Week Twelve, Entry Three: Different POV

Lola went to grade school with Frederick. She felt a connection with him the first moment they locked gazes. But, she avoided him. They were both different from the others. Even as a little girl, Lola knew she was strange. Her father reminded her of that as he beat her every night. In an attempt to "fit in," Lola tried to socialize with her female classmates. She wore pink bows, dressed, and giggled delightfully. The game of pretend ended in junior high school. One of the girls found Lola sifting through her vomit. From that point on, Lola stopped wearing bows and dresses. She started having sexual encounters with older boys and began performing puppet shows. Lola never forgot about Frederick.

The first day of sophomore year Lola couldn't stay away from Frederick any longer. He was was hypnotic. She walked right up to him, kissed him on the mouth, and gave him one of her homemade puppets. Frederick and Lola became inseparable. They were together for almost every minute of every day. She shared her food secret, and he seemed just as infatuated with her obsession. Once, Lola thought about telling Frederick she loved him, but she threw up instead.

On June 6th, Lola decided to make love with Frederick. She had waited patiently for this moment. The sex wasn't romantic or sweet. It wasn't in any weird or exotic spot. The only unique aspect of it was the biting. Frederick kept biting Lola. He bit hard and long, drawing blood on a few instances. After the sex, Lola felt strange. She felt like a ghost

-Abbey Lawrence

Week Twelve, Entry Two: Character Bio

Frederick Lampir was born in Bucharest, Romania on January 11th, 1974. This would make him thirty-six years old.  His mother remembered his birth as terrifying. Frederick's father was a nomad, and Frederick was conceived after a night of potions. His father left before Teresa knew she was pregnant. Teresa Lampir was in a grueling thirty-seven hour labor. She wanted a C-section but midwives don't have the surgical capacity to complete such a procedure. When Teresa saw him for the first time, she threw up. Not only was he covered in blood and mucous, but he scared her. He had awful black eyes and black hair. But, worst of all, Frederick wouldn't cry for five hours. The midwife was worried that Frederick's lungs hadn't developed correctly.  After the fifth hour, he cried because he was hungry. Teresa refused to have more children.

Teresa did her best as a mother. She provided Frederick with all the necessities: food, water, clothing, shelter, education etc. But she could never truly love him. Teresa told him she loved him,  but her stomach would churn. Kisses and hugs were seldom. It was too hard.

Frederick was a quiet boy but a smart boy; he was also a good runner. He excelled in school, but his teachers never wanted to be affectionate or alone with him. It wasn't because Frederick was ugly or cruel or hateful. He just had certain tendencies that made people uncomfortable. Frederick had a way about eating his lunch, feeding classroom pets, licking his lips and fingers, and chewing on his hands that made people squirm. There were a few other children that were kind to Frederick. At recess or lunch, he wasn't physically alone. But mentally and emotionally, he had no one.

The best (and worst) year of Frederick's life was his sophomore year in high school. He had a 4.0, promises for a track scholarship, and he met someone like him. Her name was Lola. Lola was also quiet and kind. She loved to read and put on strange little puppet shows. Lola was obsessed with food too. Sometimes it would take Frederick and Lola an hour to finish a meal just so they could lick, taste, grind, and mash their food. Lola would gag herself after every meal, and then examine each morsel of regurgitated food. Frederick liked that game too. Frederick and Lola had sex on a balmy summer evening. There were no stars that night just a full moon. It was Frederick's first time, but Lola had already had a few partners.

Lola died the next day.

After Lola's death, Frederick appeared to feel nothing. He didn't scream, cry, kick, pout, laugh. The only sign of emotion was a strange smile he made at the funeral. He smiled at a tree, or perhaps something behind the tree. Maybe it was a ghost.  Frederick finished high school at the top of his class. He went to a four-year university and got an engineering degree. His mother attended his college graduation but never made contact with him again. He decided he was tired of Romania. Frederick left for New York City.

In New York City, Frederick developed a habit. A cannibalistic habit.  He liked eating flesh. It wasn't an easy habit in the sense that murder is not easy to accomplish. Victims scream and cry and whimper pathetically. It was a tedious, annoying process.

-Abbey Lawrence

Week Twelve, Entry One: Short Story Goal

Currently, my short story is in a state of ugliness. I shudder just thinking about it. The story is lurking in its file on my computer, waiting for me to play with it. But, I almost don't want to play. I'm frustrated with it and running low on time and patience. However, with the two others pieces I've written this semester, each draft improves drastically. I'm crossing my fingers.

 When I'm finished, I hope to create a story that is enticing and thoughtful. As a writer, I want the piece to be interesting and complex. I don't want to have a story that is straightforward and predictable, but I don't want to confuse the readers either. There is a ceratin medium I must achieve. I just want something different. I want to improve the fluency and manipulation of my language. In previous works, my language use is rather rough, almost immature. Perhaps I am trying too hard. After my readers are finished with the piece, I want them to crave more stories. I want my readers to connect with the main character. I want them to be inside of his head. When they read the last sentence, I want them to be disappointed because there isn't more story left. I know I am probably overreaching, but that's how I feel. If nothing else, I just want to improve and have a little fun. :)

