The apartment was immaculate. In fact, that’s what seemed to make it so infuriating. Theresa stood in her apartment living room, hands on hips, and chewed her lower lip. Why was it that everything you lost, you seemed to lose right after you cleaned the apartment. Where could it be hidden now?

      The living room was furnished with a myriad of past-decade ikea, black and plastic furniture. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was fashionable. One wall was painted chalk black and was now covered with white dusty writing. At the top of Theresa’s to-do list “find keys” was underlined, which was where Theresa found herself now.

      Yesterday was cleaning day for the week, the house was swept, dusted, vacuumed, and otherwise in meticulous order; this meant there was nowhere the keys could be hiding.

      Theresa lay down on the floor and peered under the couch. A glimmer of light emanated somewhere by the couch’s metal frame. Theresa felt underneath and pulled out an earring. As she stared down a smile crossed her face.

      It was Swarovski crystal, ruby red, one of two given to her by Jerome on their last anniversary. Thinking of Jerome made the smile fade as quickly as it had come. The frustration of the search was now sullen resignation and Theresa walked into the kitchen, tossing the earring into the trash can as she went. The other half of the matching pair was thrown away weeks ago when she broke up with Jerome.

      The pink tile of the kitchen felt cool beneath her feet. Theresa walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a glass pitcher filled with coconut water. After filling a wine glass, Theresa leaned back on the counter and took a sip.

      Jerome had been ready to propose, but that was before…Theresa shook the memory away and bent to check under the counter for her keys a third time. The kitchen was the first place she had looked. First in the cupboards with the dishes, then the dishwasher, finally the refrigerator. Neither the first or second rounds of looking revealed anything.

      The familiar ticking of the kitchen wall clock attracted Theresa’s attention. Quarter to two, she would never make her afternoon class. The front door opened and Theresa saw Rachelle enter, both arms heavy laden with bags of groceries.

      Rachelle was shorter than Theresa with long blonde hair and brown eyes. She cast a smile at her roommate as she lowered the bags to the ground. When the smile was not returned, Rachelle’s friendly expression was replaced with one of worry. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

      Theresa looked away. “Nothing.” She walked out of the kitchen and into the hallway towards her room. As she walked inside, she gently pressed the door shut behind her. On her white dresser a picture of Jerome smiled up at her. Theresa slammed the picture face-down on the dresser and fell face-first on her bed.

      A few moments later there was a knock on the door. “I found your keys,” Rachelle called, “I’ll set them by your door.”

      Theresa wanted to sit up and scream at her. How dare she be so cheerful? Didn’t she understand the emotional crisis Theresa was facing? She lay on her comforter for several minutes until she heard the front door open and shut again. A few seconds later, Theresa rose and opened her bedroom door. Her keys lay on the carpet right next to a pink rose. A white card with an ivy border lay beside it. On it was a message written in pink: U R beautiful. Hang in there girl.

      Theresa picked up her keys and the rose. All at once she felt tears running down her face, but this time she managed to smile.

      Theresa wrinkled her nose and frowned, the picture in front of her still looked like a bunch of blurry cats.

      “Isn’t amazing?” the shopkeeper drawled, “Who would’ve expected to see Mount Rushmore on that page?” He smiled charmingly, but the smile was where the charm ended. The shopkeeper leered at her with grey eyes and straightened his cheap grey suit.

      Theresa stood in front of the counter, eyes burning, and willed Mount Rushmore to appear; nothing happened.

      Outside a gull cried and the chatter of swimsuit clad Californians swarmed by. San Diego’s seaport village continued to bustle as ray-addicted surfers scarfed crab and funnel cones. A few stores down, middle-class yuppies with upper-class tastes claimed to see the value of the art store’s latest purchase.

      In the middle of the hustle and bustle was Theresa, dressed in her denim skirt, knit top, army green toms, and short baggy sweatshirt. The Christmas vacation had passed and now came the hardest part of going home: souvenirs. Actually the sweatshirt wasn’t hers; Jerome had left it in her car.

      After a minute of squinting, Theresa let out a sigh and set the card down on the table.

      The shopkeeper stood smiling expectantly. “Awesome right?”

      Theresa said nothing, he smelled like garlic anyway. Instead she turned around with her hands in her sweater pockets and walked out of the store. Crowds of sun junkies flooded by on the cobblestone streets, Theresa hated how happy they were.

