A Critique of Thank You for Smoking? Essay -- Smoking Argumentative Es

A Critique of â€Å"Thank You for Smoking†¦.?† Peter Brimelow’s article â€Å"Thank You for Smoking†¦.?† is an essay that looks at a rather extreme perspective on smoking. Brimelow starts off by describing the many actions that are taken against the tobacco industry; he writes that in some states, the government is trying to make the tobacco industry pay certain health care costs. However, he then goes on to state that smoking may actually be good for one’s health. He uses various sources to show that smoking has positive effects on our bodies; he states the decrease in risk in numerous diseases. Brimelow uses medical journals to show that smoking decreases the risk of diseases like Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s. He also talks about some of the ways smoking enhances certain skills, â€Å"A battery of studies show that cigarettes really do stimulate alertness, dexterity and cognitive capacity† (Brimelow 141). Brimelow does pick a tough subject to talk about, but for the most part he does a good job writing his article and distributing information to the reader to support argument. In the beginning of Brimelow’s essay, he lists a number of organizations that are fighting against the tobacco industry, such as the Food & Drug Administration and the Environmental Protection Agency. Then out of nowhere he throws out his major claim, which is the thesis or the main point of the essay (McFadden 41). Every paper has a major claim; it is the central idea of the paper. The major claim says, â€Å"smoking might be, in some small ways, good for you† (Brimelow 141). This is a rather shocking thesis, due to the fact that generally when we think of smoking, we think of something very negative to a person’s health. Brimelow’s major claim is very difficu... ...own to be bad. However, even though the essay may not be persuasive in most cases, it is, for the most part, well written. Brimelow starts off the essay a little slow, he does not give the reader a sense of direction in the beginning, but the body definitely informs the reader. The body of the essay is filled with information supporting his thesis, and his values are very clear. His essay may not persuade many, but it is definitely informative and well written. Work Cited Brimelow, Peter. â€Å"Thank You for Smoking†¦.?† The Genre of Argument. Ed. Irene L. Clark. Boston: Thomson-Heinle, 1998. 141-142. Clark, Irene L. The Genre of Argument. Ed. Irene L. Clark. Boston: Thomson-Heinle, 1998. McFadden, James. The Toulmin Method: From Classical Logic to Modern Argumentation. [PowerPoint Slide.] 5 February, 2004. Buena Vista University. Storm Lake, IA.

The Vampire Diaries: Dark Reunion Chapter Seven

Stefan approached the corner house reluctantly, almost afraid of what he might find. He half expected that Damon would have abandoned his post by now. He'd probably been an idiot to rely on Damon in the first place. But when he reached the backyard, there was a shimmer of motion among the black walnut trees. His eyes, sharper than a human's because they were adapted for hunting, made out the darker shadow leaning against a trunk. â€Å"You took your time getting back.† â€Å"I had to see the others home safe. And I had to eat.† â€Å"Animal blood,† Damon said contemptuously, eyes fixed on a tiny round stain on Stefan's T-shirt. â€Å"Rabbit, from the smell of it. That seems appropriate somehow, doesn't it?† â€Å"Damon-I've given Bonnie and Meredith vervain too.† â€Å"A wise precaution,† Damon said distinctly, and showed his teeth. A familiar surge of irritation welled up in Stefan. Why did Damon always have to be so difficult? Talking with him was like walking between land mines. â€Å"I'll be going now,† Damon continued, swinging his jacket over one shoulder. â€Å"I've got business of my own to take care of.† He tossed a devastating grin over his shoulder. â€Å"Don't wait up.† â€Å"Damon.† Damon half turned, not looking but listening. â€Å"The last thing we need is some girl in this town screaming ‘Vampire!' † Stefan said. â€Å"Or showing the signs, either. These people have been through it before; they're not ignorant.† â€Å"I'll bear that in mind.† It was said ironically, but it was the closest thing to a promise Stefan had ever gotten from his brother in his life. â€Å"And, Damon?† â€Å"Now what?† â€Å"Thank you.† It was too much. Damon whipped around, his eyes cold and uninviting, a stranger's eyes. â€Å"Don't expect anything of me, little brother,† he said dangerously. â€Å"Because you'll be wrong every time. And don't think you can manipulate me, either. Those three humans may follow you, but I won't. I'm here for reasons of my own.† He was gone before Stefan could gather words for a reply. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. Damon never listened to anything he said. Damon never even called him by name. It was always the scornful â€Å"little brother.† And now Damon was off to prove how unreliable he was, Stefan thought. Wonderful. He'd do something particularly vicious just to show Stefan he was capable of it. It was no use. He couldn't keep his mind on the puzzle. He was tired and lonely and in desperate need of comfort. And the stark truth was that there was no comfort to be had. Elena, he thought, you lied to me. It was the one thing she'd insisted on, the one thing she'd always promised. â€Å"Whatever happens, Stefan, I'll be with you. Tell me you believe that.† And he had answered, helpless in her spell, â€Å"Oh, Elena, I believe it. Whatever happens, we'll be together.