Senior Year: Not the End, but I've Certainly Come a Long Way

This past semester, I learned to expand my writing in ways I never thought possible. I opened up to new prompts and ideas and was able to be more willing to listen to the ideas and criticisms of others. This past semester has been my best writing ever because I didn't provide myself with a huge line that I couldn't cross. It helped me prove to myself that I don't need to stay safe with my ideas and that trying new things is the best way to be creative. One of the new things I tried in my writing this year was writing a metapoem, a poem about poetry. I had never written a metapoem, let alone heard of one, until this past semester, but I had a lot of fun writing mine and exploring this new style of poetry. I also had the opportunity to create a collage out of pictures from a magazine and write a poem about the random cutouts. One of my favorite pieces was a character description I wrote about a woman I saw on an airplane. Below is the story:

Malibu Barbie

As the plane glides over the mountains near Los Angeles, I look over at the woman across the aisle from me. It seems like she’s in her own world, blocking out everything with the music from her iPod. Her blonde hair is from a bottle; dark roots are beginning to show. Perhaps she is trying to recreate the look from her youth, a bright golden haired girl with highlights from the sun. It’s so typical for women from the Los Angeles area, always trying to look at least ten years younger. The mix of her roots and dyed hair is like a marble cake of chocolate and vanilla. Her hair is large and stiff from an overdose of hairspray and gel, another sign she is trying to recapture the days of her past.

Her face consists of sharp angles, except for her nose. Her nose curves into a perfect round button, and gives her profile an overall appearance reminiscent of a pug dog. Her eyes are strikingly blue, played up by dramatic eye shadow and mascara-coated lashes, but in them lie no expression or thought.

What captivates me most is her gum-chewing. She smacks her gum, mouth open, like a bratty teenager receiving a lecture. She reminds me of the spoiled girl in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory who never stops chewing. I chuckle to myself as I imagine her blowing up like a blueberry and spilling over the seats around her. The only time her mouth closes is when she is in deep concentration over her Sudoku puzzle, deciding what number to put in next. I think of how she probably used to ponder over a jigsaw puzzle like this when she was a little girl. A look of concern takes over, causing her to frown and purse her plump collagen-enhanced lips. When one normally frowns, wrinkles appear. The Botox appears to be working for her. She places a French manicured hand on an overly tanned face perfected by pounds of foundation, a gleaming gem ring catching the reading light from above. When she finds the answer, her perfectly arched eyebrows rise in slight pride and her mouth opens once again, chewing away, like a cow on a ball of grass. How long is she going to work on that piece of gum?

She glances over at me in a bored manner, clearly without anything of importance to do on our three and a half hour flight. I’m only a high school senior. Why do I seem to have more work than she does? I guess it’s hard to act out the position of arm candy or trophy wife while taking a plane ride; there’s probably not that much paperwork. She taps her turquoise Tiffany and Company pen against the paper in time to her music, and then quickly stops to stretch forward and unfasten her seatbelt. She sits on the edge of her seat, looking like a restless child, hands folded in her lap, head tilted slightly back. She sighs repeatedly out of impatience as she tugs on her tank top that’s obviously a size too small for her silicon-filled chest. Her actions remind me of myself as an eight year old, always wanting to get everywhere as quickly as possible. I half expect her to place her stiletto-clad feet on the seat in front of her and start kicking, pushing, and whining like the Chihuahua tucked under her seat in a Louis Vuitton dog carrier. It’s almost as if I can read her mind: “Are we there yet?”

