Dear President Obama,
I am honored to call you my president. You are have intelligence that could surpass the intelect of any president before you. This, I know, will help you during the next four (hopefully eight) years. As you have stated, we are in crisis, and I have a few suggestions on what issues to tackle in your first year in the white house.
Millions of lives are being affect by the war in Iraw. I believe this issue should be addressed first, because of the vast amount of people this war affects. I don't know much about politics or miltary, but I don't see how this war is helping anything. If it were my decision, all troops would be withdrawn from Iraw, and returned to their families.
The second issue to be addressed is the economy. Unfortanetly, money controls alot of the world. If there were a way to reboot the market and increase stock market productivity, many other problems could be solved. I really agree with you tax plan, even if some perceve it as "socialist".
Education is deffinetly a topic I know you're considering. No Child Left Behind has been a nightmare for teachers and students. The amount huge of testing and standerdazation has compromised America's children's learning expiriences. If different kinds of teaching were possible for teachers, the relm of learning would be greater improved.
Being able to say I was alive when the first African American president was in office is something I treasure. But on top of that, I know you will adress crucial issues, and address them with the up most Obamanocity.
Your fellow citizen, Emily Thomas
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Writing Assignment 3, Final Draft
Emily Thomas
1221 Mountford Ct.
Charlottesville, Va 22901
Dear Ellen Hopkins,
Reading all four of your free verse poetry books has not only been a pleasure, but, ultimately, an uplifting experience. The way you use poetry to tell the stories of love and struggle makes me understand that I’m not alone. Not only am I touched by your style of writing, but I can relate to the stories you tell, which makes your book very compelling to read. Your writing flows, and is very easy to read quickly, which is much appreciated by those readers (myself) who are not the fastest readers.
While reading Crank and Glass, I didn't know that the story was about your daughter, but when I read the end note for both books, which told that these books were based on the true story of your daughter's Crystal meth addiction, I was blown away. But the story was compelling, filled with twists and turns, and unfortunate real life situation. According to this book, your daughter also became pregnant and had a baby while addicted to a very dangerous drug. Reading this was heart breaking, but when you refereed to the character that stood for your daughter as having left her child in her shadows, I was shocked that you could express your feeling about it to the public. I look up to you as an author who is able write about a very personal experience, while still sounding graceful by telling your story with poetry.
Out of your four books, Impulse was the most relevant to me. Going through a similar experience myself, reading about three teens who attempted suicide and were admitted to a psychiatric hospital was comforting. I especially connected to your character, Vanessa, who hid the secrets of her sorrows, and revealed them only to a sharpened razor. She knows something is wrong with her brain, something that is controlling her beyond her own behavior. Her involuntary need for male attention also reminds me of myself. Although it was fictional, knowing that other people go through the same thing that I did was uplifting. Writing the three stories in a poetic way gave them a deeper meaning, yet makes them easier to comprehend.
And on a lighter note: reading your work is a breeze. The flow of each page makes it easy to devour your books in only days. Being dyslexic, I have never finished a book in less than about a week, and when I picked up your book Burned and couldn’t put it down, I finally felt like I read at the pace of a normal teenage reader. Your books gave me the confidence to read more than I had in the past.
Your style of writing and subject matter are inspirational to me, and both have changed the way I see the world. I love your books so much, I have read several more than once. Reading your work is a pleasure that never grows old. Thank you so much.
Sincerely,
Emily Thomas
1221 Mountford Ct.
Charlottesville, Va 22901
Dear Ellen Hopkins,
Reading all four of your free verse poetry books has not only been a pleasure, but, ultimately, an uplifting experience. The way you use poetry to tell the stories of love and struggle makes me understand that I’m not alone. Not only am I touched by your style of writing, but I can relate to the stories you tell, which makes your book very compelling to read. Your writing flows, and is very easy to read quickly, which is much appreciated by those readers (myself) who are not the fastest readers.
While reading Crank and Glass, I didn't know that the story was about your daughter, but when I read the end note for both books, which told that these books were based on the true story of your daughter's Crystal meth addiction, I was blown away. But the story was compelling, filled with twists and turns, and unfortunate real life situation. According to this book, your daughter also became pregnant and had a baby while addicted to a very dangerous drug. Reading this was heart breaking, but when you refereed to the character that stood for your daughter as having left her child in her shadows, I was shocked that you could express your feeling about it to the public. I look up to you as an author who is able write about a very personal experience, while still sounding graceful by telling your story with poetry.
