op ed.

My op-ed piece is Steve Job's Sister, Mona Simpson, giving an eulogy for Steve Job. She didn't know that her long-lost brother was Steve Jobs--she met up with him when she was 25, and they became close friends since. She wrote about how he lived virtuously, humbly, and determinedly, and explained how these traits never disappeared even through his sickness. The article transitions to how his death was like, ending with his own last words: "OH WOW! OH WOW! OH WOW!"

The article was very effective. It convinced the readers how Steve Jobs was not a self-centered CEO stereotype. Using touching stories, Simpson strengthened her argument with pathos. It gave a feel of an insider's relation with Steve Jobs. The chronological order of events in the also allowed the article to smoothly transition to how he was when he was healthy, ill, and eventually dead. This piece of writing was clearly effective in showing how great Steve Jobs was beyond the Apple Company.

haphephobia

It's the fear of touching or being touched by people. It feels like my life depends on my personal bubble not rupturing. Handshakes are absolutely dreadful. The "brief" moment where my palm touches another man's palm burns in agony. Any mind reader would recoil from the deafening scream inside my head from the irrational panic that overtakes me. A pat on the back becomes a baseball bat blow, causing cold sweats and convulsions that linger after the incident.

It feels pathetic. Why should such an insignificant touch affect me so? It takes such effort to suppress the noticeable results when someone happens to touch me. I've been able to control compulsive shouts of, "Don't touch me!" whenever someone oblivious to this fear steps over the line. Progress has been made: I sometimes accept hugs or hand them out to friends who truly need it (although I never touch them with my hands, just forearms). But anything unexpected can cause pure dread: my delicate personal bubble does contain my life.

Growing my Essays

I stumble a small idea seed, either left behind from a piece of literature, a teacher, or my curiosity. It's a small seed, but I reach out to grasp it. It's sometimes a long distance between here and a safe location to plant the seed, and I pray I don't lose it.

At my desk, on my bed, or in front of a computer, I take that minuscule seed and nurture it to grow. Pencil or pens, paper or keyboard, all can germinate that seed. More thought, effort, and patience grow the idea into a work of writing. A little pruning or a little fertilizer strengthen the paragraphs and sentences that branch from the main body until it sprouts a fruiting body. I take the fruit of my work to the kitchen for final preparations. A little spice and a low simmer later, others are ready to indulge on my idea.