In the past, writing has served me as a mode of immediate relief in my quest for meaning. My experience with previous writing classes has been something like a brew of revelation and defeat. Revelation in terms of linguistic bliss, and defeat in moments when my personal pride and confidence in what I had created all washed away. Why were there times when it washed away? Not because I was not happy with a particular piece I had written, but when all of the sudden writing became a mathematical blueprint; something we all must abide by. For me, that was ninth grade.
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