The Plot Sickens: Free-Write and Reflection

It was Christmas Eve. Fog stuck to the tarmac at Lindbergh Field.

My dad was hoping for a much easier landing into San Diego, but he was prepared to face these horrific conditions. As a fighter pilot in the Air Force, my dad has flown through much worse than a little fog.

As the plane was descending, I started to remember how I got here. I had gotten accepted into a golf academy located at San Diego State University, which, even in December, is supposed to have wonderful playing conditions. My dad was afraid of flying by myself across the country, so he decided to take his plane and fly me over, with a few stops in Nashville and Albuquerque for gas. But as we were just feet from the end of this journey, I was not even sure if we would land successfully at our destination.

However, my dad had other plans. Showing lots of courage, he flew the plane towards the airport as smooth as I have ever seen a plane fly. He pushed through the fog, spotted the runway, released the wheels, and touched down safe and sound. I was so proud of what he just did.

But suddenly, I got a call from the academy coordinator telling me that the entire camp was cancelled due to the inclement weather. When I told my dad, he started the engine to his plane, and took off, again maneuvering through the fog like it was sunny and seventy-five.

In the article, "The Plot Sickens," Fanny Howe criticizes young contemporary writers for how they cannot finish stories without violence and how they do not have "the most rudimentary sense of cause and effect." My free-write product completely deviates from the author's claims regarding the tendencies and flaws of young writers. My dad is the big hero of my story for saving my life and landing the plane safely, but according to Howe, the outside forces of the economy have created an atmosphere where "there can be no heroes;" I created a world with heroes, which clearly counters the claim. Also, Howe tends to see fewer happy endings in stories and more that end "with extraordinary violence." My story does have a happy ending, with my dad and I flying away safe and sound, while also incorporating no violence, which Howe says she sees very often. Finally, she thinks that today's writers cannot solve the problem they created "in the first few pages," making the writers have to end the story with something else, usually violence. My free-write has none of that: having no violence, ending the story with a solved problem, and solving the problem, even before I finished the story. Overall, Howe's criticisms of young writers are not seen in my free-write response.

Self-Deprecation

Louis Dion                                                                                                               Creative Writing

Mr. Kefor

22 February 2015

Common Sense: Ha!

                Over the years, I have been known to lack in places where most people do not, including in the area of common sense. I have gone against the grain in almost every situation involving the use of common sense. Crossing the street or saying the right things at the appropriate times,  I have not excelled at these things. Even though I have shown these qualities for most of my life, everyone began to notice my lack of common sense back in 2002, during my second year of preschool.

                I was four years old at the time, and I went to preschool at the L.G. Nourse School. Our class always played on the smaller, plastic playground instead of the larger, metal playground at the school because our class was thought of as immature and irresponsible. But one day, the teachers felt confident that the class was ready to use the larger playground at recess. When they told us we were going to go on the larger playground, the teachers asked the class to be careful due to the danger the playground presented, and everything would have been okay if I was not in the class that day.

                I was always an out of control, crazy, spontaneous child, and I always got (and sometimes still get) very excited very quickly. I got so insane sometimes that I had to literally run off my excitement, even at four years old. Running was a way of calming myself down, but on this day, running would be my downfall.

                When I heard that our class was going to use the metal playground during recess, well, you can understand how I reacted. For the ten minutes between the time I knew about the playground endeavour and the time the class and I went outside, nobody could contain me. Jumping around in the classroom, screaming in excitement, waiting by the door (all of which were the exact opposite of the actions of my fellow classmates), I could not be stopped by my teachers. By the time I went outside, I was super energized and was ready to tackle the bigger playground.

                As I entered the playground, I saw many new obstacles for me to encounter. The first thing that appeared was a long, tall slide across from me. Wanting to go on the slide, I climbed to the top of the play area. There, I noticed a long wooden bridge, sort of like a runway, leading to a small metal step, which would go up to the loading area of the slide, and then the slide would swirl back down to the ground. So, I thought it would be a good idea to run with my head down towards the slide, jump up onto the loading dock, jump from there into the slide, and eventually slide down, which I thought was the most enjoyable part of the trick, mostly because of my age. After devising this amazing plan, I began my journey. I sprinted across the metal floor, watching the slide intently, getting ready to perform this miraculous maneuver, then suddenly… I forgot to jump…

                SPLAT! My forehead collided into the metal step before the slide with an enormous amount of force. Soon after hitting the step, I got up, not knowing what I had just gotten myself in to. My teachers ran to my aid. They stared at me while blood was running across my face, sourcing from in between my eyes. I did not feel anything, and I could not tell that there was a red river of blood that suddenly appeared on my head, so I asked if I could go play again. Instead, my teachers called my mom to come to my side.
                My mom decided to bring me to Sturdy Memorial Hospital to have a doctor check out the situation. Seven stitches later, my face was sealed back up and washed up so that my pale, tan skin was again showing. Then, after a couple weeks, the stitches were removed, and a scar remained to remind myself and others of this interesting event.

   This is not the end, however, because something else happened that day. After my family and I got home from the hospital, I wanted to go back to school. It was five o’clock at night, but all I wanted was to see my teachers and friends again. I kept asking my mom to bring me back to the school, and my mom kept telling me that school was over, but I did not believe her for one second. My mom decided to show me herself by bringing me to the school after hours. It was revealed there that the doors were locked and no one was playing outside on the playground. I was so mad that I missed the rest of the school day. It made me so mad that I began to cry, and cry, and cry, for one, two, three hours. I cried until I fell asleep, but the next day, I was again ready to learn more at school.