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New Rough Draft Memior

“I can’t finish it in time!” I told Mrs. Brunette as I walked away from her desk in  frustration. No one was in the classroom, but what student would be on a Saturday morning? I had to finish my seaside platter before the Art Show, no matter what, even if that meant going to school on the weekend while my teacher decorated and finished up last minute planning for the Art Show. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed sculpting and creating different pieces with clay, the dirt and dust flying all over the place, making the room seem as if we never cleaned it, although we needed to sweep before we left class, but there’s something about having a deadline to finish something that you wanted the overall product to be perfect, that just didn’t mix well with me.

We had to enter three things into the Art Show, and I had two. I took my time in everything I put work into. Making this platter wasn’t easy, especially everyday before our hour and a half class ended, we needed to cover our clay piece with a damp towel. Not too wet or the clay would be too moist to do anything to it the next day, and if you didn’t put enough water on the towel, your piece could dry out and crack, which would cause complications, and wasting a whole school class on nothing. It seemed as if everyone had five or six pieces done and ready to enter into the show. Then there was me, sitting in the corner, sculpting tools, and paper towels scattered around the surface of the table, in my own world. There was always something in my way of finishing the platter in a timely manner. Whether it was because I wrapped it in towels that were too wet, or because maybe I just simply chose to make something that there was no fast way to do it.

The process of creating anything in pottery class, was sculpting it, putting it in the kiln, painting it, putting it in the kiln for a second time. A kiln is a very hot “oven” that went up to 2,400 degrees Fahrenheit. The kiln process took up to 24 hours, backing up the fact that everything in pottery was a tedious process, never mind the fact that when you stepped foot in the kiln room for a mere five seconds, your body would break out into a sweat. The idea in my head for my platter was tan, warm looking sand all over the lip and half of the platter, with a patch of large blue waves, footsteps walking along side the lip, and beautiful, colorful seashells splattered in every which direction. Mrs. Brunette said there was multiple different steps, in just sculpting my platter that would take some time, like making my own stamp, to create the footprint appearance, never mind all the steps after the sculpting process. I decided to take it on.

Two weeks of class went by, and I was still trying to make it perfect, which I should mention that it should only take 2 weeks at most, to create a finished product. I was sitting in class, the still malleable clay sitting in front of me. Every single grand of sand I put on my 14 inch platter had to be hand made with a needle. My hand felt as if it was my own personal sewing machine, taking on a small patch of the platter at a time. I would get cramps all throughout my hand and fingers, making it impossible to keep going, until I shook out my hand.  Who would have ever thought, making sand on clay would be this tedious? It was my third day working on the sand, sadly, I felt as if I would never finish. Maybe I chose too big of a mold to use, or a too time consuming project, in the short amount of time I had left before the Art Show was here. All these thought were running threw my head, I felt as if I was going to explode. Mrs. Brunette noticed my frustration. “Sarah you will be fine, you have plenty of time to finish, you dedicated too much of your time to let this platter go.” She was right, finally at the end of my third day putting the tiny little dots into the clay, I was done with the sand. Such a silly thing, but I felt as if I just accomplished something magnificent and huge in my life. The processes following this day was a piece of cake.

I was taking my finished product out of the kiln for the second time, and the smile on my face must have gone from ear to ear. It was beautiful, just was I was expecting. The color of the sand and shells, meshed perfectly, and the texture of the waves made it look like you were actually there, watching the waves crash down onto the sand itself. I was ecstatic. Entering my platter into the Art Show felt wonderful, I was confident I would win something. The day after the show, I came to find out I won first place in “Sculpture.” There were different categories the judges could judge you in. My hard work paid off, and it really showed. I am so happy I didn’t give up on my platter, and start something new that I could just throw together in a day, and enter into the Art Show. My dedication just proves, to never give up on something you want. IMG_0409

Memoir (First Draft)

Many of us wonder how we are going to die, but for my mother, Debbie, she knew exactly how she was leaving this Earth. In the beginning of 2011, she was diagnosed with breast cancer.My mother was always a “Debbie Downer,” and always thought negative, so when she told me she felt lumps in her breast, I didn’t think much of it. Boy was a wrong.

“Sarah, Dr. Butler found two lymph nodes infected with cancer in my breast.” I remember it as if it was yesterday. My mother had to choose between getting just the lymph nodes out, or her whole left breast. We searched the web, thousands upon thousands of pages on Google about cancer. As we sat at the desktop computer together, the tears rolled down her precious face, looked at me and said, “I’m taking the whole thing out.” I never wanted to show emotion in front of my mother because I knew the minute I cried, she would. I had to prove I was strong enough to get through this with her. After the weekend in the hospital for her procedure, she received the clearance to leave. She had a week to rest, until her twenty weeks of chemotherapy began.

Now myself, being eighteen at the time, have only heard of chemo on those sad lifetime movies. It took a lot of courage, but I decided to ask my mother what exactly she was about to be doing. As she sat at the kitchen table, with a cup of hot coffee in her hand, she began to tell me. “Once a week for five months, I will go to the cancer center. They will hook an IV to my vein and inject me with medicine.” “For five months, mom?” I asked. “Yes.” as the tears rolled down her face again. “I may get sick, I may be very tired, and I will most likely loose all my hair, but remember Sarah, this is helping me live longer.” Tears start to drip from my cheeks and I remember thinking to myself, “Why is this happening to her? Why her?”

