Few Of The Half example essay topic

For some reason my mind slips to the many late nights I have spent in Sienna, a coffee shop that is located next to the ocean in Santa Barbara. From dawn to dusk it thrived with its daily dosage of tourists and business people, who would order cappuccinos and then proceed up State Street to view our beautiful town. At night fall, however, the entire scene transformed. From out of the dying natural shadows materialized a mysterious brand of people, a bitter contradiction to the clean-cut clientele that had earlier patronized the establishment. During these hours I would listen to old men trade five-dollar philosophies while playing poker for nickels and squinting their eyes at the smell of the sea air that drifted aimlessly up from the pier. I was the lone figure in the back, staring at my friends and acquaintances that sat just a few meters away.

I always had a journal and sketchbook, and would scribble out drawings and poetry with a half-grin on my face. Every once in a while I managed to produce a line of particular potential and I would glance around to see if anyone felt the same enthusiasm I did for my private little revelation. Naturally, they did not. They simply continued their games, political discussions, and senseless, but amusing, monologues.

Few things in life stimulate me the way writing does. In all of its forms, there is nothing as stunning as language. As with anyone, I am vulnerable to writer's block. On such an occasion this dreaded plague would strike, I could simply walk out to the patio of the shop and take a seat across from the veteran reciting his life story while chain-smoking hand rolled cigarettes.

Or, I could talk with the new wave of San Francisco beatniks that had taken a road trip down the coast and stumbled into this black hole of a town. I would maybe Benjamin Wilkins Personal Statement recite a few of the half finished lines that existed within the multitude of corrections and scribbles on the pages of my journal. And in turn, they would ramble off fifteen minutes of slam poetry about the overcooked meat they had eaten in a diner last night, and the girl that had served it to them. After it all was said and done, I continued writing, with the new knowledge I had acquired as a source of inspiration. As far back as I can remember I have been a writer. Not in the sense that I have flawless handwriting and the entire English lexicon at my immediate disposal, but in the sense that I truly enjoy the concept of transferring the absolute emotion of spoken word onto paper.

I have had my share of conflict, my share of teenage drama, my share of breakups and fallout's, and I have emerged virtually unscathed. My mind is intact, and my sanity complete- That is to say, coterminous with the sanity of the average, respected, member of society. These experiences to me are merely fuel and fire for future publications. I look back on my failed ambitions of writing a novel, or compiling a book of poetry, before I had reached the age of sixteen, and I realize that these are not pitfalls in my past, but learning experiences for my future.

My aspirations were unrealistic, but inspiring. Although I desire to become the most competent and illustrious of writers, I have become conscious of the fact that achieving such a venerated position is no small task, and all I can do is my best to attain it.