Here's how:
Go to the nearest stationery store. Buy a small, spiral bound notebook with lined pages. Walk to and from the store if you can.
On the way back (or later), closely observe two locations. You might choose a place you like and another that you dislike. Take a good look. Slow down and notice things: maybe that fence needs painting. Or the 30 meter fir tree swaying in the wind. Whatever you see . . .
Write your impressions immediately into your notebook. If you have a digital camera, take a picture of the scene to aid your memory.
That's all. Oh, and do remember to walk in the sun this weekend.
19 comments:
Yep, I bought a notebook at Safeway on King Edward @ Oak, but before I write anything, it was soiled with spilled chiken fiesta soup from Safeway's deli. Darn!
Anyway, I've been in and out of Children's Hospital for a last few days; my kid had an appendix out last Saturday. In fact, I'm writing this from the hospital's "computer kiosk" while she is watching a movie, HULK.
I'm not gonna bore you all with a long story, but what struck me most was her face just after the surgery.
She is one tough little chick of ten-years-old, who always questions everythig, running around and bumping in all the time--her front tooth chipped, her eyebrow missing a part of hair, her ear with a scar of slit, all due to her rambanctiousness (misspeling probably, but I don't have a dictionary, what a heck)---and here, she is lying in a hospital bed with a tube from her nose and IVs stuck in her arm.
Her eyes are wet---she isn't crying though her eyes seem to be covered with watery film, and the egdes are red---and have no her liveliness in them at all. Just like the wounded dog's. I've never ever seen her face like that.
Well, I'm writing too long; I'd better go back to the room and play a caring mother.
And maybe write some in the notebook.
I might have run into you at that Safeway! It's where I do my weekly shop as I live nearby. Your poor daughter! And poor you!
This is a nice character description, especially your description of her eyes—"just like a wounded dog's." I can attest to that as my dog had back trouble recently and that lack of "liveliness" is exactly right.
Hope she's recuperating fine and that she'll be back to her rambunctious self soon.
Hi Hiromi
Thanks for your description!
Now, I can see your situation and your kid's condition.(I'm relieved!)
Acutually,this morning, I was worried,wodering of your kid: which of your kid?--what were you doing there?--when I had recieved your brief message.
I've kept some handsouts and information about today's class;I'll give them to you later.
Take care
If we want to be a good writer,we should train ourself to have a keen observation,or have a sentimental heart. To analize things in a perspective way, in otherwords, we have to broaden our vision and mind to accept the critisism.
Dear Horimi: Thanks for you sharing your impressive description. I hope your daughter is getting well and see you tomorrow.
Usually I just follow my heart to write what I want to say, but I don’t know how to make it be more attractive and valuable ─that’s why I am learning ELA 12. I believe that it is not only good for my English writing, but also my mother language. I hope that someday I could use English as good as you─Horimi.
Sorry for my mistake. It shoud be " as well as you".
We had a beautiful Sunday on the beach of Stanley Park. The sun was warm and sweet like a golden honey cake. Looking at the silvery waves throwing gentlely their soft bodies upon to the rocks, then the ocean water was been transformed into thousands pieces of sparkling diamonds, we seized inspiration of our peoty - What a graceful life!
The Mother Nature has an incredible power to heal each person; however, the importance is to connect your whole being with her.
No matter a wounded heart or a wounded body, is going to be healed by this intimate connection to the source of life. Thinking positively is essential for achieving our happiness, because we are creator of our reality.
Helena,
You wrote, "The sun was warm and sweet like a golden honey cake. Looking at the silvery waves throwing gentlely their soft bodies upon to the rocks, then the ocean water was been transformed into thousands pieces of sparkling diamonds, we seized inspiration of our peoty"
Suggestion: The warm, sweet sun, like golden honey cake; the waves, silvery soft bodies thrown upon the rocks; the ocean, transformed into sparkling diamonds.
Indeed, inspired by poetry!
To: Brad
The Color of Maple Trees
While I was driving by the corner of Rumble and Nelson Street in the other day, I took a glance at a row of maple trees because their color attracted me and made me realized that autumn is coming again.
It was just like a rose or yellow glow above the mountains before sunrise in the early morning around 6:30am. I thought that they might be dyed by a professional hair-designer with red wine, or painted by a Paris’s artist, so that they could get such rich, beautiful layers of color.