† But she had left him. Not by choice maybe, but what did that matter in the end? She had left him and gone away. There were times when all he wanted was to follow her. Think about something else, anything else, he told himself, but it was too late. Once unleashed, the images of Elena swirled around him, too painful to bear, too beautiful to push away. The first time he'd kissed her. The shock of dizzy sweetness when his mouth met hers. And after that, shock after shock, but at some deeper level. As if she were reaching down to the core of himself, a core he'd almost forgotten. Frightened, he'd felt his defenses tear away. All his secrets, all his resistance, all the tricks he used to keep other people at arm's length. Elena had ripped through them all, exposing his vulnerability. Exposing his soul. And in the end, he found that it was what he wanted. He wanted Elena to see him without defenses, without walls. He wanted her to know him for what he was. Terrifying? Yes. When she'd discovered his secret at last, when she'd found him feeding on that bird, he had cringed in shame. He was sure that she'd turn away from the blood on his mouth in horror. In disgust. But when he looked into her eyes that night, he saw understanding. Forgiveness. Love. Her love had healed him. And that was when he knew they could never be apart. Other memories surged up and Stefan held on to them, even though the pain tore into him like claws. Sensations. The feel of Elena against him, supple in his arms. The brush of her hair on his cheek, light as a moth's wing. The curve of her lips, the taste of them. The impossible midnight blue of her eyes. But Bonnie had reached Elena. Elena's spirit, her soul, was still somewhere near. Of anyone, he should be able to summon it. He had Power at his command. And he had more right than anyone to seek her. He knew how it was done. Shut your eyes. Picture the person you want to draw near. That was easy. He could see Elena, feel her, smell her. Then call them, let your longing reach out into the emptiness. Open yourself and let your need be felt. Easier still. He didn't give a damn about the danger. He gathered all his yearning, all his pain, and sent it out searching like a prayer. And felt†¦ nothing. Only void and his own loneliness. Only silence. His Power wasn't the same as Bonnie's. He couldn't reach the one thing he loved most, the one thing that mattered to him. He had never felt so alone in his life. â€Å"You want what?† Bonnie said. â€Å"Some sort of records about the history of Fell's Church. Particularly about the founders,† Stefan said. They were all sitting in Meredith's car, which was parked a discreet distance behind Vickie's house. It was dusk of the next day and they had just returned from Sue's funeral-all but Stefan. â€Å"This has something to do with Sue, doesn't it?† Meredith's dark eyes, always so level and intelligent, probed Stefan's. â€Å"You think you've solved the mystery.† â€Å"Possibly,† he admitted. He had spent the day thinking. He'd put the pain of last night behind him, and once again he was in control. Although he could not reach Elena, he could justify her faith in him-he could do what she wanted done. And there was a comfort in work, in concentration. In keeping all emotion away. He added, â€Å"I have an idea about what might have happened, but it's a long shot and I don't want to talk about it until I'm sure.† â€Å"Why?† demanded Bonnie. Such a contrast to Meredith, Stefan thought. Hair as red as fire and a spirit to go with it. That delicate heart-shaped face and fair, translucent skin were deceptive, though. Bonnie was smart and resourceful-even if she was only beginning to find that out herself. â€Å"Because if I'm wrong, an innocent person might get hurt. Look, at this point it's just an idea. But I promise if I find any evidence tonight to back it up, I'll tell you all about it.† â€Å"You could talk with Mrs. Grimesby,† Meredith suggested. â€Å"She's the town librarian, and she knows a lot about the founding of Fell's Church.† â€Å"Or there's always Honoria,† Bonnie said. â€Å"I mean, she was one of the founders.† Stefan looked at her quickly. â€Å"I thought Honoria Fell had stopped communicating with you,† he said carefully. Stefan was surprised. He didn't entirely like the idea of Elena's journal on display. But Honoria's records might be exactly what he was looking for. Honoria had not just been a wise woman; she had been well versed in the supernatural. A witch. â€Å"The library's closed by now, though,† Meredith said. â€Å"That's even better,† said Stefan. â€Å"No one will know what information we're interested in. Two of us can go down there and break in, and the other two can stay here. Meredith, if you'll come with me-â€Å" â€Å"I'd like to stay here, if you don't mind,† she said. â€Å"I'm tired,† she added in explanation, seeing his expression. â€Å"And this way I can get my watch over with and get home earlier. Why don't you and Matt go and Bonnie and I stay here?† Stefan was still looking at her. â€Å"Okay,† he said slowly. â€Å"Fine. If it's all right with Matt.† Matt shrugged. â€Å"That's it, then. It might take us a couple of hours or more. You two stay in the car with the doors locked. You should be safe enough that way.† If he was right in his suspicions, there wouldn't be any more attacks for a while-a few days at least. Bonnie and Meredith should be safe. But he couldn't help wonder what was behind Meredith's suggestion. Not simple tiredness, he was sure. â€Å"By the way, where's Damon?† Bonnie asked as he and Matt started to leave. Stefan felt his stomach muscles tighten. â€Å"I don't know.