Diagnostic Essay

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Diagnostic Essay
There was a time that I loved creative writing, and even one day, with the insistence of my mother, planned to write my memoirs. In the inscription in my Webster’s Dictionary that I received in my 10th year, my grandfather wrote, “3-16-94 this book is dedicated to Anna and her hope to become famous as a writer.” I loved everything about writing: the word play, the endless possibilities, the absolute creative freedom, the thrill of making others feel. I not only took my characters on a journey, but I also went myself. Then about 7 years ago, I took an actual creative writing class. The instructor had lost both of his feet to diabetes and cruised through the always overflowing hallways as a shark does through schools of fish in the ocean. If you weren’t fast enough to get out of his way, the heavy silver foot rests of his wheelchair would gouge into the backs of your heels. Turning my work into him, and the eventual revision meeting made me feel like an ant beneath the magnifying glass of a masochistic child. Not only did it appear that my work told all of my secrets, but his criticisms burned with sarcasm and their delivery came with a tone meant for misbehaved dogs. This changed me, and my love of creative writing. However, it did not affect my love of literature and wanting to dig deeper. I doubled up on literature classes ranging in titles from: Revenge and Paranoia, Transvestitism on Stage, Page, and Screen, and a seminar class on Jane Austen, to name a few. Analytic writing was required in all of these. However, all of this doubling up, and an ongoing personal tragedy relating to my mom burned me out, and eventually brought me to Houston My mother used to tell me that I had to wait until she died to write my memoirs. I often times thought I had another 20 years, but that is not the case. My mom passed away in 2007. In some ways her death freed me. However, there are times when I feel I am lost in the desert without a...
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