-Abbey Lawrence

Week Ten, Entry Number Three: Ideal Life

A day in my ideal life would start between 10:30 a.m. and 11:00 a.m. My master suite would be ridiculously lavished with gorgeous, comfortable furniture. It would have a sitting area, fireplace, California king bed, and an attached bathroom. I would specifically want to live with Tyler and our three future (I am not having kids until I’m at least twenty-seven) babies. But, my loved ones and peers could exist in my ideal world. My three-story home would be about three or four miles from town. The kitchen would drip in granite, stainless steel, and glass tile backsplash. I would have wood floors throughout my home, with the exception of the bedrooms (they would be carpet). I would have one room dedicated to reading and writing. It would be filled with books, over-sized armchairs, a cherry-wood desk, a computer and a window seat. The rest of my home would be filled with equally beautiful furniture. Every room would have crown-molding. After waking up, I would be able to run on the winding trail behind my home. I could run for hours and not be winded. Throughout the day, I could lounge, pet, cuddle, and take care of my pets. I would have a St. Bernard, a Tea Cup Yorkshire Terrier, an American bulldog, a Siamese cat, a Tuxedo cat, chickens, penguins, and hedgehogs. During the early afternoon hours, I would read to my heart’s content. Then, I would work on my foundation that raised money, awareness, and change in orphanages. During the early evening hours, I could watch (in silence) whatever TV show I wanted, without judgment. I would have a Diet Coke fountain that tasted fresh 100% of the time. At night Tyler and I would cook dinner together, and then lie together on the patio furniture and talk until we simply couldn’t talk anymore.

Week Ten, Entry Number Two: Conversation Piece Re-visited

Brian: Karl, I need to tell you something.

Karl: Err- Okay. What is it?

Brian: I don’t want to go with you to the football game this weekend. I don’t like anything about football. I hate the game, the psychotic fans, just everything. I’d rather do something else that’s in my hometown.

Karl: I didn’t mean to make you feel that way, Brian. I just thought maybe we’d try something different. Try to expand our friend base. What do you want to do?

Brian: I thought maybe we could go this comic book convention for Invaders of the Cerebellum. The storyline is fascinating; plus, there’s a girl there a want to see.

Karl: A girl? Are you shitting me?

Brian: It’s Molly. She e-mailed me and asked me if I would be at the convention. I miss her, Karl. I haven’t found anyone else here that I care about. She’s still single.

Karl: You look desperate. It’s pathetic. Man up.

Brian: I need your help. I need your guidance. Be my Yoda.

Karl: God, you’re weird. But, I suppose I’ll take you under my wing, young Jedi.

Week Ten, Entry Number One: An Interview with my Husband

I enjoyed An Interview with my Husband, despite the fact it was about a failing marriage. I thought the play of the dialogue was amusing, touching, and significant. The interview viewpoint shows the apathy and lack of full-blown emotion in the relationship (at least on the husband's part). The author’s voice was blunt but full of underlying passion. She loved her husband but was aware of the fact that he may not love her in the same manner. He loved the physical relationship; she loved the physical and emotional relationships.Her intelligence and perception are astounding but sad. I liked the switches from dialogue to narrative to reflection to lists. It kept my interest throughout the entire piece. I also think that the switches were able to better explain the background information of the piece. My favorite aspect of the piece was the honesty flowing from the narrator. She was honest with herself and her readers. Even though she discussed sexual intercourse, love, and disappoint, she didn’t censor anything. I connected with her; I felt like I was in her head.

Entry Number three, Week Nine: 50 Things I'm Proud Of...

1. I am proud of my fiancé. He is a wonderful person, the “package deal”: generous, loyal, compassionate, hardworking, terribly funny, and handsome. I have never met anyone else who would jump in a bath tub, fully clothed, to console me when I was hysterical after reminiscing about my “glory days” in high school track. He then proceeded to sing me, “Too Shy” and washed my hair. It sounds weird, but it I think the “weird moments” are the ones that make our relationship unique and worthwhile. Did I mention he has excellent taste in jewelry? J

2. I am proud of my immediate family. Because I am in college, my parents and siblings have suffered financially. Christmases and birthdays aren’t as plentiful and extravagant. There are no more family vacations. My dad can’t replace his worn-out truck. My mom had to go back to work. Yet, no one complains, groans, and acts resentful. They are the epitome of sacrifice.   

3. I am proud of my sister’s (Allison’s) athleticism. It is amazing to watch her play volleyball and basketball. She has a grace, confidence, and mastery of fundamentals that I envy. But she is not the stereotypical “dumb jock.” Allison is extremely intelligent.  

4. I am proud of my brother’s (Alex’s) discipline. This is majorly applicable in extracurricular activities like football, basketball, and track. But, he trains so diligently and passionately. Alex has a focus and drive that is admirable for an eighth grade boy.

5. I am proud of my brother’s (Aaron’s) inventive nature. He is crafty and transforms random household objects into weapons, traps, and other apparatuses that I will never understand. Once, I was lucky enough to help him whittle arrows for a cross bow. He was only seven at the time.

6. I am proud of the drawings and crafts from my preschool students.

7. I am proud of my raggedy teddy bear, Emily.

8. I am proud of breaking up with my ex-boyfriend. However, I’m not proud of the last line of my break- up speech: “I hope you get hit by a bus.”

9. I am proud of my obsession with monsters.

10. I am proud of my 2003 Ford Focus.

11. I am proud of my addiction to Diet Coke.

12. I am proud of reading the entire Twilight Saga.

13. I am proud of my babies: Dominik and Addisyn. Biologically, they aren’t mine, but I was a nanny/single parent for these two kiddos all summer. If my children are half as beautiful as these two, then I will be lucky.  

14. I am proud of keeping the same best friend and not being wishy-washy.

15. I am proud that I do not always have to be around people. Being alone does not bother me.

16. I am proud that I sleep with a night-light. Guess what? I’m scared of the dark; I know what lurks in it.

17. I am proud that I held a penguin. FYI: they are NOT soft and snuggly.  

18. I am proud that I went to Falmouth, Jamaica.

19. I am proud that I saw the Lion King and Phantom of the Opera on Broadway.

20. I am proud that I have a strange link with the Holocaust. My best friend thinks I died in the Holocaust and am reincarnated. I am starting to believe her.