† He had been waiting for someone to ask that. He hadn't seen his brother since last night, and he had no idea what Damon might be doing. â€Å"He'll show up eventually,† he said, and closed the door on Meredith's, â€Å"That's what I'm afraid of.† He and Matt walked to the library in silence, keeping to the shadows, skirting areas of light. He couldn't afford to be seen. Stefan had come back to help Fell's Church, but he felt sure Fell's Church didn't want his help. He was a stranger again, an intruder here. They would hurt him if they caught him. The library lock was easy to pick, just a simple spring mechanism. And the journals were right where Bonnie had said they would be. Stefan forced his hand away from Elena's journal. Inside was the record of Elena's last days, in her own handwriting. If he started thinking about that now†¦ He concentrated on the leather-bound book beside it. The faded ink on the yellowing pages was hard to read, but after a few minutes his eyes got accustomed to the dense, intricate writing with its elaborate curlicues. It was the story of Honoria Fell and her husband, who with the Smallwoods and a few other families had come to this place when it was still virgin wilderness. They had faced not only the dangers of isolation and hunger but of native wildlife. Honoria told the story of their battle to survive simply and clearly, without sentimentality. With a prickling at the back of his neck, he reread the entry carefully. At last he leaned back and shut his eyes. He'd been right. There was no longer any doubt in his mind. And that meant he must also be right about what was going on in Fell's Church now. For an instant, bright sickness washed over him, and an anger that made him want to rip and tear and hurt something. Sue. Pretty Sue who had been Elena's friend had died for†¦ that. A blood ritual, an obscene initiation. It made him want to kill. But then the rage faded, replaced by a fierce determination to stop what was happening and set things right. I promise you, he whispered to Elena in his own mind. I will stop it somehow. No matter what. He looked up to find Matt looking at him. Elena's journal was in Matt's hand, closing itself over his thumb. Just then Matt's eyes looked as dark a blue as Elena's. Too dark, full of turmoil and grief and something like bitterness. â€Å"You found it,† Matt said. â€Å"And it's bad.† â€Å"Yes.† â€Å"It would be.† Matt pushed Elena's journal back into the case and stood. There was a ring almost of satisfaction in his voice. Like somebody who's just proved a point. â€Å"I could have saved you the trouble of coming here.† Matt surveyed the darkened library, jingling change in his pocket. A casual observer might have thought he was relaxed, but his voice betrayed him. It was raw with strain. â€Å"You just think of the worst thing you can imagine and that's always the truth,† he said. â€Å"Matt†¦Ã¢â‚¬  Sudden concern stabbed at Stefan. He'd been too preoccupied since coming back to Fell's Church to look at Matt properly. Now he realized that he'd been unforgivably stupid. Something was terribly wrong. Matt's whole body was rigid with tension lying just under the surface. And Stefan could sense the anguish, the desperation in his mind. â€Å"Matt, what is it?† he said quietly. He got up and crossed to the other boy. â€Å"Is it something I did?† â€Å"I'm fine.† â€Å"You're shaking.† It was true. Fine tremors were running through the taut muscles. â€Å"I said I'm fine!† Matt swung away from him, shoulders hunched defensively. â€Å"Anyway, what could you have done to upset me? Besides taking my girl and getting her killed, I mean?† This stab was different, it was somewhere around Stefan's heart and it went straight through. Like the blade that had killed him once upon a time. He tried to breathe around it, not trusting himself to speak. â€Å"It was the truth.† Stefan waited a moment and then added, levelly, â€Å"But it's not the whole problem, is it?† Matt didn't answer. He stared at the floor, pushing something invisible with the side of one shoe. Just when Stefan was about to give up, he turned with a question of his own. â€Å"What's the world really like?† â€Å"What's†¦ what?† â€Å"The world. You've seen a lot of it, Stefan. You've got four or five centuries on the rest of us, right? So what's the deal? I mean, is it basically the kind of place worth saving or is it essentially a pile of crap?† Stefan shut his eyes. â€Å"Oh.† â€Å"And what about people, huh, Stefan? The human race. Are we the disease or just a symptom? I mean, you take somebody like-like Elena.† Matt's voice shook briefly, but he went on. â€Å"Elena died to keep the town safe for girls like Sue. And now Sue's dead. And it's all happening again. It's never over. We can't win. So what does that tell you?† â€Å"Matt.† â€Å"What I'm really asking is, what's the point? Is there some cosmic joke I'm not getting? Or is the whole thing just one big freaking mistake? Do you understand what I'm trying to say here?† â€Å"I understand, Matt.† Stefan sat down and ran his hands through his hair. â€Å"If you'll shut up a minute, I'll try to answer you.† Matt drew up a chair and straddled it. â€Å"Great. Take your best shot.† His eyes were hard and challenging, but underneath Stefan saw the bewildered hurt that had been festering there. â€Å"I've seen a lot of evil, Matt, more than you can imagine,† Stefan said. â€Å"I've even lived it. It's always going to be a part of me, no matter how I fight it. Sometimes I think the whole human race is evil, much less my kind. And sometimes I think that enough of both our races is evil that it doesn't matter what happens to the rest. â€Å"When you get down to it, though, I don't know any more than you do. I can't tell you if there's a point or if things are ever going to turn out all right.