A Moment In Time Project Reflection
The purpose of this project was to select a major moment from your lifetime that transformed you and melded you into the person you are today. This project allowed students time to reflect on their memories whilst creating a vignette to represent the memory. We were given a prime opportunity to develop our writing and vividly show our memory through improving the specificity, style, and descriptive writing of the piece. The final product gave us time to reflect on the memory while simultaneously improving the quality of our writing.
During this project I was presented with many opportunities to learn new components of writing therefore further understanding narrative writing and it's importance. The first thing covered in this project was the ingredients for a strong story. These being, a relatable protagonist whose struggles can emerge the audience and leave them yearning for the results of the protagonists struggles. This raises the question: why do we tell stories? I believe that we tell stories to communicate a message or share memories. This is present in both narrative, persuasive, and descriptive writing. Writing about my experience has transformed it in such a way that I am now able to recall certain details and emotions that I had previously thought inaccessible. Narrative writing helps me grow as a writer by giving me a vessel that I can use to evoke emotion which is what writing and storytelling is about. This gives me practice that I can apply to any type of writing thus bettering myself as a writer.
The part of this project that stood out the most is the repetitive and varying critiques that were used to form the best possible final draft for everyone. The most difficult part of this project was keeping my writing within the one page limit. This has proven to be a challenging task, but it has lead to me having a perfect final draft. I feel that there is nothing at all that I would like to change about the way I wrote this story. I took advantage of any emotion that I recall and used superior detail to make the writing pop in a way that I couldn't further improve.
Throughout this project I have grown as a person to respect the art of storytelling much more. By condensing my thoughts and memories into one page I now realize the process of refinement goes far beyond certain aspects of writing. The fact that all authors use this to their advantage makes me further realize and respect the art of storytelling. I also have grown to think about my memories more often. Using writing to help visualize my memories has helped me grow to be more aware of how my memories influence me. In turn this project has helped me recall certain memories that had faded and thus I have grown to think about my memories more often.
During this project I was presented with many opportunities to learn new components of writing therefore further understanding narrative writing and it's importance. The first thing covered in this project was the ingredients for a strong story. These being, a relatable protagonist whose struggles can emerge the audience and leave them yearning for the results of the protagonists struggles. This raises the question: why do we tell stories? I believe that we tell stories to communicate a message or share memories. This is present in both narrative, persuasive, and descriptive writing. Writing about my experience has transformed it in such a way that I am now able to recall certain details and emotions that I had previously thought inaccessible. Narrative writing helps me grow as a writer by giving me a vessel that I can use to evoke emotion which is what writing and storytelling is about. This gives me practice that I can apply to any type of writing thus bettering myself as a writer.
The part of this project that stood out the most is the repetitive and varying critiques that were used to form the best possible final draft for everyone. The most difficult part of this project was keeping my writing within the one page limit. This has proven to be a challenging task, but it has lead to me having a perfect final draft. I feel that there is nothing at all that I would like to change about the way I wrote this story. I took advantage of any emotion that I recall and used superior detail to make the writing pop in a way that I couldn't further improve.
Throughout this project I have grown as a person to respect the art of storytelling much more. By condensing my thoughts and memories into one page I now realize the process of refinement goes far beyond certain aspects of writing. The fact that all authors use this to their advantage makes me further realize and respect the art of storytelling. I also have grown to think about my memories more often. Using writing to help visualize my memories has helped me grow to be more aware of how my memories influence me. In turn this project has helped me recall certain memories that had faded and thus I have grown to think about my memories more often.
Relevant Images To My Moment In Time
A Moment In Time
I had crossed the scorching asphalt whilst conversing with my then best friend, Curtis Salinger. As usual for a friday afternoon we were headed to his house with the soul motivation of having as much fun as humanly possible. A disgruntled school employe donning an embarrassing and sickly yellow vest hoisted a neon red stop sign to halt any parents driving their dusty minivans through the disfigured parking lot. We traipsed along a winding dirt path that weaseled it’s way from Florida Mesa Elementary to Curtis’s house. I bounced slightly shorter than Curtis. My tangled black hair obscured my line of sight but I could still make out my pale and freckled companion. He had little trouble seeing the road as his blonde hair was scooped back in typical fashion of a fourth grade boy.We passed a stocky white house with peeling paint and speckled dogs that snapped at us from behind a barbed wire fence. Continuing on we were met with a patchy field of brown and lengthy grass to our left, and ancient houses that crowded our right. My nostrils churned the musty sawdust air that left a thin coat down the back of our throats and mixed thoroughly with the stench of smoked tobacco. We slammed the thick front door, tossed our backpacks into disgruntled pile, and squeezed onto his deck to unveil the sleek black go kart that would serve as our entertainment for the afternoon. He handed me a second hand bike helmet and pulled it over my thick mane of dirty hair, Curtis revved the mighty beast of a go kart which growled with tense ferocity as I mounted it. I got shotgun and right as I rested into the used plastic seat Curtis’s mom speedily exited the quaint house, she stood slightly higher than the other members of her family and frequently conducted the conversation with her hands. This time she commanded that we fetch the mail on our go kart adventure. We reluctantly agreed and swiftly departed from the gravel driveway with a roaring squeal. It took little time to reach the newly installed metallic box that housed the our rides objective, I daydreamed while Curtis fidgeted with the keys and unlocked the slot. He scooped up the cluster of mail ads and magazines that struggled with him before he impatiently crammed them into a ball .Upon his return to the still automobile his face lit up, and we devised a plan to go offroading instead of taking the flat and boring way back to his oblong home. With a flick of his wrist we were off and careened over pebbles and mud. The blue sky melded with the rust horizon in the distance and dirt flew as the go kart screamed across the land. I skimmed the spinning tire with the tips of my disproportionate fingers. Having reached my goal of fun I was squirming with happiness until without warning the faded tire caught my fingernails and pulled my pasty arm down towards the mismatched ground. I yelped and my arm was fed through the rough tread of tire and along the dusty pathway which ripped the skin from my wrist to elbow. I proceeded to screech at the top of my nine year old lungs to get us home. Curtis’s mother was waiting at the door of the petite baby blue house and worriedly rushed me to the square washroom where I remained as she hurried looked for gauze to apply over my grotesque limb. I muffled my cries as the rest of the dirt and pebbles were washed out of my wound and scurried down the rusted drain. I was then gifted an irritatingly scratchy ace bandage that would occupy a spot on my arm for the next week. It was the following friday that I faced my injury and peeled back the bandage in order to return it to it’s owner. My grossly discolored skin writhed and contorted with a gasp of fresh air. I realized that even though I physically changed throughout my ordeal I had reached my goal of having fun, and now possessed proof of my adventure that day.
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