I'm worried that my response is a little too vague for the prompt. Any advice on how to improve would be appreciated!
Prompt: Much of the work that students do at Emerson College is a form of storytelling. If you were to write the story of your life until now, what would you title it and why? (100-200 words)
Half of my writing process is watching the black line of a cursor blink rhythmically back at me against the screen of a pristine word document. It lies in wait, in silent judgment, and reminds me that every time I put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) I am continuing a never-ending process.
The editing process is breath, not death, I often remind myself. A heavy hand of procrastination is a necessary ingredient in any unfinished work, and I mark each of mine with the stain of my lengthy deliberation. My pause is palpable; it is who I am.
The story I write for myself must include the stories inside of me, and my life-long penchant for the written word. It lies in the margins of my unfinished work, in between the white spaces of typed words and on the untouched word documents that lie collecting figurative dust. I exist between the spaces that my words make, underneath, above and all around what I create.
My story? It is the Invisible Ink, my influence that exists just beneath the visible, painting and shaping the fact and fiction that I carefully pen, or the words that lie silent, tucked away and waiting for eventual exposure.
Prompt: Much of the work that students do at Emerson College is a form of storytelling. If you were to write the story of your life until now, what would you title it and why? (100-200 words)
the Invisible Ink
Half of my writing process is watching the black line of a cursor blink rhythmically back at me against the screen of a pristine word document. It lies in wait, in silent judgment, and reminds me that every time I put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) I am continuing a never-ending process.
The editing process is breath, not death, I often remind myself. A heavy hand of procrastination is a necessary ingredient in any unfinished work, and I mark each of mine with the stain of my lengthy deliberation. My pause is palpable; it is who I am.
The story I write for myself must include the stories inside of me, and my life-long penchant for the written word. It lies in the margins of my unfinished work, in between the white spaces of typed words and on the untouched word documents that lie collecting figurative dust. I exist between the spaces that my words make, underneath, above and all around what I create.
My story? It is the Invisible Ink, my influence that exists just beneath the visible, painting and shaping the fact and fiction that I carefully pen, or the words that lie silent, tucked away and waiting for eventual exposure.