† Stefan looked straight into Matt's eyes and spoke deliberately. â€Å"But I've got another question for you. So what?† Matt stared. â€Å"So what?† â€Å"Yeah. So what.† â€Å"Yeah, so what?† Stefan leaned forward. â€Å"So what are you going to do, Matt Honeycutt, if every bad thing you've said is true? What are you going to do personally? Are you going to stop fighting and swim with the sharks?† Matt was grasping the back of his chair. â€Å"What are you talking about?† â€Å"You can do that, you know. Damon says so all the time. You can join up with the evil side, the winning side. And nobody can really blame you, because if the universe is that way, why shouldn't you be that way too?† â€Å"Like hell!† Matt exploded. His blue eyes were searing and he had half risen from his chair. â€Å"That's Damon's way, maybe! But just because it's hopeless doesn't mean it's all right to stop fighting. Even if I knew it was hopeless, I'd still have to try. I have to try, damn it!† â€Å"I know.† Stefan settled back and smiled faintly. It was a tired smile, but it showed the kinship he felt right then with Matt. And in a moment he saw by Matt's face that Matt understood. â€Å"I know because I feel the same way,† Stefan continued. â€Å"There's no excuse for giving up just because it looks like we're going to lose. We have to try-because the other choice is to surrender.† â€Å"I'm not ready to surrender anything,† Matt said through his teeth. He looked as if he'd fought his way back to a fire inside him that had been burning all along. â€Å"Ever,† he said. â€Å"Yeah, well, ‘ever' is a long time,† Stefan said. â€Å"But for what it's worth, I'm going to try not to either. I don't know if it's possible, but I'm going to try.† â€Å"That's all anybody can do,† Matt said. Slowly, he pushed himself off the chair and stood straight. The tension was gone from his muscles, and his eyes were the clear, almost piercing blue eyes Stefan remembered. â€Å"Okay,† he said quietly. â€Å"If you found what you came for, we'd better get back to the girls.† Stefan thought, his mind switching gears. â€Å"Matt, if I'm right about what's going on, the girls should be okay for a while. But you go ahead and take over the watch from them. As long as I'm here there's something I'd like to read up on-by a guy named Gervase of Tilbury, who lived in the early 1200s.† â€Å"Even before your time, eh?† Matt said, and Stefan gave him the ghost of a smile. They stood for a moment, looking at each other. â€Å"All right. I guess I'll see you at Vickie's.† Matt turned to the door, then hesitated. Abruptly, he turned again and held out his hand. â€Å"Stefan-I'm glad you came back.† Stefan gripped it. â€Å"I'm glad to hear it† was all he said, but inside he felt a warmth that took away the stabbing pain. And some of the loneliness, too.

Outsiders Compare and Contrast

The Outsiders book and movie were completely different, but they still had some similarities. Like how they both talk about the lives of the characters, for example the movie doesn’t talk about Johnny’s abusive parents or any of the socs. In the book they talk about bobs and cheery valances life. There are a lot of appearance-related differences. For instance, Dally's supposed to have this lynx-like, almost elfin look with ungreased hair so blonde it's nearly white. Soda's hair is supposed to be dark gold.Pony's hair is supposed to be like Soda's hair but slightly redder. Steve's hair is supposed to be slicked back in very complicated black swirls. Two-Bit's supposed to be tall with rusty hair and exaggerated sideburns. The movie cut out all of the Sandy drama I thought the movie made Two-Bit more serious. He cracked some jokes, but the book made him out to be fiercely playful and whatnot, almost always being wise. The movie placed a bit of emphasis — not much, b ut still — on Dally's necklace, which was nonexistent in the book. In the movie, he wore a St.Christopher medallion. The movie made Soda seem considerably less happy than the book made him out to be — that is, the book made it clear he was naturally a happy person who got â€Å"drunk off life,† but in the movie, he was awfully happy a lot of the time so the audience didn't know this character trait. The movie skims over Pony's illness after the rumble, during which time Randy visits their home. The regular movie edition skips the entire first chapter pretty solidly, but the extended opening does tell you about the first chapter.The movie makes no mention of Soda's horse, Mickey Mouse. It also ignores Soda's past dabbling in rodeo bronco-riding. In the movie, the Socs are from the south side of town and the greasers are from the north. In the book, the Socs are from the west and the greasers from the east. In the movie, when Pony comes home from the lot at two in the morning, Darry shoves him hard and he falls. In the book Darry just slaps him across the face.The movie, understandably, drops some of the banter between Two-Bit and Marcia at the movies. As far as I remember the movie didn't include Dally messing around. Little scenes like Dally terrorizing those kids weren't in the book. The movie showed Dally alone at the store when he held it up, whereas the book didn't describe that. The movie showed Pony's dreams. The movie never mentions that girl who looks good in yellow, the one who called Pony a hood when he whipped out his blade during class to cut a worm.

