ENC 1101-B3 & B4: Writing for Discovery

In Limbo

“Now, Ms. Davis, we are going to ask you to lie back while we proceed with the examination,” the doctor calmly informs me.

I comply and feel the metal bed cool my backside. The medical environment—those lights, those colors, the rotating shifts of nurses and doctors—is never a source of comfort for me. I stare hard at the blank ceiling above me, hoping that by concentrating on the specks of tile I won’t feel the unfamiliar, callused hands of the doctor’s on my breasts. I glance at them with disdain; they are the reason I am here anyway. If I hadn’t noticed the lump on my right breast in the shower two years ago, I would be at home, reading the latest issue of the women’s weekly neighborhood journal or knitting yet another scarf to add to my collection of unused winter apparel.

After feeling full from the Thanksgiving dinner; after spending two hours in the kitchen cleaning up from the dinner; and after fighting with my younger brother over whose turn it was to dry and put the dishes away, I lethargically settled in my room, planning to enjoy one of my favorite films that I haven’t seen in a good while: “Almost Famous”.

I know that sales are a good thing and that when one comes along one should take advantage of, but when there are no parking spaces and your “excuse me’s” are barely audible, there is something incredibly discouraging about heading to the mall. However, I had the unfortunate pleasure, or mistake as I look back in retrospect, to go to my local mall back home on Friday. It was my first time going there after Thanksgiving, and living there for six years, I have never seen it so packed. People were bustling in and out of stores, their hands carrying bulging bags and young children begging their weary parents to go back home. My mom and I went for one thing, but we were swayed by the crowd to “pick up” some things for ourselves (hey, that’s what a marked down purse does to me). When we walked outside to our car, I swear there were at least four cars stalking us. I wanted to tick them off and slowly put our bags in the trunk, and slowly enter the passenger side of the car, but I can sympathize. There were no spaces in sight. And I’ve learned my lesson: that is the first and last time I will ever enter the after-Thanksgiving Day insaneness again.

In Limbo

“Now, Ms. Davis, we are going to ask you to lie back while we proceed with the examination,” the doctor calmly informs me.

I comply and feel the metal bed cool my backside. The medical environment—those lights, those colors, the rotating shifts of nurses and doctors—is never a source of comfort for me. I stare hard at the blank ceiling above me, hoping that by concentrating on the specks of tile I do not feel the unfamiliar, callused hands of the doctor’s on my breasts. I glance at them with disdain; they were the reason I am here anyway. If I hadn’t noticed the lump on my right breast in the shower two years ago, I would be at home, reading the latest issue of the women’s weekly neighborhood journal or knitting yet another scarf to add to my collection of unused winter apparel.

On Sunday morning, it felt as if I went from the oven to the freezer. It was a cool, nice 75 degrees in Fort Lauderdale and as soon as I walked down the steps of the tiny aircraft, I was hit with a 27 degree wind.

Something bizarre happened to me this weekend. I was feeling fine on Friday, but then, all of a sudden, I came down with a vicious cold. It wasn’t just the one when your throat’s sore and your voice unrecognizable, but I unfortunately had the whole nine yards: sore throat, strange voice, stuffiness, sneezing, runny nose, and oddly enough, a cough that came periodically.

For some odd reason, I was incredibly nervous while arranging and making adjustments to my draft this time. I think it was because I had Mr. Lowe’s advice in mind—which I attempted to add—but also I had great concern that by implementing it, I feared the story would not be as I want it. Let me explain:

In Limbo

“Now, Ms. Davis, we are going to ask you to lie back while we proceed with the examination,” the doctor calmly informs me.

I comply and feel the metal bed cool my backside. The medical environment—those lights, those colors, the rotating shifts of nurses and doctors—is never a source of comfort for me. I stare hard at the blank ceiling above me, hoping that by concentrating on the specks of tile I do not feel the unfamiliar, callused hands of the doctor’s on my breasts. I glance at them with disdain; they were the reason I am here anyway. If I hadn’t noticed the lump on my right breast in the shower two years ago, I would be at home, reading the latest issue of the women’s weekly neighborhood journal or knitting yet another scarf to add to my collection of unused winter apparel.

It is not in my nature to become envious, but I couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy when I witnessed my two friends packing to go home for the Thanksgiving holiday. They are both driving tomorrow, but (woe is me!) I must remain on campus until Thursday.

I like Thanksgiving, and I appreciate its historic intentions, but I cannot stand the taste of turkey. No matter how much I gripe and groan about eating it, there is no way out of passing it on the dinner table or the endless amount of leftovers that pile in the freezer.

I don’t care if I already saw him six months ago, but I was in agony that I did not score tickets to see him last night here, live and in living color. My fellow Mayer fan and friend back home was urging me to scour for tickets, but 1) I couldn’t find anyone to give me a ride to the Leon County Civic Center and 2) I am starting to become short on cash.

Unlike the first draft, I had a little more difficulty with revising this draft. I had dialogue, so I had to come up with a way to enhance and add to what I already had. I also needed to give my character more depth and show the reader why she is so despondent in her situation. Then, I combined the two and created another part to the story. I supplied a lot of dialogue to this new section (“In Memory”) and hopefully it explains why my character is the way she is. There is a brief part in that that seems like I only wrote down words, but I had a purpose in doing that. I wanted to capture her helplessness and grief over her mother’s death and the fact that she’s completely out of it that she can only communicate in short, succinct words. I don’t know if that makes sense, but I’d like some feedback on that –should or should I not leave that in?

In Limbo

“Now, Ms. Davis, we are going to ask you to lie back while we proceed with the examination,” the doctor calmly informs me.

I comply and feel the metal bed cool my backside. The medical environment—those lights, those colors, the rotating shifts of nurses and doctors—is never a source of comfort for me. I stare hard at the blank ceiling above me, hoping that by concentrating on the specks of tile I do not feel the unfamiliar, callous hands of the doctor’s on my breasts. I glance at them with disdain; they were the reason I am here anyway. If I hadn’t noticed the lump on my right breast in the shower two years ago, I would be at home, reading the latest issue of the women’s weekly neighborhood journal or knitting yet another scarf to add to my collection of unused winter apparel.

My two friends and I last Sunday night were watching television, and, like all college students, drool at the sight of a food commercial. It was for Nestle Tollhouse’s Chocolate Chip Cookies, the kind that you break and bake.

Below are two of my favorite poems, written by one of the greatest writers to come out of the Harlem Renaissance, Langston Hughes (one of my favorite writers!):

"Dream Deferred"

What happens to a dream deferred?