21. I am proud that I never got passed in the 4x400 meter relay.

22. I am proud that I have three huge birthmarks on my back.

23. I am proud that I am in love with Stephen King.

24. I am proud that I saw The Lion King: 3D in the movie theatre and drank chocolate milk while I watched it.

25. I am proud that I am a crybaby during movies.

26. I am proud that I have finished a 1,000 page book: Stephen King’s It.

27. I am proud that I have been through one of Kansas City’s famous haunted houses. I am not proud that I swore loudly in front of small children.

28. I am proud that I watch HGTV, TLC, E!, and Bravo.

29. I am proud that every year I watch AMC’s Fear fest.

30. I am proud that I was good at track and cross country.

31. I am proud that I kept a secret for a whole year.

32. I am proud that I competed in Forensics for a year.

33. I am proud that haven’t skipped a class.

34. I am proud that I love wearing sweats.

35. I am proud that I am CERT certified.

36. I am proud that I have written three children’s books.

37. I am proud that I love Mizzou and the Royals.

38. I am proud of my cousins that work for the State Department.

39. I am proud that I am liberal.

40. I am proud that I am from Rock Port, MO.

41. I am proud that in the fourth, fifth, and sixth grades I used to stay up until two or three in the morning to read books.

42. I am proud of my engagement ring.

43. I am proud of the scars on my legs.

44. I am proud that I’m not a size 0.

45. I am proud that I am flat-chested.

46. I am proud of my future home at 511 Parkeast Drive.

47. I am proud of my pets: my Boston terrier and two cats.

48. I am proud of loving the Randy Rogers Band.

49. I am proud of owning the Disney Vault.

50. I am proud of my old pair of running shoes.

-Abigail Lawrence J

Entry Number Two, Week Nine: Nature Walk Prose Poem.

The sky is the beginning pallet of the artist’s work- pale pinks, light violet, dark oranges, and pastel yellows. The garden is the beginning pallet of the homeowner’s graveyard. The strawberries, once a luscious red topped with green paradise are a dark, ugly taunting brown; the skeletons of a fulfilling fruit. The hostas, once plentiful with boisterous, busty, light-and-dark green leaves are fragile wisps that threaten to blow away with the wind. Bones of flowers, long forgotten, lie in the neglected flower bed. The lone tree, guardian of the yard has a skinny, lightly tanned trunk. Not a robust trunk like the ones at the park. Not a trunk for protecting the others. The bushes in the back hide the destruction, hide the jungle, and hide the horror. A graveyard for plants. A graveyard for resurrection? My future home.

-Abigail Lawrence J

Entry Number One, Week Nine: "Follow That Cab"

I found the predicament described in the work, “Follow That Cab,” to be amusing. I’ll admit that a few chuckles escaped me. I am picturing an older gentleman that has little to no experience with advanced technology racing around to find a trunk containing items vital to his work and life. I can also see the disgruntled wife, who has a more advanced grasp of technology, as well as, the depths of her husband’s forgetfulness. In respect to the style, I felt slightly jumbled throughout the entire piece. There were certain fragments I had to re-read several times. I understand that the author wanted to convey the panic and hectic emotions that he and his wife were feeling, but as a reader, it was disorienting. I also didn’t care for the last sentence fragment, “Not first time.” It didn’t really resonate with strong finality.

-Abigail Lawrence J

Entry Number Three, Week Eight: Freewrite. "Naughty Girl."

I am a naughty girl, a selfish girl, a liar. I have not been consistently keeping up with my writing schedule. Sure, once-a-week, twice-a-week, whatever I can muster.  But even then, I'm not truly free writing. It's not for me. It's for someone else. Some other teacher. Some other organization. Some other individual. My lapse in commitment is probably disappointing to others. Does it mean I love writing less than another classmate? Absolutely not. I love writing. I appreciate writing. I appreciate those with the caliber to write well. I try to justify not writing daily because I have "too many other activities occurring." However, I don't think that is the absolute truth. I think I am just scared I won't  have anything special or meaningful to write about. That my writing will be superficial and bland. Cheesy. Not real. I also find myself comparing my works to those of others. How immature. I feel like a little girl again. A small part of me feels guilty for not being better disciplined, but at the same time, I feel I am making the right decisions for my psyche. Writing brings up unwanted, dark feelings. They distract me. Make me think of my demons. Take away from my productivity. I stop working; I think deeply. I laugh. I scream. I curse. I cry. I covet others's abilities. On days I write, I am burdened, but I feel intuitive and wise.

-Abigail Lawrence

J

Entry Number Two, Week Eight: Rewrite poem. "Praise the Chocolate Shake."

“Praise the Chocolate Shake”

I praise the chocolate shake because of its seductive, powerful nature.

Goddess of frozen treats, the Aphrodite of the Dairy Diner

Which always serves as a temptress to my will.

The thick, creamy, cold, brown concoction aesthetically begins to tease my eyes.

My eyes plead with my hand to retrieve money.

Money is mean.

Money is selfish.

Money does not like to be spent.

But, then, one of the presidents sees my treats

The president smiles.

“Buy it, child. Devour it.”

I must oblige the dead.

I reach for the chocolate shake.

My fingers tingle.

I take one bite.

Savory

Instantly, my ass, thighs, and stomach get bigger.

Calories spread quickly.

