Graf #4

Reaction to “Advice to Writers”

While I was reading through this advice, I wondered if Mr. Goldfine read my mind, and then used what I think while I write as a “Things Not To Do” guide. I am guilty of all of this advice, especially ignoring subjects that I think would be found boring to anyone but me. I am often choosing subjects that I believe will please my teachers instead of choosing ones that are interesting to me as the writer. I over-think everything I’m writing, and one of my worst habits is editing while I write, instead of writing everything on my mind and going back to edit later. So far, I have found myself glancing back at this advice while I am writing my grafs. Since I have been writing the same way for however many years I have known how to write, it’s proven difficult for me to get rid of these bad habits. I plan to continue using this advice throughout the rest of my writing career (a.k.a., until I die.)

Graph #3

Inventory of the top of my dresser:

• A can of soda (Paradise Mango flavored Pepsi, to be exact.)
• "Enchanted" perfume by Bath and Body Works
• Gucci Guilty cologne
• "Excite" Axe body spray
• Old Spice original deoderant
• Two boxes of Acuvue contacts, labeled "Left" and "Right"
• Aquarium water-clear chemicals
• A soda bottle full of change
• A jewelry box with 6 necklaces and 2 rings
• Two pairs of reading glasses
• A vase with a dried rose (from my grandmother's funeral) and a red wooden rose
• Contact solutuion
• 9 bottles of nail polish
• A flashlight
• A headband
• A phone charger
• An unfinished jigsaw puzzle
• A job application to Chili's
• A Puma ballcap
• A pair of sunglasses
• A 4-shelf cabinet containing: 4 kinds of fish food, two more bottles of aquarium chemicals, a box containing a bottle of Wonderstruck perfume, a green rubber duck, 3 dinosaur figurines, a rubber platypus, a glass figurine that says "Grandma," and a ceramic owl candle holder

Graph:
In the unorganized, cluttered mess, you can tell that there is a man and a woman sharing this space. With the variety of men and women's beauty products and jewelry scattered among the surface, these people are apparently well kept and smell pretty good. Obviously they own an aquarium, and keep that pretty well kept, too. They must never finish anything they start, since there's a half-done puzzle just sitting there with things piled on it and a job application that they can't even bother to turn in. They may be a little weird, seeing all those silly figurines displayed for everyone to see. But maybe sentimental, seeing the glass figurine that may have belonged to one of their grandmothers, and dried roses in a vase. They have a unique taste; who actually likes Mango-flavored Pepsi? Someone would be better off leaving this mess alone; maybe someday they can straighten out their clutter.

Graph #2

Being a "teacher" at a daycare; no degree, no school that qualifies me to be a teacher at all, makes me think about all of the different kinds of teachers there are. Now, if you told me to describe the worst teacher I ever had in school, I could tick off the names of every teacher I've had and try to decide which one I consider to be the worst. But if you asked to describe my worst life teacher, that would be a whole different story. I consider everyone who has been even a small part of my life to be a teacher. So many people have taught me so many different things. But I can't decide if there was a single teacher that could be considered the worst. Everything you learn in life is important, no matter what it is. How those things are taught to you is a decision made by your teacher. When you teach yourself something, who is anyone else to decide if it's wrong or not? Maybe I am my own worst teacher. Have I taught myself well? I think so. Will somebody else have the same opinion? Maybe, or maybe not. A teacher can be awful; they can yell at you, get you in trouble, accuse you of being stupid, lazy, a slacker, a procrastinator, someone who doesn't really want to learn. When they give you a wheelbarrow full of homework and a detention slip at the end of the day, or ground you and take away your Iphone, you think "Man, if I was a teacher, I wouldn't treat my students like that." Or, "If I ever have a kid, I wouldn't ground them or take away their things." You just made a life decision to be a better person based on what that horrible teacher did to you. Doesn't that make them a good teacher? I've had some incredible teachers, teachers who bore me, and teachers who I wish their car caught on fire so I wouldn't have to see them that day. But in the end, they all taught me something that is valuable to me, and to name someone as the worst teacher would be overlooking those lessons.

Graph #1

When I began to observe my hands, I thought to myself, "I'm still so young. There isn't much of a story to tell here, yet." But when I thought about all the things I've used my hands for, I realized that they have more of a story than much of the rest of me. I've used them to learn; touching things and playing with things when I was small. I've used them to clap in celebration. I've used them to survive; eating, drinking, and bathing myself would be difficult to do independently without any hands. I've used them to hurt others. I've used them to pray for forgiveness of those actions. I still use them for math: counting in my head was never an easy thing for me, nor math in general. I use them to hold hands with someone I love. I've broken them, they've been cut up, used mercilessly, and taken advantage of. My hands tell more stories: on my left hand, there is a small "X" between my thumb and index finger. This "X" was meant to be a symbol of an iron-strong friendship, but not a year later turned into a reminder of all the things I've crossed out of my past. Not necessarily things that I regret, but things of the past that aren't a part of my future. Every day, that "X" on my hand is a reminder that the only constant in our lives is change. On my right hand, there is a small, crescent-shaped scar on my index knuckle. This scar reminds me of when I was very young, and I wanted to help my mom around the house. While I was washing dishes, the brim of a drinking glass broke off onto my wrist, putting a small slice in my skin. Since then I've sported that scar as a reminder of my childhood. My skin is still soft, still smooth, and only wrinkling where it's naturally wrinkled since birth. I am only eighteen years old, but there is already a lifetime of stories to be told about my hands.