Out of your four books, Impulse was the most relevant to me. Going through a similar experience myself, reading about three teens who attempted suicide and were admitted to a psychiatric hospital was comforting. I especially connected to your character, Vanessa, who hid the secrets of her sorrows, and revealed them only to a sharpened razor. She knows something is wrong with her brain, something that is controlling her beyond her own behavior. Her involuntary need for male attention also reminds me of myself. Although it was fictional, knowing that other people go through the same thing that I did was uplifting. Writing the three stories in a poetic way gave them a deeper meaning, yet makes them easier to comprehend.
And on a lighter note: reading your work is a breeze. The flow of each page makes it easy to devour your books in only days. Being dyslexic, I have never finished a book in less than about a week, and when I picked up your book Burned and couldn’t put it down, I finally felt like I read at the pace of a normal teenage reader. Your books gave me the confidence to read more than I had in the past.
Your style of writing and subject matter are inspirational to me, and both have changed the way I see the world. I love your books so much, I have read several more than once. Reading your work is a pleasure that never grows old. Thank you so much.
Sincerely,
Emily Thomas
Monday, December 1, 2008
Writing Assignment 3, Draft 2
Dear Ellen Hopkins,
Reading all four of your free verse poetry books has not only been a pleasure, but, ultimately, an uplifting experience. The way you use poetry to tell the stories of love and struggle makes me believe in every word you write. Not only am I touched by your style of writing, but I am moved by the stories you tell.
While reading Crank and Glass, I didn't know that the story was about your daughter, but when I read the end note for both books, which told that these books were based on the true story of your daughter's crytstal meth addiction, I was blown away. But the story was compeling, filled with twists and turns, and unfortanet real life situation. According to this book, your daughter also became pregnant and had a baby while addicted to a very dangerous drug. Reading this was heart breaking, but when you refered to the character that stood for your daughter as having left her child in her shadows, I was shocked that you could express your feeling about it to the public. I look up to you as an author who is able write about a very personal experience, and still make it sound graceful by putting it in poetry form.
Out of your four books, Impluse was the most relevant to me. Going through a similar experience myself, reading about three teens who attempted suicide and were admitted to a psychiatric hospital was comforting. I especially connected to your character, Vanessa, who hid the secrets of her sorrows, and revealed them only to a sharped razor. She knows something is wrong with her brain, something that is controling her beyond her own behavior. Her involentary need for male attention also reminds me of myself. Although it was fictional, knowing that other people go through the same thing that I did was uplifting. Writing the three stories in a poetic way gave them a deeper meaning.
Your style of writing and subject matter are inspirational to me, and both have changed the way I see the world
Thank you
Sincerely,
Emily Thomas
Reading all four of your free verse poetry books has not only been a pleasure, but, ultimately, an uplifting experience. The way you use poetry to tell the stories of love and struggle makes me believe in every word you write. Not only am I touched by your style of writing, but I am moved by the stories you tell.
While reading Crank and Glass, I didn't know that the story was about your daughter, but when I read the end note for both books, which told that these books were based on the true story of your daughter's crytstal meth addiction, I was blown away. But the story was compeling, filled with twists and turns, and unfortanet real life situation. According to this book, your daughter also became pregnant and had a baby while addicted to a very dangerous drug. Reading this was heart breaking, but when you refered to the character that stood for your daughter as having left her child in her shadows, I was shocked that you could express your feeling about it to the public. I look up to you as an author who is able write about a very personal experience, and still make it sound graceful by putting it in poetry form.
Out of your four books, Impluse was the most relevant to me. Going through a similar experience myself, reading about three teens who attempted suicide and were admitted to a psychiatric hospital was comforting. I especially connected to your character, Vanessa, who hid the secrets of her sorrows, and revealed them only to a sharped razor. She knows something is wrong with her brain, something that is controling her beyond her own behavior. Her involentary need for male attention also reminds me of myself. Although it was fictional, knowing that other people go through the same thing that I did was uplifting. Writing the three stories in a poetic way gave them a deeper meaning.