Hell on Earth Essay

Hell on Earth Essay Hell on Earth Essay Coming home from a busy day of school, the first thing the little girl can think about is the after school snack that is awaiting in the refrigerator and snack drawer. But before she can even put her backpack down and take her shoes off, her fuzzy best friend, who happens to be a German Shepherd, comes scrambling around the corner to greet her with a wagging tail and a tilt of the head that articulates, â€Å"You’ve been gone for too long; I’ve missed you†. The little girl responds with a grin, a twinkle in her eye that agrees, â€Å"I missed you more†, and open arms, perfect for Fritz to get closer for a belly rub. Fritz turns over on his back, with his legs in the air, for the little girl to itch his favorite spot (Deane). Just as Fritz begins to calm down from excitement of seeing his favorite cuddle buddy, a loud noise crashes upstairs. The clamor triggers a response in Fritz’s mind that turns the lovable dog’s personality into a growlin g monster. As the girl screams for her mom’s help, it is already too late. The dog pounces onto the innocent girl and opens his mouth with her leg in direct fire. As Fritz bites down, the little girl’s cry tells her mom to hurry down stairs immediately (Deane). My mom, the little girl, has told me countless stories, like this one, about her dog Fritz suddenly changing personalities from the snuggly pillow to a ruthless, snarling monster. Fritz had attacked countless amounts of people and hindered the safety of my mom’s family. My grandparents, feeling rushed buying a German shepherd due to the sudden passing of their dog, went against their better judgment and decided to buy the squished puppy hiding behind the metal fence and small cage from a pet store in a mall. In the beginning Fritz seemed just like any other German shepherd puppy they bought; but after two years of ruthless behavior from Fritz and failed behavior training, my grandparents made the difficul t decision to put him down. My grandparents felt ashamed for making that grim behavior, but they knew Fritz could not be tamed and it was for the better (Deane). Fritz’s behavior and psychological problems due to the puppy mill where he was born created a monster disguised in an adorable, fuzzy friend’s body that could not be fixed. Just like my grandparents, many other people have seen and purchased, the barking, hopeless dogs begging for a home behind the glass wall in a shopping mall. Like Fritz, most of the dogs have been driven to the mall from a disturbing past, a puppy mill. A puppy mill is a sadistic compound where the profit from dogs is the ultimate goal and the treatment and health of the dogs are inhumane and not a priority of the owner. Imagine, a warehouse with objects stacked on top of each other, row after row, abandoned in the dark. In these objects are puppies often starving and dehydrated covered in the feces that dropped from the cages above (Humane Society of the United States). This image is not a nightmare; it is happening across the United States every day. Without ever seeing daylight or experiencing the freedom to run around, female dogs have two litters a year until the age of 5, when they ultimately wear out. They are part of a continuous cycle of birthing and nursing puppies. Many litters have chronic diseases, rotten teeth, and eye and ear infections. In addition to physical harm, puppies have genetic disorders and many other psychological problems that appear to owners months or years after buying directly or indirectly from a puppy mill. Females that are no longer able to produce puppies are starved to death or set loose to the wild where they are ultimately killed (Sharon). As citizens of the United States of America we need to take a stand against the coldhearted treatment towards innocent puppies. I am proposing to you, as a citizen of this supposed glorious country, to expose the hidden truth of puppy mills to your legislators and lawmakers. The dogs in these conditions do not have a

lord of the flies3 essays

lord of the flies3 essays The novel Lord of the Flies by William Golding begins when a group of young boys get stranded on a tropical island without any adults. When the boys are all together they decide they need to elect a leader. The boys choose Ralph primarily because he is the oldest. That angers Jack because him and Ralph arent the best of friends. To restore Jacks hurt feelings Ralph makes him the leader of the hunter group. Jack promises to keep them supplied with meat. Ralph then decides to make rules for the boys to follow, but he only comes up with one. The rule is at meetings only the person with the conch, or horn can speak. After Piggy who is Ralphs best friend lectures everyone on how important it is to be rescued Ralph decides to put a fire on the top of a mountain, so if a plane goes buy the smoke can be seen. They use Piggys glasses to kindle a fire. While Ralph and some others are building huts Jack is out stalking a pig but the pig got away. When Jack gets back to the beach Ralph starts to complain to him that the hunters should do more work at building huts then roaming in the jungle. Jack starts to get angry and the boys get into an argument, but they are able to control themselves. The boys eventually got use to their new life on the island. The early sunrise, the fresh sweet air, and by the best time of the day they forgot about their hopes and worries. When the sun was at its highest peak the heat became unbearable they went into the shade and napped. At night it became pitch black and the boys became frightened and restless. Jack and some of the other hunters painted their faces and went out to kill the pig. Meanwhile Ralph and piggy where sitting on the beach and they saw a ship on the horizon. Then they found out that the fire on the mountain went out because the hunters who were supposed to be taking care of the fire were gone. When the hu ...

