Setting is a window to the mind. Writers describe settings by using not only their own imagination but through their memory and their knowledge of certain places. One could easily describe a setting with a vague description that leaves the creativity up to the reader, but it is such a better and more entertaining story for the writer and the reader if the setting is described accurately and in such a way that the reader can almost picture the scene within perfectly. The way that a writer perceives their own world and those around them is unique to them and them alone. No one else is going to see the world the exact same way. That’s why it is so important to use details and names as much as possible to get the point across in the hopes that the reader will be able to get as close as possible to see what the writer is trying to convey. Setting can be completely different with just one word being changed. It can captivate the mind of the reader as they’re thrown into a world that they never would begin to imagine. It is important, and it is more than just a place to be set in the background of an entire plot.

He was always checking to make sure I was okay. From the moment we locked eyes through the back rails of a set of choral risers, he was always nearby, especially if I looked like I needed a laugh. His blue eyes caught my attention first, watching me intently as we both danced and sang karaoke that day. I could tell he was tall -at least six foot- and his dirty blond hair fell onto his forehead in a natural kind of way. He was rather awkward and shy at first, despite having plenty of friends, talking very little and keeping distance between us, but that soon subsided when we became friends, with him walking me to class, and then texting each other every day after school. Alas, all things come to an end, and not always in the best ways, for his feelings had grown, and I was still caught up on someone else. The day that I had a panic attack at school, I didn’t understand what was happening. All I knew was that I was having trouble breathing and that my chest was hurting. He was so worried for me that he made me lay down and rest for the class, and when we left, he insisted I go to the nurse. I denied. “If you don’t go, I’ll carry you there myself.” His voice was stern, but concern littered his face. I complied at last. He met me at the last bell to check and see what had been wrong and if I was alright.

Voice is a part of everyone, and it is who you are. It captures your personality, what you think, how you think, how you speak, where you’re from, and what you believe. It’s not just a personality trait. It’s who you are to others. It can come in many forms, depending on who you’re speaking or writing to as well as what you’re speaking or writing about. You wouldn’t speak to your pastor the same way that you would your childhood best friend. You wouldn’t speak to your teacher about the same topics that you would your parents or your siblings. Your voice is something inside of you that you stumble upon while searching through other’s voices that you adore. Voice can take many different appearances. It depends on who is telling the story and how the character or narrator tells the said story. Point of view plays a major role in how a voice is perceived. First-person, second-person, and third-person all have specific attributes that can distinctly tell about who is speaking in their own way. It all comes down to how the work is written and from whose perspective.

Sarah laughed. Oh, how Jake loved that laugh. It lit up her entire face, her blue eyes shining, crinkles forming at the corner of each eye, as she threw her head back shamelessly. It made his stomach dance with butterflies and caught his breath in his throat. He would never get tired of that laugh. All he had done was bring her an apple juice and a ham, egg, and cheese sandwich to work. Such a simple, easy gesture, but she had such a childlike joy. And the way that she beamed at him, if he could live the rest of his life knowing he would never have the best cars, the best houses, or the most money, he would be okay because she only looked at him that way.

Maria settled down into her place on the couch, pulling the blanket up close on her chest. I myself made myself as comfortable as I could on the couch across the living room, the frame digging into my sides and legs as I lay down. Heat traveled up my legs and arms until I could feel my eyes becoming slightly heavy.

“So, what do you believe?” I asked, shifting my gaze towards her. “I know that you’re Catholic, but like, what do Catholics believe? Or what do you believe personally?”

“Well, I personally believe that there could be a God or that there is a higher power, but I’d like to see proof before fully believing it myself. My brother feels the same way in his beliefs as well.

I shifted to my side to look at her better. Suddenly, my eyelids felt so much lighter. A slight knot formed in my stomach. “I’ve met plenty of people who believe that way even though I differently. For me personally, I think that wanting proof of God’s existence is where the faith begins. Faith is believing without seeing, and I know that you believe a different way; I’m not trying to change your beliefs or saying that you’re wrong. That’s just how I believe personally.”

She nodded in acceptance of my response, and we went on discussing different topics, switching often, as girls can do sometimes.

Dilapidated buildings crunch underneath my feet, the sun burning holes through my cotton tee shirt. People swarm downtown, in and out of stores, nearly tripping over their feet or stumbling into each other as their minds lock on their cell phones or their own agendas. I follow, searching for their gaze. They ignore me, for it is payday.

The genre of creative writing that I am most interested in is poetry. I really enjoy reading and writing fiction as well, but poetry is what I tend to write the most. I love that there are so many ways you can write a poem, as well as how much emotion can be conveyed by something sometimes so short. It has always been my go-to when I wanted to express myself or release some feelings that I had been holding in.

My writing habit is centered around finding somewhere that I feel like I am safe or like I can be alone and open with my thoughts and then writing there. It could be while listening to music, while sitting on a pew at my church, sitting at a park, or even at a table when I should be studying for another class. Sometimes, I even write in class if I get inspiration for a work while I am there. It is where I feel that I have the freedom to say what is in my head or my heart without fear of judgment, while also searching for a place that feels calm to me.