Fat cells multiply, triple, quadruple

But the chocolate shake doesn’t care

She has conformed me, controlled me.

Oh, mistress, may I take another bite?

“You will be my disciple. Sing my songs. Praise my praises. Taste only me.”

I am no longer free thinking.

She lives within me.

-Abigail Lawrence J

Entry Number One, Week Eight: Review a poem. "I Went into the Maverick Bar."

For a group assignment this week, I was asked to explicate the poem “I Went into the Maverick Bar” by Gary Snyder. Honestly, if I would not have done some research about the Black Mesa issue and the song “We don’t smoke Marijuana in Muskokie [Muskogee]” then, the meaning (or what I perceive to be the meaning) of the poem wouldn’t have registered within my own mind. That is not to say I did not enjoy the reading. In the poem, the narrator goes to the Maverick Bar in Farmington, New Mexico. He hears the song “We don’t smoke Marijuana in Muskokie [Muskogee]” and watches an older couple dance. The narrator begins to recall a simpler time when he had “short-haired joy and roughness.” After the short-lived nostalgia, he leaves the bar and receives a “dose of reality.”

Even though I don’t see the poem as becoming a well-loved classic, I appreciate it. I do not think it will be extremely popular because it will be misunderstood. Some may mistake it for unpatriotic or cynical. If proper research is done, then readers may gain new insight. The narrator is headed to New Mexico to speak about the Black Mesa issue. While on the way, he hears a song about living a "good," pure (basically, Christianity's view of pure) life. He remembers being sheltered and turning a blind eye towards serious issues occurring in the world. Then, when the narrator leaves the bar, he remembers his focus on what needs to be done. I loved the nostalgic, mysterious language. It also seemed nonchalant. I pictured a calm, lonely bar in New Mexico during a cool, desert night. The line, “What is to be done” leaves readers pondering several questions: What does the narrator need to accomplish? And What do I need to accomplish?  After my little research session, the poem became relevant to me. I think the theme could be seen as “What is to be done” is not always simple and enjoyable. Perhaps, it (our short- or long-term life mission(s)) cannot be discovered until some of our innocence has been shattered, until we see the world through clear, unsheltered eyes and realize there is evil and badness.

I love the lines:

            “America- your stupidity

I could almost love you again.”

I think the lines are powerful, so brilliant. At a young age, I remember teachers, family members, older members of our community, trying to instill a deep-rooted pride in America. So deep, it could almost have been considered ethnocentric. My whole life I have tried to maintain that pride, yet often it falters: the current president will do something upsetting; a new group will form out of ignorance; or some unspeakable crime will be committed. I try to love America in the purest sense, then our country does something foolish, and the love seems out-of-reach. Like the “love jar” was moved from the first shelf to the tenth shelf, and suddenly, I can’t just stand on my tip-toes to get it.

-Abigail Lawrence J

Entry Number Three, Week Six: Honest, quick writing. "In the Clouds."

A). I am afraid that if I start dreaming… I will realize that I want something that doesn’t involve my boyfriend and living in Rock Port, Missouri.

B). I secretly enjoy reading… I enjoy reading stories my wonderful monsters (no, I’m not trying to imitate Lady Gaga). A couple weeks ago, I went to the Barnes and Noble in Zona Rosa with my boyfriend; automatically, I gravitated towards the Halloween table. I read an entire poem book about a zombie apocalypse. Then, I bought a book about vampires.

C). If I had had a perfect childhood, I’d have grown up to be… Boring, naïve, and unprepared for the “real world.”  

D). If it didn’t sound so crazy, I’d write or make a… I would write books about guts, gore, murder, and cults.

E). My parents think artists are… My dad appreciates artists; my mom tends to find them eccentric and egotistical.

F). My God thinks artists are… The God I like to believe exists thinks artists are brilliant.

G). What makes me feel weird about this creative writing class is… I share personal details (I don’t tell my family and friends) about my life with people I’ve only known for six weeks.

H). Learning to trust myself is probably… Not going to happen. I am too awkward, inconsistent, and incompetent.

I). My most cheer-me-up music is… Music from Phantom of the Opera.

J). My favorite way to dress is… Right now, I love to wear sweats and flip-flops. But, in a few months, I’m hoping to be able to wear cute day dresses, skinny jeans, high heels, and bangles.

-Abigail (Abbey) Lawrence J

Entry Number Two, Week Six: Letting Go. "Daydreaming."

A). My favorite childhood toy was… I had a medium-sized scratched, forest-green bucket filled with plastic Disney characters. No one, not even my immediate family, was allowed to touch my bucket or my characters.

B). My favorite childhood game was… I played “house” a lot. Basically, that would entail me being the bossy “mom” and telling my unfortunate “husband” and “children” what to do.

C). The best movie I ever saw as a kid was… The Lion King. It is truly a classic.

D). I don’t do it much but I enjoy… Going to the zoo. I love the exotic animals; I feel like I’m on a safari.

E). If I could lighten up a little, I’d let myself… Buy new clothes. I am so cheap.

F). If it weren’t too late, I would… Apologize to someone that tried to help me, but I was too stubborn and selfish to listen.

G). My favorite musical instrument is… The violin. I can’t play it, but I wish I could.

H). The amount of money I spend on treating myself to entertainment each month is… I try my best to spend as little money each month as possible; I am overly frugal. But, I will say that two weeks ago at Zona Rosa I bought two books for twenty dollars. My answer is twenty dollars.

I). If I weren’t so stingy with my artistic self, I’d buy him/her… An I-Pad.

J). Taking time out for myself… Makes me feel guilty.