The Difference Between Amateur and Proper Writers; And Why You Shouldn - Freewrite Store

The Difference Between Amateur and Proper Writers; And Why You Shouldn - Freewrite Store Commit to your new job. Let me paint you a picture, one of those bizarre scenarios, frisky tableaus, that slowly segues into the topic and theme of the title. Imagine a big, bawdy bar, with a barkeep of barreled brawn, brined brains, and bedeviled behavior. A sprawling dome sanctified by the Gods, christened by Baco and sponsored by the good folks at Guinness†¦ in other words, a pub. A proper (we only serve booze) pub. Now, take that majestic construct and catapult it 100 years into the future, and since we are already breaking the space-time-continuum let’s shatter this flimsy facade called logic - and cement its pillars on one of the heaven’s marshmallow clouds. â€Å"The Cloud Nine† pub in the sky. There’s a marquee on the brick side by the petunias: â€Å"Jesus once came here for a pint.† Inside our celestial haberdashery, patrons dance, dames frolic, and inebriates fight and fess-up. In one corner, Oscar Wilde and Lord Byron are playing footsies under the table. By the jar of pickled eggs, Hemingway is displaying his legendary attitude towards liquor. By the door, giving a rousing and confusing speech on wordplay, Shakespeare. Tolstoy and Marx dip their wet fingers on a pile of salt, trying desperately to hoover the last crumbs of peanuts. Throughout all this madcap, watermark fandango of insanity, a conga line has formed: Maya Angelou, Charlotte Bronte, and Virginia Woolf do the cha-cha-cha while Austen and Christie follow with a brilliant rendition of the chicken dance. The lit cream of yesteryear rubbing shoulders and other naughty parts. The night carries on, sooner or later Karaoke comes into play and bonds are forged mid-way through â€Å"Bohemian Rhapsody†;even Poe manages a smile. Then Twain, that rascal that he is, poses a question:    â€Å"When is a writer no longer an amateur, but a professional?†    Noggins and cookies start boiling. Fitzgerald drools on the virtues of speaking from experience. Lovecraft gives a fairly decent argument towards making pacts with Old Ones. Hemingway zig-zags into a yarn about fishing, while Woody Allen tries to hit on the waitress. On and on they ping-pong the question around the room. Some manage to hit the ball, others evade it, preferring to occupy their minds with the physics of lager. Up and down, hours and hours, the philosophical item is examined; no real answer reached, no consensus patted down. Then, just before the rooster is about to call it a night, a voice is heard among the revelry:    â€Å"Oh, that’s without a doubt the easiest question out there.†    Everybody turns, eyes adjusting in the gloom and rum haze. Sitting on a stool, right next to a Pac-Man machine and flicking through a jukebox’s selection of Golden Oldies, the man himself†¦ Mister Stephen King.    â€Å"Like I said, you turnip heads, there’s a simple answer.† He takes a sip of his coke. â€Å"A writer is truly a professional writer, the minute, nay, the second he gets PAID. A check for something you’ve written instantly grants you pro-writer status. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.†    Mouths catching flies, everybody stares at the horror master, knowing full well that that Gordian Knot of a riddle had been sliced in two and packaged away with alacrity.    â€Å"OK,†goes Twain â€Å"Let me re-frame the question: when do you pass from being a mediocre writer aproper writer?†    Stephen King gets up, understanding that the wordsmith has him by the furry bits The man, having just read â€Å"50 Shades of Grey†, his belief in the power of humankind and the essence of his craft shaken to the very foundation, simply walks off. So, the conundrum still stands: when is a writer a proper writer?As a published author, I’m going to toss my two-cents into that fountain and hope they don’t get lost among the treasured detritus of others. In my opinion, a writer becomes what he is meant to be the second he stops measuring himself up to others of his profession. The second you manage to tie down your voice, tone and make it your own, without trying to copy someone else’s beats, that’s the minute you are a professional. That’s the minute you become something truly unique and irreplaceable.    â€Å"But,† you ask â€Å"How do I get to that point?†    It’s not easy, so here are a few tips: Commit to your new job. Writing, penning out articles, manuscripts, stories, poems, scripts, and all other wordy fragments of wisdom or sheer entertainment is a full-time, 24/7 task. There’s a lot of talk going around town about the power of visualization; I’m here to tell you that’s just nothing short of Hocus Pocus. In reality, you can visualize all you like. Buy the hipster hat, the flowing scarf and talk like a lofty SOB at your next family get together. Do the whole fandango and tango†¦ You’re still not a writer. Imagine as many unicorns and pie-in-the-sky ideas as your greedy little brain will allow, at the end of the day you’ll still find yourself at the stable wondering why your horse can’t fly or who stole his magical horn. The only way to become a writer is to sit down and put in the work. Plant your rear on a seat, or couch, snatch your tools and scribble ‘til you hit gold or have something worth publishing.    â€Å"What about the muse?†    Poppycock! My advice is to grab those Grecian mistresses and take them out back; two shots to the back of the skull for each. Neil Gaiman and Larry Correia will help you hide the bodies while Hemingway mops up the blood. The truth of the matter is that some days you’ll get up in the morning, slug your way to your laptop and discover that fiend writer’s block sitting on the ledge of your table. The specter is pointing out your worthlessness and handing out wanted ads; circled in crimson: â€Å"full-time accountant, great pay.