As I entered English this year it was with a knot in my stomach and a sense foreboding lingering in the back of my mind. I was not exactly keen to return to a subject that for me, personifies my inadequacies on paper. At a point somewhere around the second day of class we began a discussion on what defines art. I was intrigued, my attention was captivated and interests sparked. "This is a philosophical discussion" I thought.. This was the sort of medium I yearn to debate and explore! Fast forward a few more days. I find myself entering third period once more, now with what has been for me a long lost eagerness, driven purely by my yearning to further explore our areas of art, even more so a philosophy. I am greeted by a freezing blast of damp air. I take my seat, now in the area for group for, this is the singular area we 've yet to explore. I am bursting with desire to know what I am, as though the classification might offer me solace for my struggles with verbalizing what I like in a piece and expressing myself in a form I feel sufficient. Our discussion and daily routine go on for a few minutes as my mind races, unable to rest my thoughts of possibilities insatiable I smile at my personal Irony: actually wanting to take notes. As we return to them describing my objective type Identify instantly "This is who I am, what I love". I give myself brief musings though in this thought as my mind is pushed to the thoughts of how I can use this in my piece, it will be my instrument for exploration. I am now empowered to use these guidelines to guide my -as of yet sketchy- choice for my author among a sampling of twentieth century authors as diverse, yet beloved to me, as dear friends acquired through a lifetime.
             Even now as I ponder the guidelines I have decided will yield the power to bring my perfect selection forth from a collection of novelist that would masterfully dipict every ounce of human spirit in one way...