Junior Year: On My Way

During my junior year, my class didn't emphasize much on a creative portfolio, but I was still given the opportunity to try some new kinds of writing. One new style of writing we were asked to try was writing a poem in iambic pentameter. Having to think about a certain rhythm I had to maintain during the poem was difficult, but I found that the actual writing of the poem wasn't too hard, but fun. I felt that this is the year that I really started to write the way I wanted to, the way I wrote as a writer, not how I thought I should write. Here is my iambic pentameter poem:

The Long Winter

A fire burning, embers glowing soft.
The warmth is all I feel, the numbness gone.
Surrounded by the comfort, he has coughed.
The only sound throughout the room at dawn.
I have a notion this is not the end.
Yes, he may leave; the presence is still there.
The time will come for all the wounds to mend.
Becoming cold has made less people care.
But maybe this is different, right? I hope.
I can't avoid the truth much longer now.
My wall has strength descending on a slope.
When will the block stop in my mind, and how?
One day the time will come, epiphany.
Can anyone, will someone, save old me?

Sophomore Year: Bringing Out My Real Writing

During my sophomore year, I started to get a better feel of who I was as a writer. I learned how to bring in really great images into my pieces, but to keep things simple at the same time. The following piece is a short story I wrote. I concentrated on imagery and keeping things strong with description, but there was still some trouble with grammatical errors in the original draft.

A Mysterious Encounter

A lingering glance between two strangeres across the room: was it love at first sight or something else? Her soft smile spoke a thousand words: the gleam in his eyes, the answer. She sat at a table alone, serenely taking in the atmosphere of the lounge, as she watched and listened to those around her: a woman laughing uproariously, the tinkling of crystal champagne glasses over a toast. But he didn't notice any of it as multiple thoughts in his head started to collide: "Who was she? Was she waiting for someone? Of course there had to be a someone. He would probably be some tall, suave, clean-shaven man with the type of steely eyes that could pierce through to your very core. But if there wasn't?..." It was like a moment that had stopped time, a fork in the road froze his thoughts: to ask for a dance, or just let her slip through his fingers and get over it.

With a spark of curiosity, she watched the man as he approached her. She could be careful and ignore him, or she could be carefree and take a risk. The decision of a medium between the two was made, and just in time, as he arrogantly took a seat across from her without asking. Was it arrogance, or just the need to be closer to her? She didn't have time for his mind games, but she liked to play them anyway. An awkward silence fell upon them as they both tried to figure out what they were going to say. She fingered the tablecloth as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Suddenly, a soft jazz song began to play, and the two strangers realized it was one of those moments that couldn't be filled with words or ploys. There was only one thing to do: dance. As they both stood up, his green eyes flickered as she graciously took his extended hand. She was flooded over with comfort as she realized holding his hand was kind of like holding her father's: warm and strong, never letting her down.

They walked cautiously to a corner of the dance floor, both making sure not to make an embarassing stumble. He placed his hand respectfully on the small of her back as she carefully placed hers on his shoulder. The warmth of their holding hands felt like electricity running through them. For a few moments, neither knew exactly where they should look until they locked eyes; their stare never strayed from then on.

No one knew of the things to come. They were both at the advantage of knowing absolutely nothing about the person whom they were with. They could go on like this, having chance meetings, or they could end up never seeing each other again. But whatever happened, they'd always have that one night, that one song, that one moment in time when things seemed to make sense without any complications at all.

Freshman year: The Beginning of My Growth

During my freshman year, I believe that I was writing how I thought I should be writing. My ideas were all really dramatic because I thought that good writing had to be dramatic. What I didn't realize is that good writing is made up of colorful descriptions and the idea of "showing, not telling". Here is a sample of one of the stories I wrote during our writing workshop. I look back at this piece seeing where I could have expanded, and also laugh at the ridiculous plot of it. At least I was attempting to be creative!

Someone Else's Nightmare

The long day was over. The dusk turned into a navy night sky, like a blanket over the entire village. The contrast of the glistening stars was mesmerizing as he started being overcome by drowsiness. The coolness of the grass against his fingers was welcoming compared to the humid summer air. He was trying to forget the whole thing, pretending like it was all a nightmare that someone else was suffering.