† Before you log on and give Facebook a chance, open up your word-processor and freaking write. Maybe, after four hours of clacking away, you’ll have a sentence or two worth a lick.    A professional writer writes until his ass is raw and his fingers bleed. An amateur writer dabbles with his computer as long as there is nothing good on the television. A structured existence. Let’s build a bridge between the island up above and this grassy archipelago. It’s time to set down rules, to set down goals and lay the foundations that will eventually make you a professional writer. Hacking away at your diary isn’t, unless you’re Anne Frank, professional writing. Every great or at least successful writer has a process. Stephen King reads four hours a day and writes for another four. Dan Brown wakes up at the crack of dawn, stretches and then works until noon. Janet Evanovich finger-dances across the keyboard in the morning and edits at night. Carl Hiassen faces his desk against a blank wall and snaps on shooting-range earmuffs against his head. Hemingway strolled to the nearest bar, sat down and jotted down 500 words, celebrating each victory at the end with a stiff drink. Every single one of them, like Rowling at a coffee shop in Edinburg staring at a cemetery, had their magic recipe. And, unlike any thaumaturgical hootenanny, their â €Å"IT† wasn’t based on a virgin’s blood and a Saint’s holy tears; it was grounded on a businesslike attitude, by the numbers, by appreciation of their skill set. It’s all about discipline, especially when you don’t have a boss riding your ass. Establish a passable set of rules to live by; that’s the Golden Ratio. This is a nine-to-five job; you clock in, you clock out. You need a space for yourself, especially if you are working at home. Otherwise your novel will be slowly devoured and digested by those rugrats you call offsprings. You need to mark down daily goals and, even if you have to go over time, fulfill them.    A pro will edge at least 500 words a day. She’ll dip her arm into a fiery pit, 500 times, just to get those words out. She’ll wake up every day, forget her family exists, juggle divorce like a pro and become a statue in her office ‘til she hits the mark. An amateur will wake up whenever she feels like it, take her time with her coffee, play with her kids, talk to her partner and, finally, scratch out twenty words and say the day was productive. Sharpen your tools. I’m going to step into a Stargate and zoom our narrative into another whimsical dimension. Did you know that Eric Clapton became Eric â€Å"Oh dear lord Layla is the bomb† Clapton after hearing and jamming with Jimi Hendrix? Did you know the Bob â€Å"I just won a Nobel Prize† Dylan purposely bought a house close to Tom Petty, Roy Orbison, and George Harrison? There’s a reason why there was The Police, before Sting. Why Don Henley needed that adrenaline shot known as the Eagles. Why Lennon needed Paul, George, and Ringo. There’s a time in every artist’s life when the chords, the beat, the rhythm, the skills are all learned and mastered; you can either stagnate or take it to the next level. If you’re not a music lover, then let’s flip that analogy onto another field†¦ snatch your boxing gloves and go beat up someone better than you. One of the keys to being a legendary artist is to know you are part of a community. You have to purge that misconception that art is a lone wolf’s hunt. Nope, DiCaprio became an Oscar winner thanks to Scorsese. Hemingway earned his legendary status on account of Gertrude Stein. Frankenstein was penned thanks to an oddball weekend with Lord Byron, Percy Shelley and John Polidori in Switzerland. Talent is partly like an STD. It’s more contagious than syphilis, and some of your peers are so infected with it that you’re liable to catch it by mere osmosis. Surround yourself with people in your neck of the woods. People that appreciate your craft and actually dabble in it. Think about the mid 20s and roaring 30s, or the Beatnik movement, or SoHo London; flash back to those rocking times. Everybody was doodling everybody. Post-coital carnal caper chats ensued on the craft recipe of the day. Pores sweaty, salty and open, your soul as bare and naked as the rest of you. Your mind lathered and frothed by livid libations and popping endorphins. A sultry poetista whispering Keats into your ears; the primordial soup in which creativity is stewed and prepared. Or, if you’re a bit square, the following Open Sesame phrase will win over any writer: â€Å"let me buy you a beer!†If you toss in some Wild Turkey, we will allow you to pump us for as much info as you want.    A pro will, after getting up at the crack of dawn, crawl his way into an avant-garde play at midnight. He will wallow past the existential dingus, toast with his artsy friends at 3 AM, decline a snort of Peruvian moon dust at 5 AM, get an UBER at 6 and start the day on Red Bull just to start writing again. He’ll do that and more just to bathe and float in creative juices. An Amateur will call it a day at 4 and switch on the ballgame. Know your genre. Every platform has guidelines. You can break them, you can go all Gonzo on Journalism, but first, you have to conquer them. Once you have them down to a science, once you can build your rifle with your tongue while blindfolded and barking like a loon, only then can you defenestrate those pesky commandments and dash them against the rocks. Genres have tropes, they have verified axioms that somehow still manage - in many cases - to seem original. For example, in mythology - and most Marvel and DC movies - the age-old Hero’s Journey is the archetype; Campbell’s 17 stages, the playbook Batman was built on. In hard-edge journalism, the â€Å"Five W’s† are the linchpin of any piece. Analyze your sandbox. Take it apart and put each grain of dust under the microscope. Want to Tolkien your way to the top of the fantasy aisle? Then you better have your world-building criteria down on paper. There’s a reason why publishers search for word counts for each genre . Why Westerns shouldn’t be more than 65k words; why Horror has to be at least 100k; why Game of Thrones is considered a hostile mallet in certain New York City boroughs. Here’s another example with the same sentence done and tweaked for different schools of thoughts.    