      After brushing a wisp of her bangs behind her ear, Theresa walked back towards her car. A group of high schoolers were leaning on the brick walls of the waffle shed as she passed. Theresa planted her eyes firmly on the cobblestones and kept walking. As she passed by, she heard one speak. “You can always tell a kept girl by her boyfriend’s sweater.”

      Theresa stopped and looked at the small group. The boy who had spoken was leaned back on the wall, one leg slightly bent; he winked at her with a click of his tongue as he brushed dust off his letterman’s jacket.

      The jock stared at Theresa for a moment before blowing a kiss, much to the amusement of his friends.

      Theresa smiled innocently and walked right up to him. She stared right at the jock’s smug face. After a moment’s silence he clicked his tongue again, “see something you like?”

      The smug look vanished immediately after Theresa’s army green toms crashed into his shin. The jock doubled over in pain, rubbing his leg as his friends laughed hysterically.

      A few moments later Theresa sat in her silver Camry, the smile still on her face. Much better than a souvenir, she thought as she started the engine.

I have been writing for years. To make it painfully clear how long I’ve been writing, I’ve been writing seriously since my big sister told me to turn off computer games and start writing, I was twelve.

Since then my writing has gradually improved and my general knowledge on the craft has been built from nothing to almost nothing. I’ve enjoyed a certain amount of private success (my Mother says my stories are good …and other people as well) but I’ve run into universal criticism on two points: the conversation of my women characters, and their point of view.

Now if you’ve hopped over to “Project Logos” you know my artistic philosophy of seeking perfection. I’ve decided it’s time to sketch some hands…proverbially speaking. Every day I will write a short story (four pages or less and usually less) about things happenning from a woman’s perspective. I’ll contrast the same situation with a man’s perspective, and write conversations with various characters in various settings.

These are writing push-ups and I invite my women readers (and men who have a better grasp of the subject, though preferably women) to throw some constructive criticism my way. I won’t back away from harsh criticism as long as there is a suggestion on how to improve and such criticism is done with thought.

Expect the first segment tonight.

Perhaps the most misunderstood, most disliked, most undervalued kind of writing is the ever-demanded academic paper. I was a history major, so I wrote at least one of these per class. I’ve heard business majors write them as well, but are completely oblivious to their potential. (A note to business majors, I think business is as noble an academic pursuit as any other major. I just think it should only be attempted by people who really want to learn it.)

Perhaps I should begin with what an academic paper is not. It is not an excuse to come up with a thesis and then find quotes to plug into it. A friend of mine once had a method called “plug and chug.” She ripped quotes out of books and threw some of her own words in between.

Confession time: I have done this, what academic hasn’t? Yet this is one of the reasons people hate academic writing and miss out on it’s vast potential. I blame my history professors (and my own undergraduate laziness) for not getting this genre right from the very start.

If you’re a learning person, (and if you’re in college for anything other than a job you probably are), then it’s time to do what all learners do, research! I’ll lay out everything step-by-step below.

1-      Choose a topic: Depending on the class or the length of the paper, you should pick either a more general or a more specific topic. For example, you might pick Stalin for a history paper around 30 pages. The next thing you’ll do is drown yourself in sources. Unplug your television and read for about an hour to two hours a night. If you don’t enjoy reading about history, get out of that major. Read, Read, Read, Read, Read! After each source write either a paragraph or a page about your thoughts or conclusions you’ve reached. This is just to help you formulate your thoughts.

2-      Research Pt. 2: If you’ve learned something interesting in your research it’s time to pursue it further. Maybe you’ve been reading about Stalin and you’re particularly interested in those moments between the signing of his alliance with Hitler and the opening of the eastern front in WWII. There was a lot of shady stuff going on. Narrow your research, get more sources but look for those specific moments in history. Keep journaling your thoughts and a thesis may begin to take shape in your mind.

3-      Pick a thesis: You’ve learned something by this point. Don’t pretend you haven’t and those things you’ve learned have impacted you. Whether you’ve been deliberate about it or not, you can’t help it. When he hit our brain with different materials it makes an impact. True as toasted toads (enjoy a reference from a book) you will be affected by what you have read. Think about it and make a decision. Then think back on how you reached your conclusion. Reread your paragraphs and pages for each source, highlight a few key ones.

