250 words, 140 characters, or 5 syllables? It doesn't matter how you slice or dice it; they all are limiting in their own respect. 
    
    First, I selected a quote from Anzaldua and set off to write a 250 word pierce of microfiction. I must say that being a very descriptive, some would say wordy, writer, I struggle with maximum word counts. I began with a set direction aiming for a simplistic and short way to say what I needed to say, yet my fingers told a much better complex and symbolic story. Within this assignment I grew as a writer by inserting color, adjusting tone, shifting tense, removing prepositions, utilizing thesaurus, and limiting words. 

    Next, I took this piece of microfiction entitled "Greyt Expectations" and used it to inspire a haiku. I must say that while I prefer the narrative form, the 3 stanza haiku did hold some weight as the words I selected were the windows of meaning taken from the microfiction. Some things I did learn, however, are that I should vary my word length and make my prepositions beefier, yet my verbs tend to be strong! 

    Then, in the same fashion that I wrote the first piece of microfiction based upon the Anzaldua readings, I explored my tweets and selected 2 of them that wouldn't normally coincide and enmeshed them into the same piece of microfiction. Since I started with my own style and voice, it was much easier to incorporate these outside quotes into my writing and make them flow. Within this piece alone, I took a risk writing the inner and outer thoughts of one character alone, all presenting a rather complex plot that I believe reader's can add their own experience.

    Finally, I took my microfiction that was inspired by my tweets and tried to create a found poem based upon the words I wished to emphasize. For this assignment, I tried the haiku once again and found that since the tweets were not cohesive thoughts, the poem, already limited by syllables, became limited in meaning. I feel this was stretching the heart of the writing beyond its intended purpose.

    Essentially, shifting genres forced me to think critically about each and every word I placed into my writing. Furthermore, I found myself saying if I only used this word, or if I only posted this thought. The biggest lesson I learned is that revisiting the same text at times may seem monotonous, yet it allows me to edit thngs that I wish to explore in hindsight of the first attempt!

    The following piece of microfiction is based upon two tweets that I have posted in the past month. The first tweet posted on February 1, 2011 is “I love when ordering coffee sounds like a dissertation!” The second tweet posted on January 26, 2011 is “Why can’t everyone prefer texting over phone calls like I do?” I was inspired to commit all of the emotions and expectations I have recently been facing to writing. I found the process therapeutic and surprising. Greyt Expectations was therapeutic in the sense that I was able to view my circumstance objectively and adopt a new perspective. In addition, writing this piece was surprising in that the words I was typing kept taking a different direction than the plan I had in mind. Remarkably, this assignment helped me grow as a writer as I was forced to shift tense, remove prepositions, utilize my thesaurus, add color, and limit my words.

Greyt Expectations

     I enter the café, offer my dissertation of an order, and feel I’ve earned every word. I make my way to the corner seat, pull out a pen and write Expectations, with a capital E on the back of the grey napkin. Most people would probably call this a to do list, but to me that never seems to carry the weight of what is to follow. Certainly there are some monotonous tasks like running errands, making appointments, and cleaning house, yet more lines are filled with obligations of my full time job, being a student: read this, analyze that, and write my thoughts; however, these aren’t the most dreaded words committed to this napkin. The biggest challenges are the idealistic standards repeated in the margins week after week — practice patience, take risks, exude confidence, offer forgiveness, demonstrate selflessness, applaud humility, develop trust, exercise vulnerability, radiate love, and above all cheat perfection. They are seemingly unobtainable, but entangle themselves with the tasks they surround. I pause and try to think of a way to see more things on my list scribbled out, but my phone begins to ring. Why can’t everyone prefer texting to phone calls? (Tweet) At least that way I could have a written reminder of what is expected of me.After a mhm, ok, I’ll add it to my list, and an I love you, I sat back, dropped my pen, and sipped from my coffee cup now that the grey steam had disappeared completely.  

     In the following piece of microfiction, I incorporated a quote from Anzaldua’s “How to Tame a Wild Tongue. I should note, however, that I altered the quote slightly by taking out the 2 Spanish words and replacing them with their English translation as well as changing my bedroom to our bedroom. This piece of writing has stretched me as a writer by trying to make someone else’s tone and language fit my own style of writing.

Lovesick Little Girl

    Trouble sleeping— check. Lack of appetite—check. Depression— check. I’d continue on with side effects doctor, but wouldn’t it be easier for me to say “the back of any medication”—check. This is a sickness. No, an infection. It’s beyond that; it’s a disease! You should know since there’s no fitting prescription or pause. Why am I telling you this? This won’t help. That’s what I get for listening for my mother. And I know what you’re thinking, and you’re dead wrong.  I am not some lovesick little girl. No sir, I am a strong, confident, independent woman. It’s not your fault; the women who are typically lying upon this crimson, sling back couch are just that—lovesick little girls. I am no girl, however, I am a woman who has seen love come and go enough times. It’s nothing new. What’s that? You want me to tell you about him? Start anywhere? Well, I guess I can do that: “I can remember the hot, sultry evenings when songs of love and death reverberated out of cheap amplifiers from the local bar and wafted in through our bedroom window” (Anzaldua 2953). He held me in his capable arms and I became utterly and completely vulnerable… This is pointless. The songs have ended, the bar went bankrupt, and the honeymoon is over. He left me weak and wounded. You would call this a breakthrough, but this lovesick little girl is out of time.