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 Brian’s home is severely outdated (dark paint colors, old carpet, wood-paneling, knick-knacks, flowered furniture, etc.), yet it is not dirty or uninhabitable; the essentials are provided.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

English 210 - Introduction to Creative Writing

This is a test post! :)