-Abigail (Abbey) Lawrence J

Entry Number One, Week Six: Fun with Lists. "My Lovely Lists."

A). List five hobbies that sound fun

1.     I would love to be able to sew. Three women in my family possess this skill: my maternal great-grandmother, Marie, my “Nana”, and my paternal grandmother, Sarah. I am fascinated when I watch Project Runway and Mad Fashion; I admire the artistry of the tailors and seamstresses.

2.     Cooking and/or baking would be a fun hobby. Engineering a recipe requires science and art. However, I am not equipped with the time and financing to support this particular hobby.

3.     Although this skill is not in my DNA, I desperately wish I could draw in my free time. My roommate could make amazing, life-like sketches in a matter of hours. Drawing is a fun, stress-free, whimsical way to transcribe the feelings and beliefs of an artist.

4.     My best friend was always able to make the cutest bracelets. I think that would be enjoyable, as well as fashionable.

5.     Honestly, even though this is conventionally masculine, I would love to work on cars as a hobby. I know the absolute bare minimum about cars, but I love to get my hands dirty.

B). Five classes that sound fun

1.     Disaster Psychology

2.     Child and Adolescent Psychopathology

3.     American Sign Language

4.     The Literary Critic’s Craft

5.     Calculus

C). Five things you would personally never do that sound fun

1.     Sky dive (My cousin’s boyfriend sky dives; it sounds nuts!)

2.     Model high-fashion clothes (I may not exude fashion, but I appreciate it.)

3.     Move to another country (I watch House Hunter’s International and yearn for the impossible dream of owning a second home, or perhaps just making a new beginning.)

4.     Participate in a triathlon (The athleticism in competitors is astounding; I would be too embarrassed to even try.)

5.     Get a tattoo (It is true that there are some tacky tattoos; however, some tattoos are so symbolic and beautifully designed.)

D). Five things you used to enjoy doing

1.     Dancing

2.     Reading

3.     Running

4.     Making movies

E). Five silly things you would like to try once

1.     Ride a cow

2.     Have a food fight

3.     Karaoke with my girlfriends

4.     Be part of a flash mob

5.     Get a motorcycle and go to Sturgis

-Abigail (Abbey) Lawrence J

Entry Number Three, Number Five: Issues on Immigration. "Immigration."

I believe that I would take the initiative to become active in my new country's culture, but I don't think that I could give up my American citizenship. I've always been interested how other individuals in different cultures (with respect to my own) live: what they eat, how they speak, what they wear, what religions are present, how their government works, and what their background is. Out of respect and humility, I would attempt to immerse myself, as far as clothes, cuisine, politics, and background knowledge. I'm not sure about religion. That is still a grey area; perhaps if I thought the country's main religion had a belief system that was more representative of my person, I would consider changing. It's tentative. But I suppose then I must answer another question: If I do not declare citizenship of my new country, have I truly integrated myself? I would still venture to say that I had. Being a citizen of a country is not just having a piece of paper that says so. It involves pride, faith, and loyalty. I don't know how to state this without sounding cheesy, but I am proud to be from America. Even if I move to Sudan, I will still remember my roots and embrace them. I don't know if I want to completely erase my past heritage because it is still an underlying part of my present and future.

-Abigail (Abbey) Lawrence J

Entry Number Two, Week Five: Nature Walk Without Adjectives. "In the Backyard."

The flowers possess no life; they haven't been cared for. It is attributed to water. I miss the strawberries and hostas. Some color remains, but not like it was May, June, and July. Leaves are on the trees. The grass has not lost its color for the season. There is no moisture in the air, but a breeze can be experienced. The bushes in the yard need to be cut or trimmed. They'll grow into the power line. I smell food on the barbecue grill mixed with dirt and grass that has just been mowed. The hot tub has on its cover. If it wasn't covered, you could see it has not been cared for either. It needs chemicals. The deck holds furniture. Next summer there will be revival.

-Abigail (Abbey) Lawrence J

Entry Number One, Week Five: Response Post. "A Trip Down Memory Lane."

I am writing a response to John Wallace's building description scene. To me the piece was filled with nostalgia; my parents despised (with good reason) my first boyfriend. I had a "flashback" to my tumultuous two-year relationship, which brought back several feelings: anger, resentment, and for just a moment, happiness (not all of our relationship was negative).

The story was amusing; I found myself laughing several times. "I reasoned that tractors are heavy duty, so they would probably have heavy duty things that need wrenching." The preceding sentence was so genuinely honest and amusing. It was my favorite.

But the scene also evoked a feeling of sympathy. I can't say for certain the the piece is about the author (John), but I have a strong assumption that it probably is. Even though the scene was funny, I pitied John. I know that I struggle when people don't like me, so when I read the sentence "Every other conversation had been bland, and she told me this was because they didn't really like me," I had a "girl moment." I went, "Oh no," and clutched my chest with my hands. Relationships are hard enough, especially when your partner's family is exactly welcoming.

Good luck with the in-laws, John!

- Abigail (Abbey) Lawrence J

Writing Scedule- Fall 2011

I regret not having posted my schedule (and my three true blog assignments) earlier in the week; I have been having a hard time accurately balancing work for classes (gotta' love college!).

Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursday, and Fridays: 30 mintues each weekday (hopefully from 3:45 p.m. until 4:15 p.m., if not, whenever I can find thirty minutes)

Saturdays and Sundays: 30 minutes (1:00 p.m. until 1:30 p.m.)

-Abigail (Abbey) Lawrence J

Entry Number Three, Week Four: Fictional Biography. "Brian Starkey."