Your style of writing and subject matter are inspirational to me, and both have changed the way I see the world
Thank you
Sincerely,
Emily Thomas
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Writing Assignment 3, Draft 1: Letters About Literature
Dear Ellen Hopkins,
Reading all four of your free verse poetry books has not only been a pleasure, but, ultimately, an uplifting experience. The way you use poetry to tell the stories of love and struggle makes me believe in every word you write. Not only am I touched by your style of writing, but I am moved by the stories you tell.
While reading Crank and Glass, I didn't know that the story was about your daughter, but when I read the end note for both books, which told that these books were based on the true story of your daughter's crytstal meth addiction, I was blown away. I look up to you as an author who is able write about a very personal experience, and still make it sound graceful by putting it in poetry form.
Out of your four books, Impluse was the most relevant to me. Going through a similar experience myself, reading about three teens who attempted suicide and were admited to a psychiatric hostpital was comforting. Although it was fictional, knowing that other people go through the same thing that I did was uplifting. Writing the three stories in a poetic way gave them a deeper meaning.
Your style of writing and subject matter are inspirational to me, and both have changed the way I see the world
Thank you
Sincerely,
Emily Thomas
Reading all four of your free verse poetry books has not only been a pleasure, but, ultimately, an uplifting experience. The way you use poetry to tell the stories of love and struggle makes me believe in every word you write. Not only am I touched by your style of writing, but I am moved by the stories you tell.
While reading Crank and Glass, I didn't know that the story was about your daughter, but when I read the end note for both books, which told that these books were based on the true story of your daughter's crytstal meth addiction, I was blown away. I look up to you as an author who is able write about a very personal experience, and still make it sound graceful by putting it in poetry form.
Out of your four books, Impluse was the most relevant to me. Going through a similar experience myself, reading about three teens who attempted suicide and were admited to a psychiatric hostpital was comforting. Although it was fictional, knowing that other people go through the same thing that I did was uplifting. Writing the three stories in a poetic way gave them a deeper meaning.
Your style of writing and subject matter are inspirational to me, and both have changed the way I see the world
Thank you
Sincerely,
Emily Thomas
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Writing Assignment 2, Final Draft, Title: Jobo
It was a cold, New York morning. The sun rose slowly from the concrete sidewalk to the top to the wall, illuminating all the squiggles and swoops of the graffiti language letters. Also shown by the light’s appearance, was a man. Sitting slouched, leaned up against the graffiti wall. He had not a home nor a penny to his name. Well, he did have one penny, a lucky penny, but he doesn’t like to talk about it. As the sun peeled the darkness away from his face, Joe Clarence opened his eyes to the brick wall of a building across the street. It was no surprise, because it had been there for forty five years Joe had lived there. On the sidewalk. A little worm in the Big Apple. Leaning against a graffiti wall. Joe the hobo.
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were spritzed onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into the eye hole an airbrushed skull, he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, dropplets sitting in his beard, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can and out of trash can climbed a tarantula! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s fuzzy, spider limbs. The tarantula crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the spider, crawling at varying tempos around the dirty man, his heart was pounding. He had never been fond of insects or bugs as a child, but the years of loneliness left him numb to hear childhood fears. The tarantula, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the eight legged fuzz was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the creature. “Come,’ Joe said, and the spider sheepishly stepped onto the hand, so dirty from years of use. The tarantula needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were spritzed onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into the eye hole an airbrushed skull, he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, dropplets sitting in his beard, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can and out of trash can climbed a tarantula! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s fuzzy, spider limbs. The tarantula crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the spider, crawling at varying tempos around the dirty man, his heart was pounding. He had never been fond of insects or bugs as a child, but the years of loneliness left him numb to hear childhood fears. The tarantula, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the eight legged fuzz was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the creature. “Come,’ Joe said, and the spider sheepishly stepped onto the hand, so dirty from years of use. The tarantula needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Writing Assignment 2, Draft 2 Title: Jobo
It was a cold, New York morning. The sun rose slowly from the concrete sidewalk to the top to the wall, illuminating all the squiggles and swoops of the graffiti language letters. Also shown by the light’s appearance, was a man. Sitting slouched, leaned up against the graffiti wall. He had not a home nor a penny to his name. Well, he did have one penny, a lucky penny, but he doesn’t like to talk about it. As the sun peeled the darkness away from his face, Joe Clarence opened his eyes to the brick wall of a building across the street. It was no surprise, because it had been there for forty five years Joe had lived there. On the sidewalk. A little worm in the Big Apple. Leaning against a graffiti wall. Joe the hobo.
