About Me
Hi! Meet me: Joline Smith. I am a 20 year old student at the University of Michigan. I am a double major in English and Psychology with a minor in Writing. After college I plan on attending law school. I am an avid reader. My favorite books are The Great Gatsby and I am the Messenger. I love music and hardly ever take out my headphones. I like to cook and dance. My greatest passion, though, is writing. As long as I can remember, I have claimed that I would someday publish a book, though as I've grown and changed so has my writing. I write in every genera: fiction, poetry, essays. Writing to me is a central component of my identity. Welcome to my portfolio! I hope you can learn a little bit about me, and maybe through my writing, a little bit about yourself.
Why I Write
I am many things. I am an obedient daughter, a dedicated friend, and a patriotic American. I am painfully honest, overemotional, and disorganized. I am a good dancer, a fast reader, and horrible at sports. When you ask me to describe myself though, one term comes to mind above all others: I am a writer. It is as central and unavoidable as my brown eyes and short stature. It is simply a part of my identity. The term is something I have used to define myself for as long as I can remember. From the age of three, I swore I would someday publish a book. Why I write, however, well that is a far more difficult question to answer and not one I had given a lot of thought to. To answer this question, it was more effective to look outside myself. By analyzing two authors whom I greatly admire, I was able to decode my own motives for writing.
The first is Mitch Albom, a sports columnist for the Detroit Free Press. One Sunday morning when I was reading the paper, I came across an interesting headline in the sports section. It spurred me to keep reading which was unusual. Not that it is odd that I would be reading, I am rarely found without my nose in a book, but quite frankly, I don’t give a damn about sports. Or I didn’t, until I started reading Mitch Albom’s column. His gift is that he can make everyday events seem like fictional stories. He makes the sports players he talks about into characters who have personalities, backgrounds, and emotions. Suddenly, reality is obsolete. The actual player does not matter. The real live game is unimportant. It is the story Albom creates about them that sucks readers in, even those readers who normally find his subject matter uninteresting. He is able to skillfully produce excitement, transforming what I would normally find tedious and boring into drama that leaves me hanging on his every word.
I employ a similar technique upon my own reality. As an only child with parents who both worked full time, I had a solitary adolesence. I began making up stories for company. I put myself in center of a narrative where the minor characters were numerous if not seen. I created my own playmates, my own games, my own exciting adventures without ever leaving my living room. As I grew older and entered school, even when there were other children present, I often played make believe instead of socializing. Everyday events simply weren't interesting enough. I would create fanciful background stories about my teachers and classmates. I would morph them from people into characters. During a simple jog in gym class, I would turn into a princess fleeing from a dragon. I created my own entertainment by weaving monotonous reality into colorful, thrilling fairy tales.
By the time I entered high school, I decided I could never consider writing as a career. It wasn't serious enough. I couldn't make a living doing it; however, as Didion put it, if I could be something other than a writer, I would be. I am, however, incapable of anything but writing. When I sit in class, I find myself, as I did when I was a child, creating fantastic stories about my surroundings. I don't have the analytical capacity to become a doctor or economist. I don't possess the concentration needed to memorize historical facts. My mind wanders constantly. Reality simply isn't enough. It just isn't interesting. My mind, instead, is too consumed with fiction. I think if I did not write, I couldn't function normally in society because I am so handicapped by my unorganized mind. I write to get the stories out so that I can focus on anything else besides the products of my overactive imagination.
The second, more grandiose reason, I write is to leave behind a piece of art for society. I want my name attached to something that will live on long beyond me. As was written by Joseph Conrad and wisely repeated by one of my professors, "A work that aspires, however humbly, to the condition of art must carry its justification in every line." Each word must be purposeful. Each sentence should enhance the piece. It is a novel so well thought out that it has not even one single unnecessary syllable. With this in mind, one particular piece stands out to me above all others. Ever since the day I read about the eyes of Dr. TJ Eckleburg in my 9th grade English class, the image has been burned into my brain. I can almost envision the green light at the end of the dock, and if I listen closely I can hear the sound of coins jingling in Daisy's voice. If you have read it, there is no doubt that you have guessed by now that the piece I am referring is The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. If you haven't read it, you should. Never before had I read a book that changed my life, and never since has any piece had such a lasting impact.
Fitzgerald wastes no words; each and every one is carefully and intentionally selected. It is a novel that must be read and reread to find all of the hidden secrets. Each line stands alone, more prolific than the last. The result is a novel like Daisy herself: once you are acquainted with it, it is impossible to forget. The novel appeals to my more romantic sentiments about writing: creating something elegant, meaningful, and timeless. It is consciously trying to be writing. It is a piece of text that sets out to be a masterpiece. I write to create something as unforgettably beautiful and artistic as this to leave as my legacy.
