to the stove.
Samantha's mother turned up the heat on the stove and instantly the smell of garlic and tomatos filled the room. Her mother took it all in closing her eyes and savoring the smell of fresh, homemade maranara sauce that is there for only a moment.
Sam, waltzing over dipped her finger in side the bubbly red sauce.
" Wow, mom! I think this may be the best sauce ever!"
" Be careful!"
Sam had in her haste to get back to her cookie making almost grazed the open flame with her hair.
" Sorry, mom" Sam replied with a sheepish smile as she turned up the music, starting to sing.

Assignment: call it the shadow of myself

“Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery” – so they say-- at the very least it’s an intense form of analysis. How else could you imitate someone unless you’ve first analyzed all the subtle details and nuisances? I’d like you to briefly tell me about your favorite writer and distill their style into a nice neat description. The real fun/hard part is going to be writing about a topic of your choice in the manner of your favorite writer. Looking at the screen through the eyes of an idea, you must impose upon this shadow and stumble across her words, shuffle through his cadence, while striking out on your own adventure. This one might take a tad more than 150 words so don’t skimp on the icing.

In all honesty, I have not read a book on my own all throughout high school. Actually that is a lie, I read "Fight Club" by Chuck Palahniuk. That was a really solid book that I really did enjoy. Probably because the movie was so good. His style of writing is unique. It's crazy, and sarcastic, and undertone (if that makes sense), and extremely entertaining. Fight Club is legit one of my favorite books i've ever read. I like the fact that it is in first person. I have always found more interest in books that are written in this manor, probably because I like to see into the mind's of a character to see what they are thinking. Chuck Palahniuk did this in a way a had never seen before. His creativity and boldness in his writing lead to a classic novel.

Other than Fight Club, I haven't really read much... I guess I have not had much interest in one particular author to pursue his/her pieces of writing. I usually need some outside motivation to read a book for fun (like an awesome movie!).