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were spritzed onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into at an airbrushed skull, he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can. And out of trash can climbed a tarantula! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s fuzzy, spider limbs. The tarantula crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the spider, crawling at varying tempos around the dirty man, he stayed calm. The tarantula, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the eight legged fuzz was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the creature. “Come,’ Joe said, and the spider sheepishly stepped onto the hand, so dirty from years of use. The tarantula needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were spritzed onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into at an airbrushed skull, he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can. And out of trash can climbed a tarantula! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s fuzzy, spider limbs. The tarantula crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the spider, crawling at varying tempos around the dirty man, he stayed calm. The tarantula, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the eight legged fuzz was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the creature. “Come,’ Joe said, and the spider sheepishly stepped onto the hand, so dirty from years of use. The tarantula needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
Monday, October 13, 2008
Writing Assignment 2, Draft 1 Title: Jobo
It was a cold, New York morning. The sun rose slowly from the concrete sidewalk to the top to the wall, illuminating all the squiggles and swoops of the graffiti language letters. Also shown by the light’s unavailing, was a man. Sitting slouched, leaned up against the graffiti wall. He had not a home nor a penny to his name. Well, he did have one penny, a lucky penny, but he doesn’t like to talk about it. As the sun peeled the darkness away from his face, Joe Clarence opened his eyes to the brick wall of a building across the street. It was no surprise, because it had been there for forty five years Joe had lived there. On the sidewalk. A little worm in the Big Apple. Leaning against a graffiti wall. Joe the hobo.
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were sizzled onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into at a skull (air brushed to perfection), he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can. And out of trash can climbed a severed human hand! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s dirty, stubby fingers. The hand crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the hand, walking around on it’s fingers, he stayed calm. The hand, a spider not so nimble, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the hand was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the severed hand. “Come,’ Joe said, and the hand sheepishly stepped onto the hand that looked quite like it’s self. The hand needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
Over the years, numerous layers of spray paint were sizzled onto the wall that Joe guarded. Although it was his home, he appreciated the decoration. In fact, during the day when there were no people to beg for money, he would analyze the pictures, the words, and the symbols. Sometimes he would get distracted by a bit a cracking paint, so brittle it was begging him to be picked off.
If someone walked by when he was staring into at a skull (air brushed to perfection), he would ask, “What do you think this means? I think it is symbolizing the oppressive government.” The woman would look Joe up and down, with eyes filled with disgust and judgment. As she quickly walked away, Joe’s face would droop, and his heart would sink. Would anyone ever love him and except him for who he is?
One day, when the sky was particularly cloudily, and the rain was starting to drip-drip-drip onto poor Joe’s balding head, something magnificent happened. Across the street, in an alley way, there was a trash can. And out of trash can climbed a severed human hand! As it crawled out, it looked both ways before crossing the street, and when it spotted Joe, it ran with it’s dirty, stubby fingers. The hand crept up to Joe, possibly looking for a human companion, maybe just looking for some shelter from the rain.
When Joe looked down and found the hand, walking around on it’s fingers, he stayed calm. The hand, a spider not so nimble, started to climb onto Joe’s leg, and the lonely hobo embraced him. It hiked up his shirt, like the stock market, climbing up, then falling back down to the denim bellow. Joe realized the hand was trying to climb into his pocket, so he held out him palm (with raised eyebrows), as an elevator for the severed hand. “Come,’ Joe said, and the hand sheepishly stepped onto the hand that looked quite like it’s self. The hand needed shelter, but Joe saw it also needed love, and this was new for him. He had never been needed.
With Joe Clarance’s new confidence and responsibility, he decides it was time for his Picasso covered wall to be the home to another hobo with a lucky penny. He was in search of a better ‘home’ for him and his new friend. As he walked away with nothing but a penny and a third hand, he whispered to the odd creature in his pocket “I will never let you down, my friend.”
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