4-      Personal Outline: Track your process of coming to your conclusion. Bracket your thoughts into a rough outline. In your outline include the sources that were particularly important to the formation of your thoughts. Once you have everything in paper walk away for a few days.

5-      Skeletal Outline: Now it’s been a few days, come back to your outline. The first hard part has come. You need to take your outline and transform it from something that makes sense to you, to something that makes sense to others. Feedback might be helpful, sit down with someone who has time and walk them through your thought process. Pay attention to how to they respond to your descriptions, understanding how others think is important to creating a good outline. Gradually form the thoughts into something that someone else would understand most easily. This will be your skeletal outline. Then plug the sources in to the reorganized outline.

6-      Write the thing: Now that you’ve got your quotes and you’ve got your ideas laid out, it’s time to write. I assume anyone reading this knows how to write academically. At a later date I’ll cover styles in different types of writing. Once you have everything on paper you’re ready to edit.

So from step one to six you have what goes into creating the rough draft of an academic paper. I’ll cover each step at a later date. For now, jump into research and start learning. The most important thing with any academic paper is to make yourself an expert. The academic writer must be a master of self-education.

Writing is art, let’s be honest, and most people do it shabbily. Maybe most people don’t have the imagination to craft good poetry and prose; maybe they don’t understand the potential of the medium. Still, whatever the reason, the fact is that writing is far more complex and has far more potential than people think.

If you were directing a film you’d have control of camara angles, music, actors, scenery. You already have control of these things when you write. Writing has, in addition, the ability to see into the minds of the characters and to set the tone and frame of the story.

Yet here we are and most books you pick up don’t begin to mine the vast potential of the written word. There always do seem to be a few kooks who put together badly-written material for the sake of “art.”

As an artist I am constantly trying to improve my method and my prose. Since most people do not see writing as an art, they don’t improve their skills like an art. A good sketcher will have spent hours sketching the same pair of hands to get things just right. Writing is no different. Spend some time sketching hands if you want to see improvement.

More to follow.

            “Anthanias once said that men become commanders because they want to lead not because they want to fight. Why do you think that is?”

            The class was silent. Finally a brave looking youth in the front raised his hand.

            The teacher smiled before pointing at him. “Yes?”

            “Because as commanders very little time is spent engaged in combat?”

            “Exactly! We cannot all be like the great kings of old, charging into battle valiantly with our men.” As the teacher talked he began to pace around the small classroom. “There was a time, when leading meant personal sacrifice and risk. For some of us, those of you that will start as lieutenants you may still retain that privilege but for our field officers our place is at the back of the ranks.”

            “Why is that?” someone called out.

            The teacher didn’t even look at the questioner as he continued. “Simply put, there is more to be done by the guiding and tactical development of men than there is in leading them into battle.”

            “That’s ridiculous,” a voice piped up.

            “Why?”

            “Commanders belong with their men in the field.”

            The teacher stopped pacing and smiled before walking back towards his desk. “Who was the greatest swordsman to ever live?” The question was nonchalant, almost betraying the teacher’s earnest nature.

            “Anthanias,” the voice answered.

            The teacher smiled. “Wrong. Simply wrong.” He took a book off the desk, “I’m going to read you a story.” He slowly opened the book, and took a deep breath before beginning to read. “Among the first to fall were Naius of the Beranthi and Teleran slew by an arrow.” He stopped and closed the book, “have any of you heard of Teleran before?”

            No one answered. Noticing the silence the teacher continued, “Naius once defeated Anthanias in swordplay. The annals of Anthanias don’t give the name of the mysterious swordsman, but the lost diaries of Teleran do. He relates how he was one to defeat Anthanias in battle. Like all subjugative literature mentioning Anthanias they were burned by Ibraim in the dark times. Can you imagine it? A swordsman greater than Anthanias himself, dying in the front lines before the battle was even joined. What glory is not earned in life is lost forever, for eternity has nothing in common with the ways of this world.”

            The teacher stared hard at the class as he said, “that is why leaders are favored so much. That is why they direct from the rear, and that is why it is imperative to know, that death while it might be glories means and end to any more great deeds that one had ever wished to do.”