Between Karl and Brian, I think I would like to create a fictional biography for Brian. When Karl made the comment about Brian taking his girlfriend (perhaps ex-girlfriend at this point?) to a “stupid comic book thing,” I began piecing together what I perceived Brian’s life to be. I know that sounds horribly judgmental, but it is the truth.

I imagine Brian’s story goes along these lines:

Brian is a twenty-year-old full-time student at Northwest Missouri State University. He is kind, awkward, generous (to a fault), honest, a little gullible, naïve, studious, and overall content with his identity. Most people don’t usually approach Brian because his appearance is not what is considered conventionally attractive and “fashion-forward.” Brian does attempt to be insightful and open-minded, does grant him the respect of professors, classmates, and peers.

Brian Starkey is from Kansas City, Missouri. Throughout his life, Brian’s family lived in two different houses (both in the KC area). The most recent Starkey residence is a 3-bedroom, 2-bathroom ranch-style home. Brian’s home is severely outdated (dark paint colors, old carpet, wood-paneling, knick-knacks, flowered furniture, etc.), yet it is not dirty or uninhabitable; the essentials are provided.  

Brian lives in a traditional nuclear family: a father (Dave), a mother (Linda), and another younger brother (Ryan). Dave is a computer technician at a data company, and Linda works at the children’s theatre in Crown Center. Ryan is a sophomore in high school; he is more of a “social butterfly” and has embraced the performing arts. The Starkey family has one cat, Archibald, and a tank full of colorful and vivacious fish.

                During his elementary school years, middle school years, and high school years, Brian had a close-knit group of six or seven friends (outside of those friends Brian had a hard time identifying with other cliques) that liked Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, video games, computer games, comic books, and anything from the Medieval Period. I’d venture to say that there were probably lots of role-playing games with cheaply-made costumes and plastic swords. However, Brian’s friends are truly quality individuals- honest, compassionate, devoted, and fairly competent. Brian had one love interest: Molly. Molly loved anything from the Science Fiction genre and would accompany Brian to comic book conventions and video game stores. The sixteen-month relationship ended when the two parted ways to pursue their post-secondary education.

Brian is majoring in Interactive Digital Media and minoring in Art at Northwest Missouri State University. Although Brian is not a stand-out student (he is not a self-promoter), he does have an impressive 3.7 GPA. Brian has expanded his friend pool since attending college (only three of his close friends came to Northwest), but it is filled with the same archetype of people from earlier years. He has been convinced to go to The Palms once (Halloween during his sophomore year in college).

-Abigail (Abbey) Lawrence J

Entry Number Two, Week Four: Eavesdropping Exercise. "Angry Birds."

I wrote this while sitting in the B.D. Owens Library. I was sitting at a table on the second floor and listening to the conversation of the two gentlemen sitting at the table facing my back (I did glance back, casually, of course, to get a physical description).

“Karl, how did your physics test go,” asks Brian. Brian is probably around twenty-years-old. He is wearing a green t-shirt that says, “Northwest Missouri State University,” in white font and a pair of dark-wash jeans. Obviously, Brian has tried to dye his hair recently. It is a mix of orange, red, and a brown, like a fall leaf-gone-bad. Brian’s body frame is slender, yet his face is full. His complexion isn’t clear; he has some pock marks from acne and a few new zits are forming. Brian’s smile is crooked, yet playful. His voice is medium-pitch, but a little nasally.

“Well, sketchy is the best word I can use to describe it”,began Karl slowly, “I just couldn’t get five of the problems. Karl is wearing a plain, purple shirt with dark-wash jeans; Karl is probably twenty or twenty-one. He has a “buzz-cut,” but I would guess that if his hair was grown out it would be black. Karl has on simple, black glasses. His face is clear, and I notice he has dark brown eyes. Karl’s voice is deeper, more down-to-Earth.

(I got Brian’s name later on, as I continued working)

Brian: “Don’t worry, Karl. If you fail, then we can just drop out of school together and sell products used for ‘extra-curricular activity’.”

Karl: “Ha-ha, you’re right. I have a solid grade in the class, so I’m not going to worry too much. By the way, what are we doing for Halloween?”

Brian: “Costume wise?”

Karl: “Yup.”

Brian: “I was thinking SpongeBob, Patrick, Sandy, and Gary.”

Karl: “Absolutely not. It’s been too overdone. What about the Angry Birds characters? I found some on a website, but they’re like $48.00.”

Brian: “It’s a little more than I wanted to spend but a great idea! I want to be the red one.”

Karl: “It’s is my idea, so I’m going to be the red one. You can be yellow; Johnny can be the black one. We should make Angie the pig.”

Brian: “Don’t you know anything about girls? That’s only going to make her mad, and then you’ll never get anywhere.”

Karl: “Oh, like you’re some expert. Didn’t you take your last girlfriend to some stupid comic book thing?”

At this point, a girl came and interrupted their conversation. Actually, I had another dialogue I had planned on using, but I scrapped it when I heard this one. I think I loved the conversation so much because my sister and roommate are obsessed (I know nothing about it) with the computer game, Angry Birds, so I immediately had to text both girls.

-Abigail (Abbey) Lawrence J

Entry Number One, Week Four: Story Based on Description. "Church Talk."

“Katherine Elizabeth Herron, you shut your mouth, or I will shut it for you,” hissed Momma quietly, yet there was meanness in her voice that made me shut up real fast. I (but not without a quick, annoyed sigh; seven-years-old is too old for parents to boss around their kids) stopped talking to my neighbor, Mia, which happened to be my seat partner (and best friend) in Mrs. Lamen’s first grade class. Dramatically (Momma says I am a drama queen-in-training), I pulled out my sunshine-yellow, number two pencil and my bright pink, Taylor Swift notebook. I started sketching my tuxedo cat, Hot Rhonda, when Pastor Dan asked if there were any joys and/or concerns.