â€Å"It was twilight, five minutes past 6 in New Jersey when†¦Ã¢â‚¬  Journalism.    â€Å"In the Kingdom the sun had dipped below the marbled turrets, bronzing the golden crest when†¦Ã¢â‚¬  Fantasy.    â€Å"A crisp and sharp wind bit into John’s cheek. Night was fast approaching, his instincts coming full force with it†¦Ã¢â‚¬  Action.    â€Å"The sun decided to call it a day. Happy Hour was starting up just to thewest, and that flaming ball of gas needed some Sake, Geisha Hanky-Panky and, oddly enough, a dose of Sumo†¦Ã¢â‚¬  Comedy.    â€Å"A funeral shroud clawed its way pass the horizon, digging its long bloody talons into the last rays of light that clung to the day. A Halloween orange snapped just past the emerald mountains, scatting for a second the landscape in a multicolored afterglow. Then, in a flash and with the same feral ferocity, bewilderingintensity, and vivid violence it disappeared into the ether. With it, all sense of safety was snuffed out. A Stygian wave rolled over the street; pulling in all sights and sounds into its ravenous event horizon†¦Ã¢â‚¬  Horror.    A Pro will hit her head against the head, for an hour, just to catch that word - that perfect word - that’s dangling at the tip of her tongue. She’ll study and read every great book published in her genre before daring to approach that theme. She’ll take months penning that perfect book or article. An Amateur will hook from the pond whatever word comes swimming by and stitch it onto his pieces just to be done with it. She’ll ask herself: â€Å"Why not just say the clown is scary and be done with it† when discussing IT with her friends. Tips from this side of the table. Here are some Golden Rules that truly construct pieces worth printing. Rethink every adverb you place in your text. Anything that ends with â€Å"ly.† The trick to good storytelling is to show and let your audience infer. How was he â€Å"calmly† walking to the gallows? Be mindful of alliterations. They work great in comedy, but might sound funky in other genres. Grammar, in fiction - especially in horror - is flexible. This is paramount when placing your commas, periods and semicolons. Every paragraph has a beat and rhythm; you’re the artist, you build. Then Edit some more. Dean Koontz, for example, will edit each page to death before starting to write another one. It helps to get everything into perspective and, if you’re playing with a novel, it slices the task into digestible sections. Get a thesaurus and learn some odd words. Each genre has a formula, a dictionary to it, get cracking and know your theater’s vocabulary. H.P. Lovecraft used to trudge around, constantly searching for bizarre and arcane words to fill his manuscripts with. Read like a madman. And, when you are not reading, get some audio books. Before shipping and closing the chapter on anything, read it out loud. There’s a reason why storytellers were so adored back in olden days before the printing press. Your phrases or sentences have to hit the ear just right. Critics are right monstrous Unfortunately, they are also your best friends. Before you publish anything, pass it around. Start by copying some of your favorite author’s tone and pattern, learn from them. Slowly start molding them to your frame of mind. You have to mature and nurture your unique voice, but before that happens that fertile egg has to be inseminated†¦ so pick a proper genetic input. And finally, and most importantly, get someone to bankroll you. If you’re getting paid for it, then you’re a writer. Money in the bank, despite what the critics say, is the bar you have to measure yourself against.

RESEARCH PAPER Example | Topics and Well Written Essays - 2250 words

Research Paper Example 1). Typically, overweight and obesity is caused by unbalanced diet, such as eating fast food that has a high level of fat, failure to eat fruits and vegetables, frequent drinking of alcohol, as well as eating a large amount of food among other factors. Research shows that early obesity increases the risk of experiencing cardiovascular diseases, such as high blood pressure and cholesterol, as well as a high blood sugar. It is on this background that a large number of Americans continue to embrace the healthy diet. While Americans found the organic food difficult to access and expensive in the past, in the modern world, an increasing number of Americans are moving away from the American traditional food to the natural food (healthy food); this include the organically grown food, including fruits, vegetables and other unprocessed foods that contain low levels of fat. This paper focuses on discussing the most popular eating trends in the modern US culture; specifically, the paper will pay attention to the cultural food transition that is experienced in the modern American society and its significance among citizens. Though, there is still a dramatic rate of consuming fast and junk food in America, an increasing number people are understanding the positive effect of healthy meal. In its annual â€Å"food trends† report, Forbes magazine included items such as â€Å"gluten free† food, â€Å"healthier kids meals† and â€Å"veggies calorie†, which indicate the growing tendency towards natural and, thus, healthier eating (Gerhard par. 2) The healthy food increasing impact on peoples life, habits and way of thinking can be also noticed from the position of culture. Culture is usually defined as a system of beliefs, habits and ways of thinking, experience, and knowledge of a particular nation. One of the main elements of any culture is food. However, culture is not a sustainable phenomena but continually changing process. Today an increasing