I wonder if I had seen such clear color before, in my home town.
Because of air pollution, it was hard to see such beautiful pure color of trees like Vancouver’s, although they do have beautiful color originally.
Some cities are always involved in smoke; even in Shanghai─ the metropolis of China (you could often see it on the TV). Some cities were polluted by coal dust like ghost town. (You could see it from “China Rises” ─a documentary film made by Times and CBC)
Some time I really didn’t want to breathe at all because of heavy pollution, especially when I just came back from a coastal city (usually its air is much better).
Therefore, I would like to thank for Vancouver’s plentiful rainfall because it made this worshipful beauty. It washes everything, anything, and makes them more pure and beautiful, include myself.
Catherine:
Your piece has some good points: the colours; your comparison to China's pollution.
If there's one thing you can do it's to state your appreciations more directly:
The trees, layered in red and gold, glowing like the first rays of the morning sun, remind me of a Paris artist's pallette or the deep red of a professional hairdresser's dyes.
Nice to see all these comments!
I love the word, "golden honey cake." Mmmmmmm.
And Catherine, I enjoyed your description of the tree and about the air, ...but um...just one thing....my name is "H-i-r-o-m-i." I know foreign names sound strange and are hard to remember....so yeah...no big deal...I used to know a girl who kept calling me "hOromi" for two years. (Yeah, that's you, May, where're ya?)
Thanks Brad for correcting "the" to "a". Articles!
My daughter is doing much better. In fact, when I came back to the room after my previous comment, she asked me where I was, and when I said I was on a computer, she gave me a look. She's back!
Hiromi, I’m sorry for your daughter. I hope your daughter recovers her health soon and see you again in class.
I had for a walk to the near by my apartment. There are lined yellow trees which are changing their colors to the red-brown; fall suddenly comes in front of my toe.
It brings me to my college hill in Korea. There are huge gingko trees on the hill.
Every fall the tree made me to a poet.
When the breeze was shaking yellowish leaves and Elvis Freshley’s “Only You” was flowing over the blue sky of the fall, every student in my college became a poet. We talked about Freshley’s music and the soft wind instead of the political issues or academic courses beneath the falling leaves.
Fall makes me nostalgia and suddenly disappears to the door of the winter.
Choi:
I went for a walk near my apartment.
The road is lined with yellow-leaved trees. . .
Every fall the trees make me a poet.
Elvis Presley!
You are nostalgic, that is sure!
H-i-r-o-m-i: I’m sorry for my misspelling. It is not polite.
Brad: I like your paragraph that you rewrite for me, because it is much more visual, vivid, and attractive! I’ll save it as mine.
I also enjoy your simile about “the rivers winding under a glacier” because I could feel the ice-cold water goes around in my blood when I read it.
I'm at Scott Road Station. I'm on my way to the ferry. I'm picking up my son today. It's 10am and the sun is already sizzling. Opting for shade I head back from the posted bus schedule to the station entrance.
The stairs are littered with decade old gum. My sweater goes before my butt as I sit. A Muslim woman, covered by a multi-colored scarf and pushing a sleeping toddler asks me where she can find an elevator. She's shy and speaks too quietly for me to hear the first time. Maybe I just wanted to hear the accent again. I give her directions and she walks away.
I open my book to read. Voices, slurred and then loud draw my attention. Instinctivley I pull my bag closer. A young man, wearing a ripped green shirt and dirty jeans is approaching. A young girl follows closely behind. She's just as unkempt. Something about them scares me. Both of their heads roll from side to side, sometimes abruptly. The girl appears to be fairly far along in her pregnancy. Her arms are scarred, bruised, scabbed over. Heroine use I imagine.
I can hear their argument. They're fighting over a pipe. I want to cry. I want to take this girl by the shoulders and shake her. I want badly to speak to them about recovery. I say nothing. I can't watch or I'll go crazy. I walk over to the back of the bus shelter. A cheerful, boisterous woman walks by talking into her cell phone.
There is an upside-down Province newspaper on the bench. The woman behaves as though she's won a jackpot. She flips the paper over and immediatley recoils like she's been zapped by electricity. What appears to be human feces is smeared all over the front of the paper. Gutsy, considerate multi-tasker that she is. She grabs the paper, gingerly by one end, still talking into her cell phone and deposits the paper into the bin. Thank God the bus is here. Scott Road Station; Not exactly Paris in the Spring time.