Pastor Dan is short, fat, and has brown hair that looks like our old bathroom rug. He always seems nervous like that time Daddy found me after I hit my little sister and ran and hid behind the couch. Momma says I need to stop saying mean things about Pastor Dan ‘cause he might put in a bad word with the “big guy.” I have tried hard to be on my best behavior ‘cause that “big guy” must be Santa, and I want a purple Barbie house for Christmas.  

I thought that if I couldn’t talk to Mia then at least I could talk to Pastor Dan, so I shot my hand up. Pastor Dan gave me a weird look; Momma’s face got red like the ketchup I like on my French Fries (she must have been proud). “Pastor Dan,” I said happily, with a big grin (I was a little embarrassed to smile cause’ I just lost my right-front tooth), “I have a joy to share. Momma said that daddy is finally out-of-the-doghouse. Last week he went to Uncle Trevor’s house and had too much to drink and then made a dent in the truck. But now, Momma and Daddy have quit that loud, awful fighting and are sleeping in their bed together.”

All the other people in the church started to belly-laugh, and I was glad that they wanted to share my joy. However, there were two people that did not seem excited: Momma and Pastor Dan. Momma went from red ketchup to white snow, and Pastor Dan looked mad. I patted Momma’s hand gently, but she glared at me. “Katherine Elizabeth,” Momma said in a scary, whispery voice, “when we get home you are in deep, deep, deep trouble.” “Just please don’t make me sleep outside in the dog house with Taffy,” I whimpered.

Daddy, Momma, and I had a talk after church. Momma says that I am no longer allowed to raise my hand and speak during the service. I had no T.V. for a week, and Momma took away my Taylor Swift C.D. But Momma said that she forgave me and still loved me higher than the water tower. Pastor Dan talks about forgiveness and love a lot, so maybe he isn’t so bad.

P.S. Santa is not the “big guy.”  

-Abigail (Abbey) Lawrence J

Entry Number Three, Week Three: Good Moment. "Jamaica, My Home."

Four tables are set up in a rectangular pattern in the Common Room of the Rock Port United Methodist Church. The end of each table connects with the end of another table- all are united in a common purpose (to provide us with adequate work space, which will result in the organization of a mission trip). Each table top is an off-white and dark gray-specked plastic. The white and grey contrast drastically, yet the two colors work together. In the union, results a pattern and companionship. It is a Sunday afternoon in mid-September. The sun is not shining as brightly, yet the world still seems colorful and full of light. Warmth permeates through the big windows and my skin tingles. I am wearing a black cut-off t-shirt, which had already aroused playful teasing from my best friend’s mother, Susan. Her chiding is maternal, and I embrace it. Becky Heits, the leader of the Rock Port United Methodist Youth Group, stands up and begins to talk about our Mission Trip to Jamaica. I’m enthusiastic about the trip. I love to travel, but I’ve never ventured outside of the United States. Hearing about the Jamaican citizens and their culture intoxicates me; I crave more knowledge, personal experience. I’m sick of living vicariously through the testimonies of previous youth members that have already experienced Jamaica; I want to be there. I want to work hard and make an improvement in the world. The sign-up sheet is sent around; with no hesitation, I put my name on the line in neat, precise calligraphy: Abbey Lawrence.

The trip is the most worthwhile experience of my short, young life. My heart is full of love and compassion. I feel like my heart is overflowing with happiness. Although the Jamaican educational system is not top-notch, I learned more in Falmouth, Jamaica, than I could have learned in an American classroom. No, I was never a person that consistently worried about the material, physical objects in life, but Jamaica humbled me further. Suddenly, I was more appreciative of my family, my home, my community, etc. The people from Jamaica place value on relationships with other people, rather than on who has the most money or biggest home.

We go to the orphanage one day. I see the one of the most beautiful baby girls I have ever laid eyes on. I pick her up from the pack-and-play; I can’t resist babies. We sit in the rocking chair. She has a milky-chocolate complexion; her skin is smooth, no imperfections. Her head is a mop of curly black hair. A bead of sweat is forming on her hairline; the curls are matting together. Her eyes are endless dark brown tunnels of innocence and sweetness. My eyes sting with tears as I look down at her and see her left, pudgy arm in a home-made sling. I ask one of the intimidating nurses why she is here and what her name is. The nurse responds, “Her mudda’ was addicted to drugs. Pulled on da’ liddle’ thing’s arm.  Didn’t give her no name. Da offica’ that found her named her Lisa.” The baby is only two-weeks old.

I cuddle the baby the whole day, not wanting to give away my little treasure. Lisa hiccups lightly; I laugh joyfully at her tiny noise. I sing (not well) to her, and she watches me with those big eyes. If anything has scarred her, it will be my inability to carry a tune. I delicately stroke her entire face with my right index finger. Even though others were nervous, I kissed her little forehead. Her skin was soft and sweet. For one day, little Lisa got a person’s undivided attention, and I got to love on an infant.

Every night, I count my blessings and thank God for the people I met in Jamaica. Their selflessness and inherent friendliness in the face of adversity is commendable. Not once was I homesick in Jamaica. It is my second home; my brothers and sisters live there, and one day I will see them all again.

-Abigail (Abbey) Lawrence J

Entry Number Two, Week Three: Tragic Moment. "Melancholy in Jamaica."