Peter woke up that morning as normal, hitting the snooze button a few times before having his mother practically drag him out of bed. He didn't understand why he had to wake up; he didn't have school or really much going on except for hanging out with his friends and doing a few chores around the house. Then he rememebered: today was the day that his father was coming home from his three week business trip in Argentina. He got dressed in a hurry, crammed a bagel down his throat, and ran to meet his mom in the car. They had a lot of errands to do to get ready for his dad's homecoming. They were planning on putting up decorations and making his father's favorite meal, chicken alfredo pasta with mom's homemade bread sticks and salad with Caesar dressing.

Peter ran around the grocery store, trying to find all of the food on the list while holding his baby sister, Becky. They had so much in the cart, there wasn't room for her! He watched his mom as she chatted with an old neighbor. Peter never realized how stressed and tired she looked: the way she always had a forced smile, the bags under her eyes that she desperately was trying to cover up, the way she acted like there was so much to do and so little time. He felt like his mom was trying too hard and worrying too much; it was only his dad coming home, not like they were having the queen.

They finished up getting the food and decorations at the grocery store. Peter's mom had said that they had to stop at their great aunt's for a little visit. Peter despised Aunt Muriel, she was so nosy and old and her lap dog was constantly yapping insanely. She lived in a retirement home, the type that has fake plants everywhere and Bingo Tuesday. The food always had a weird moldy aftertaste and it was all very mushy, just so everyone would be able to eat it, teeth or not.

"Come here and give your auntie a kiss!"

"I'd rather not," Peter thought as he was embraced by a frail, little woman who smelled like mothballs and bad perfume. Aunt Muriel was sitting in her big ratty old easy-chair with Snuggles glaring at him menacingly.

As Peter reached in to give Snuggles a friendly pat, the beast started barking like it was possessed. Becky started crying at the dog's maniacal noise and Peter looked over at his mother whose face looked like it was about to crack under pressure. And she did. Like a volcanic eruption. Tears streamed down her face as she screamed

"This is all your fault Muriel! Tom would not be leaving me for some plastic twenty-six year old if it weren't for your constant prodding and sneaking about in our life! All just because you think I'm not good enough! I've never been good enough and my children have never been good enough either! You're a frumply old woman who should just mind her own business or die!"

Peter's heart stopped at that moment. Muriel had the smuggest look on her face that he had ever seen. He had no idea what a conniving and evil woman she was. Why hadn't he seen it before, seen through such a terrible disguise? He knew that there was something that he didn't like about her; he just couldn't put his finger on it. Peter felt like he was having an epiphany for finally figuring out this cruel woman.

"That's right Cary; you're not good enough for Tom. Tom needs someone who's much more in tune with his needs, unlike you. As for your kids-I never said that your children weren't ever good enough, they're amazing kids, and I wish I could spend all of my time with them, since I don't have much time left. I can't do many things anymore and they would be great help. Plus they would bring more visitors because they're so cute; my social status seemed to go way down since I moved here. That is why I was thinking they could come live with me, since you're obviously in a state of instability and can't handle them yourself. I assure you that Tom will be moving out soon, and you should just get on with your life and forget about Peter and Becky."

Cary was speechless with what Muriel had just calmly explained. She had just said she should give up her children. Peter, mistaking his mother's shock for actually entertaining the idea of his living with Muriel, ran out of the apartment and raced down the stairs. His mother called after him but he kept running, out of the building, past the parking lot, anywhere, just as long as he wasn't there. He didn't understand; his parents loved each other, didn't they? And why would his great aunt want to take him and his sister away? He didn't care, he thought as he collapsed into a field nearby. He didn't care if he never slept in his own bed again or ever again felt his mother's warm embrace, knowing the lies and scandals tucked away in their small home of suburbia. He couldn't stand living such an illusion, so perfect and happy on the outside, so dark and secretive on the inside. All he knew was he wasn't going home.

Welcome to my Creative Writing blog! Here is a culmination of my writing from the past four years, from Freshman year until this semester! This blog will help take you through the journey of my growth as a writer with samples of my writing. Enjoy!

~Sarah