In essence, the force behind why I write can be boiled down into two distinctly separate reasons that are somehow combined to form one larger, overlying purpose. First, by creating stories about ordinary everyday events and people, I entertain myself. By imagining backstories and endings to incidents, I fill people into characters who I can understand. In writing these musings down, I can empty my mind of such distractions. Second, I wish to contribute something magnificent and lasting to society, and I have chosen to do this in the form of a novel. These two main reasons are somehow synthesized to create one overlying goal: understanding the human psyche.
I have spent years observing the world around me, seeking to sort through my own emotions and to understand those of others. I am so distracted by this impulse that I am infrequently able to focus on anything else. Reading Gatsby was the first time I truly understood the gift of a beautiful novel was the ability to create a story so indistinguishable from reality it no longer seemed to be fiction. Fitzgerald commands a thorough understanding of the human condition which allows him to create such a masterpiece. Though he has created these fictional characters, to the reader they seem three dimensional. The tangled psyches of each character are realistic. Each action, reaction, and quotation helps form the identity of the characters and enriches the novel as a whole.
To write such a moving and believable tale, Fitzgerald must perfectly understand the emotion which motivates human action. The story he documents is not a happy one but one reflective of society and humans the way we truly are. With every word, Fitzgerald overwhelms you with the intensity of the American dream. His writing captures a snapshot of a defining moment in American history; however, the message is applicable far beyond the 1920's. The characters live on: there will always be those as selfish and single minded as Daisy, and as hopeful as Gatsby. I want not necessarily to comment upon society, though inevitably all novelists do, but simply to recreate and preserve the human experience in an artistic, meaningful way.
This goal will haunt me till the day I die as something to painstakingly aspire to; however, like Gatsby's dream it will never quite be achieved. Creating this piece is like the green light at the end of Daisy's dock: so easy to see but so hard to reach. However, I am unable to give up, “Tomorrow I will run faster, stretch out my arms farther,” but, nevertheless, it will elude me. Even Fitzgerald died believing himself a failure. In my opinion, the human condition itself is not something definable. It is merely observable based on action. To piece those moments together, however, is the hopeless job of the narrator. I write to solve the mystery of what motivates people to act the way they do. It is as impossible for me to solve this riddle as it is inevitable that I try. It is my blessing that I have such an urge for understanding: the stories I create make for an interesting perception of the world, if not one wholly based in fact. I strive to use my writing, not only as an outlet for my overactive imagination, but also as a way to leaving some lasting contribution to society. These two interconnected goals combine to form the desire for the understanding of mankind that possesses me. Though I acknowledge that perfect understanding of the human condition is likely unobtainable, I strive for it nonetheless. It is this haunting desire that consumes my identity and demands that I write.
The first is Mitch Albom, a sports columnist for the Detroit Free Press. One Sunday morning when I was reading the paper, I came across an interesting headline in the sports section. It spurred me to keep reading which was unusual. Not that it is odd that I would be reading, I am rarely found without my nose in a book, but quite frankly, I don’t give a damn about sports. Or I didn’t, until I started reading Mitch Albom’s column. His gift is that he can make everyday events seem like fictional stories. He makes the sports players he talks about into characters who have personalities, backgrounds, and emotions. Suddenly, reality is obsolete. The actual player does not matter. The real live game is unimportant. It is the story Albom creates about them that sucks readers in, even those readers who normally find his subject matter uninteresting. He is able to skillfully produce excitement, transforming what I would normally find tedious and boring into drama that leaves me hanging on his every word.
I employ a similar technique upon my own reality. As an only child with parents who both worked full time, I had a solitary adolesence. I began making up stories for company. I put myself in center of a narrative where the minor characters were numerous if not seen. I created my own playmates, my own games, my own exciting adventures without ever leaving my living room. As I grew older and entered school, even when there were other children present, I often played make believe instead of socializing. Everyday events simply weren't interesting enough. I would create fanciful background stories about my teachers and classmates. I would morph them from people into characters. During a simple jog in gym class, I would turn into a princess fleeing from a dragon. I created my own entertainment by weaving monotonous reality into colorful, thrilling fairy tales.