Anyhow Brad, that was the start of my week-end. It has since improved immeasurabley. Wonder if I spelled that right. I know my punctuation needs alot of help. It's been a few years since English12. Take care. Have a good week-end.
Hiromi.
I was reading the description of your daughters' eyes after her surgery. I hope everything turned out well. My son had croupe at the age of two. Since then I've never seen him so without life or spark. Your words brought back the feeling I had then while I looked at him and could do ... well, nothing really. I knew he would get well, eventually, as you did with your daughter. Nothing in this world scares me like the thought of my son ever looking that way again. I'm happy thinking about the attitude she gave you upon finding out you were at the computer. I'll take a dirty look over listless and out-of-reach any day. Hope your little girl gets better and better every day.
My God, a pretty gripping scene Stacey. Mainly I like it—lots! I’ve changed a few things (for you to find; like an Easter egg hunt) and commented inside the brackets.
>
I'm at Scott Road Station, on my way to the ferry. I'm picking up my son today. It's 10 a.m. and the sun is already sizzling. Opting for shade, I head back from the posted bus schedule to the station entrance. [tightened a bit]
The stairs are littered with decade old gum. My sweater goes before my butt as I sit. [hard to imagine; what do you mean exactly?] A Muslim woman, covered by a multi-colored scarf and pushing a sleeping toddler asks me where she can find an elevator. She's shy and speaks too quietly for me to hear the first time. Maybe I just wanted to hear the accent again. I give her directions and she walks away. [nice!]
I open my book to read. Voices, slurred, then loud draw my attention. Instinctivley I pull my bag closer. [good] A young man, wearing a ripped green shirt and dirty jeans is approaching, a young girl following closely behind. She's just as unkempt. [maybe her clothes shown would be better] Something about them scares me. [tells] Both of their heads roll from side to side, sometimes abruptly. The girl appears to be fairly far along in her pregnancy. Her arms are scarred, bruised, scabbed over. Heroin use, I imagine.
I can hear their argument. [omit] They're fighting over a pipe. I want to cry. I want to take this girl by the shoulders and shake her. I want badly to speak to them about recovery. I say nothing. I can't watch or I'll go crazy. I walk over to the back of the bus shelter. [effective use of short, emphatic sentences] A cheerful, boisterous woman walks by talking into her cell phone. [a bit telly; try showing more]
There is an upside-down Province newspaper on the bench. The woman behaves as though she's won a jackpot. [how, exactly?] She flips the paper over and immediately recoils like she's been zapped by electricity. [think the verb “recoils” is enough] What appears to be human feces are smeared all over the front of the paper. Gutsy, considerate multi-tasker that she is, she grabs the paper, gingerly by one end, still talking on her cell phone and deposits the paper into the bin. Thank God the bus is here. Scott Road Station; not exactly Paris in the spring time.
The message from the old house
After move to New Westminster I like to stroll about the Queen's Park heritage village. Most of the houses are antique, however they well keep their dignity. I appreciate their majestic atmosphere and over one hundred year old history,although I'm living in uncertainties.
Frequently I stop to peeking their picturesque appreance;the gable roof,mullioned and stained glass window,and shabby creamy lace curtain. They willingly talk to me their own stories about glory, anguish,joy, and folly.While walking on Queens Ave, I feel modest and thank for their message; sorrow and pleasure are with me, however I should live in hope.
Rosaria: Corrections and a comment below.
The message from the old house
After [I] move [d] to New Westminster I [often] like to stroll about the Queen's Park heritage village. Most of the houses are antique,[;] however they well keep their dignity. I appreciate their majestic atmosphere and over one hundred year old history, although I'm living in uncertainties.
Frequently[,] I stop to peeking their picturesque app[ea]rance;the gable roof,mullioned and stained glass window,and shabby creamy lace curtain. [Good!] They willingly talk to me [tell me] their own stories about glory, anguish, joy, and folly.While walking on Queens Ave, I feel modest and thank [them] for their message; sorrow and pleasure are with me, however I should live in hope.
>I find the last sentence quite melancholy. An extended personification; interesting.
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