Four tables are set up in a rectangular pattern in the Common Room of the Rock Port United Methodist Church. The table tops are an off-white and dark gray-specked plastic- hard, cold, and ugly- not the message a church normally would want to convey. But budgets are tight, and plastic is cheap; the equation has an economical and practical solution. It is a Sunday afternoon in mid-September. The sun is not shining as brightly, but I do not condemn it, as the sun seems to be in a position of constant speculation and criticism. I am wearing a black cut-off t-shirt, which had already aroused a complaint from my best friend’s mother, Susan. Her chiding is maternal, not meant to be rude. Becky Heits, the leader of the Rock Port United Methodist Youth Group, stands up and begins to talk about our Mission Trip to Jamaica. I’m skeptical about the trip. It involves a week away from family, potential financial benefits (work), fund raising (it is $995.00 per person), time away from friends (I have to leave for college next fall; I want to spend as much time as I can with people I may never see again), and entering into a country that is full of economic and political hardships, seemingly not a positive environment. The sign-up sheet is sent around; with much hesitation, I put my name on the line in big, sloppy calligraphy: Abbey Lawrence.

The trip is dismal and depressing. My heart aches; someone is reaching into my chest and squeezing it with no mercy. I see Jamaican people living in homes not suitable for the lowliest creatures like mice and snakes. One such home is built with a flimsy-dark gray wood. It is a one-room home with dirt floors. There are several holes in the walls; through the holes I can see minimal furniture: two chairs and a little cot. The house no longer has a door; perhaps it never had a door. Around the home (I don’t even really know if I can call it a true home), there is a moat. In the dirty water, there is trash and debris. A crab climbs out of the murky, mysterious water, even the crustacean can’t survive in the filth.

We go to the orphanage one day. I see the one of the most beautiful baby girls I have ever laid eyes on. I pick her up from the pack-and-play; I can’t resist babies. We sit in the rocking chair. She has a milky-chocolate complexion; her skin is smooth, no imperfections. Her head is a mop of curly black hair. A bead of sweat is forming on her hairline; the curls are matting together. Her eyes are endless dark brown tunnels of suffering. My eyes sting with tears as I look down at her and see her left, pudgy arm in a home-made sling. I ask one of the intimidating nurses why she is here and what her name is. The nurse responds, “Her mudda’ was addicted to drugs. Pulled on da’ liddle’ thing’s arm.  Didn’t give her no name. Da offica’ that found her named her Lisa.” The baby is only two-weeks old.

Every night, I cry myself to sleep. Human beings do not deserve to live like the beasts of the land and sea. After the trip, it is hard to live with my guilt; no longer can I whole-heartedly believe in the protection of God.

-Abigail (Abbey) Lawrence J

Entry Number One, Week Three: Introduction. "Me in a Rather Large Nutshell."

Born on December 17^th, 1991, I (Abigail [Abbey] Leighann Lawrence) graced the modest, three-story home of first-time parents, Harold and Leigh Ann Lawrence, with my dazzling and intoxicating presence. As I read the sentence back to myself, I have to chuckle (my mother rolled her eyes and sighed: the sigh of a mother burdened with work and household chores; her job is never-ending); my level of arrogance is truly not at the level I just seemingly portrayed. However, I could not fathom the thought of starting my introduction with, “My name is Abigail (Abbey) Leighann Lawrence…” The sentence just comes across as standard; I’ve used the generic beginning more times than I can count. I strive to be original, especially with my writing; I want to stand out.

No longer do I cover the spot of being an only child. Three siblings have added to the chaos of the Lawrence household. I have one younger sister: Allison “Pidge” Brooke. Allison is a junior in high school; I can’t believe she is that old. It seems like just yesterday I was carrying her around (Nana was supposed to be monitoring me, but I evaded her “careful” eye) the hospital showing her off to absolutely anyone that would pay attention. Pidge is a talented athlete. I have two younger brothers: Alexander (Alex) Harold and little Aaron Ryan. Alex is an eighth-grader. He is hormonal and smells like he is constantly sweating (mom does make him shower twice-a-day and put on deodorant frequently). Aaron is in fourth grade. He is hilarious; we always find him making weapons and other inventions. My mother, Leigh Ann, is a third grade teacher, and my father, Harold Ray, is a pharmacist.

Even though I was born and lived in Fairfax, Missouri, for four years, I consider my hometown to be Rock Port, Missouri. Rock Port is forty-five minutes west of Maryville, Missouri. Our “claim to fame” is being the first community to be completely (100%) powered by wind. There are 24 wind turbines throughout the county; although wind turbines may not seem exciting or attractive, the wind turbines add character to the area. It is absolutely breathtaking to look at the contrast of a bright, white wind turbine against the ever-changing sky. Rock Port has also received an enormous amount of publicity from the flood (the interstate is VERY wet), which has devastated the crops and livelihoods of several farmers.

I am a sophomore at Northwest Missouri State University, and I do not have a major. Introduction to Creative Writing appealed to me because English is a potential choice for a major. Last year I took three English courses: Composition 111, Composition 112, and Introduction to Literature. I loved the classes; writing has been the best “outlet” for me as far as a relaxation (I become anxious easily; I will probably have small “freak-outs” throughout the semester) technique. My goal is to make my blog interesting; I want to make people care about my writing. I also want to use the blog as a learning opportunity.

When I write, I feel like I don’t have to censor myself. I can pretend to be whoever or whatever I want to be; it’s like playing dress-up with my psyche. With this particular class, I hope to maximize and capitalize on my writing potential; however, I also realize that I may have over-estimated my capabilities as a writer. I’m ready to accept critique and try to become a better writer and person.

-Abigail (Abbey) Lawrence J