By the time I entered high school, I decided I could never consider writing as a career. It wasn't serious enough. I couldn't make a living doing it; however, as Didion put it, if I could be something other than a writer, I would be. I am, however, incapable of anything but writing. When I sit in class, I find myself, as I did when I was a child, creating fantastic stories about my surroundings. I don't have the analytical capacity to become a doctor or economist. I don't possess the concentration needed to memorize historical facts. My mind wanders constantly. Reality simply isn't enough. It just isn't interesting. My mind, instead, is too consumed with fiction. I think if I did not write, I couldn't function normally in society because I am so handicapped by my unorganized mind. I write to get the stories out so that I can focus on anything else besides the products of my overactive imagination.
The second, more grandiose reason, I write is to leave behind a piece of art for society. I want my name attached to something that will live on long beyond me. As was written by Joseph Conrad and wisely repeated by one of my professors, "A work that aspires, however humbly, to the condition of art must carry its justification in every line." Each word must be purposeful. Each sentence should enhance the piece. It is a novel so well thought out that it has not even one single unnecessary syllable. With this in mind, one particular piece stands out to me above all others. Ever since the day I read about the eyes of Dr. TJ Eckleburg in my 9th grade English class, the image has been burned into my brain. I can almost envision the green light at the end of the dock, and if I listen closely I can hear the sound of coins jingling in Daisy's voice. If you have read it, there is no doubt that you have guessed by now that the piece I am referring is The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. If you haven't read it, you should. Never before had I read a book that changed my life, and never since has any piece had such a lasting impact.
Fitzgerald wastes no words; each and every one is carefully and intentionally selected. It is a novel that must be read and reread to find all of the hidden secrets. Each line stands alone, more prolific than the last. The result is a novel like Daisy herself: once you are acquainted with it, it is impossible to forget. The novel appeals to my more romantic sentiments about writing: creating something elegant, meaningful, and timeless. It is consciously trying to be writing. It is a piece of text that sets out to be a masterpiece. I write to create something as unforgettably beautiful and artistic as this to leave as my legacy.
In essence, the force behind why I write can be boiled down into two distinctly separate reasons that are somehow combined to form one larger, overlying purpose. First, by creating stories about ordinary everyday events and people, I entertain myself. By imagining backstories and endings to incidents, I fill people into characters who I can understand. In writing these musings down, I can empty my mind of such distractions. Second, I wish to contribute something magnificent and lasting to society, and I have chosen to do this in the form of a novel. These two main reasons are somehow synthesized to create one overlying goal: understanding the human psyche.
I have spent years observing the world around me, seeking to sort through my own emotions and to understand those of others. I am so distracted by this impulse that I am infrequently able to focus on anything else. Reading Gatsby was the first time I truly understood the gift of a beautiful novel was the ability to create a story so indistinguishable from reality it no longer seemed to be fiction. Fitzgerald commands a thorough understanding of the human condition which allows him to create such a masterpiece. Though he has created these fictional characters, to the reader they seem three dimensional. The tangled psyches of each character are realistic. Each action, reaction, and quotation helps form the identity of the characters and enriches the novel as a whole.
To write such a moving and believable tale, Fitzgerald must perfectly understand the emotion which motivates human action. The story he documents is not a happy one but one reflective of society and humans the way we truly are. With every word, Fitzgerald overwhelms you with the intensity of the American dream. His writing captures a snapshot of a defining moment in American history; however, the message is applicable far beyond the 1920's. The characters live on: there will always be those as selfish and single minded as Daisy, and as hopeful as Gatsby. I want not necessarily to comment upon society, though inevitably all novelists do, but simply to recreate and preserve the human experience in an artistic, meaningful way.
This goal will haunt me till the day I die as something to painstakingly aspire to; however, like Gatsby's dream it will never quite be achieved. Creating this piece is like the green light at the end of Daisy's dock: so easy to see but so hard to reach. However, I am unable to give up, “Tomorrow I will run faster, stretch out my arms farther,” but, nevertheless, it will elude me. Even Fitzgerald died believing himself a failure. In my opinion, the human condition itself is not something definable. It is merely observable based on action. To piece those moments together, however, is the hopeless job of the narrator. I write to solve the mystery of what motivates people to act the way they do. It is as impossible for me to solve this riddle as it is inevitable that I try. It is my blessing that I have such an urge for understanding: the stories I create make for an interesting perception of the world, if not one wholly based in fact. I strive to use my writing, not only as an outlet for my overactive imagination, but also as a way to leaving some lasting contribution to society. These two interconnected goals combine to form the desire for the understanding of mankind that possesses me. Though I acknowledge that perfect understanding of the human condition is likely unobtainable, I strive for it nonetheless. It is this haunting desire that consumes my identity and demands that I write.