I accompanied my mom to her seventh chemo treatment. She sat in a small chair with a table attached to it so she could place her arm to rest. It reminded me of the desks at school, just much smaller. Now, my mom was a trooper when it came to pain, but the screams and cries she let out as the nurse tried and tried to get the IV into her vein, broke my heart. I walked into the other room, where other patients and families sat, and i cried. I cried a lot. I couldn’t help myself. When I finally went back into the room, all I heard was my mom apologizing. “Sarah, hunny, I am so sorry you had to see that, I am so sorry that I scared you, I promise mommy is okay.” She was not only my mother, but also my best friend. The nurse came back in and gave us some news. “Debbie, we’ve ran out of good veins in your arms, let me give you some information on something we call a Port-a-cath. It’s a quarter sized disc, we insert in your chest, that sits under the skin. A soft tube connects directly to the main valve in your heart. So rather than your veins getting all dinged up, you’d receive your chemo through a needle that fits right into the port.

After the port was inserted, the twenty weeks of chemo went by fast. my mom went back to her normal routine, and even grew a majority of her hair back! She went to the doctors for her nine month check, where she thought she was going to hear the words, “Debbie, its time to ring the bell!” All cancer patients who beat cancer, get the ring the bell.  Sadly she was mistaken. The doctor told her he found cancer cells in her bone marrow and liver. Cancer is such an aggressive illness, it spreads when you can’t keep it tamed. In August of 2012 the doctor had more bad news.

I was cleaning my room, organizing everything since I was 34 weeks pregnant and in my nesting stage, when I got a text, “Are you home? I received some news that I’d like to share with you face to face.” I knew this couldn’t be good so I responded, “I’m leaving soon, could you call me?” I was already too hormonal, that I didn’t think I could contain myself from the waterworks that would stream down my face if it really was bad news. “Sweetie, Dr. Butler called, he doesn’t like giving bad news over the phone, but he needs me to get treated as soon as I can,” I made a noise to acknowledge I heard her. “Sarah, mommy has brain cancer.” I didn’t even know the correct way to respond. “So what do we do now?” “He wants me to go radiation, starting tomorrow.” my mom stated. “Well, okay, everything will be fine, we will do what is needed!” I found the courage to spit those words out, trying to hide the emotion in my voice. I sat at my desk in my room and cried, I almost didn’t believe it was happening. I waited about a half hour until I went downstairs. My mother must have seen it in my face, and gave me a tight hug. No words were needed, we both weaped into each others shoulders.

I went back into my room and started looking up facts about brain cancer. It was more common in people 65 and older, my mom was only 45. Another thing that stuck out was the website said once brain cancer was detected, only 39% of woman survive for a year or more, and only 20% are predicted to survive for at least five years. After thinking about what I just read, the first thought was, “I’m going to loose my mom.”

In March of 2013, after my mom had stopped radiation for two months, the doctor called to inform her that her cancer was too aggressive. For her to live, she would need to have radiation everyday, which no one’s body can endure. She was told she had been long into the fourth stage of cancer, and had two months to a year to live. Knowing the time span was probably the worst. my mom passed away in the hospital in May of 2013. The last couple of months of her life, I watched her dwindle away, always asking myself why He chose my mother out of everyone. To this day, I still wonder.

 

Short Scene

I walk into the bathroom, huge fog in the room, I guess the water is really hot. I open the blue curtain, full of rubber ducks, to get in. The water rolls down my back, hits the tub and goes down the drain. On a cold winter day, the water feels amazing, I almost don’t want to move. I just stand there for a little, letting the water hit my back and legs.

Show Don’t Tell

This is my first attempt to revise these next four sentences with sensory detail to show the reader, rather than just telling them.

1.My hometown was a beautiful place to grow up.

1.Playing in my flower filled, green lawn, surrounded by friendly snails and buzzing bees was always my favorite sight to see as a child.

2. Laci had a rather eccentric style.

2. At the party, Laci was seen with a feathered top, sequined skirt and bow tie shoes.

3. Mr. Brown is the worst teacher I have ever had.

3. History was always my least favorite subject, but with Mr. Brown’s grading system and horrible teaching skills, history was much more complicated to everyone in the class.

4. The room seemed very institutional.

4. Four white walls, colorless ceiling, and hardwood floors definitely didn’t make this room too inviting.

 

Writer’s Autobiography

My name is Sarah Andrews, an average 21 year old. I do not do much of my own creative writing anymore. My “writing” now consists of jotting down what I hear over the phone while talking to a family member of one of my residents, or sending lengthy, boring emails to my directors, regarding specific events that may be happening at the workplace. I also have a communication log, where I write down more personal feelings, or daily events to my fellow receptionists, or sometimes one could even mistake it as a diary.

The writing I was used too in high school was research papers, which were actually my favorites. Research papers are more of “black and white” or “set in stone” with information that does not necessarily change. As where creative writing is more of your own thought process and creativity, which I lack. I remember writing a research paper on Helen Keller, amazing woman I might add. Information on someone will always be the same. Keller’s birth and death will never change. Nor would the fact that she became both deaf and blind by the age of 18 months.

Black ball point pen and white lined paper is all I need to start any form of writing. Make a mess of the paper, with circles and arrows and scribbles everywhere, until I feel it’s good enough to work into an actual piece of writing. I then type everything into a word document and print it, so I can physically feel and grasp my writing. I then make another mess on these papers with my black ball point pen. I repeat this step numerous times, until the finished product appears.