Crucible Descriptive Writing

The familiar aroma of coffee fills the air as I enter the not so common area. I feel very bewildered in the labyrinth of hallways searching for my classroom just like I had stepped into corn maze as a child. At last, I locate the secluded room tucked away inside the massive building. Even though the number on the door matches the number on my schedule I am still second guessing if I am in the right place. The door opened up as students poured out. Finally, I took my seat at the back, trying my hardest to sit down unnoticed. My hands were shaking as I wrote the class name at the top of my paper. After what seemed like ages the professor proceeded to

With the guidance of Mrs. Smythe, my peers, and my parents, as well as my own determination, I have gained much better control over the English language. However, I also learned something about myself as a person throughout my time in English 9/10. I used to let fear control me in English, which would translate to other parts of my life. Throughout my seventh and eighth grade years of Middle School, I would sit in silence for entire class periods, afraid to begin my essays, afraid to have to accept that it may not be as good as my other school work, afraid of what others would think. However, I learned this year that people like my mother and grandmother were not disappointed in my work but instead would suggest ways by which I could improve my writing. Additionally Mrs. Smythe constantly helped through the feedback she provided. Even when I received my first essay back, one that was clearly not to the best of my ability, she gave balanced feedback between ways to improve my writing while also providing supporting for future assignments. “It is not necessary to convert an entire scene, just the moments that are important. The inclusion of text in the last body paragraph is most appropriate, although there is still a bit too much of it. Good effort...” Even if I forget who said what in Romeo and Juliet, or the name of the main character in The Book of Lost Things,

I poured my soul into my paper, the pencil my medium of communicating ideas and thoughts. I felt as if I just made this one essay right, made it completely flawless, she would believe in me being able to write. I just wanted to show I could and that I deserved a four and that I could- the bell to release class rung through the school. The sound echoed in my ear and stayed with me as I finished my masterpiece with a swipe of my pencil. I was anxious as I handed in the paper, and my teacher stopped

The blinds on the windows are shut, it feels like a prison cell as I sit under the spotlight. The darkness outside makes me feel somber and alone. I stare at the glowing screen and think to myself, “It’s just me and this paper.” In December of my junior year in high school, I was assigned a persuasive essay on Nathaniel Hawthorne’s novel, The Scarlet Letter; it was my first academic essay of the year. My previous experiences with academic writing were both stressful and unfulfilling; when the essay topic was announced, I felt only resentment and anger, I remembered my past tribulations. With my mother’s help, this essay was different; after I submitted it to the teacher, I possessed a new perspective on academic writing. From my experience, I learned that strong writing skills are vital to communication, critical thinking, and life outside of the classroom.

The brown brick building in the back of the school, next to the Orbach Science library, is at first shockingly small in size, the UCR School of Medicine. The golden lettering is easily read from a far distance. The surrounding area is very peaceful and calming where I am able to hear the birds chirp as I walk along the shady pathway. There was not a student in sight. As I entered the brown brick building, it smelled delightfully clean and sanitized. All I could hear was beeping from a machine that I could not identify. As I continued walking, a cool breeze was felt as I passed a classroom that was in session. The interior of the classroom seemed very spacious. The more I continued to explore the building, I discovered the dean’s office, and

I stared at the piece of paper on the table in front of me. I had sat at the same desk, in the same chair for over an hour now, staring at the same piece of paper. My mind had gone blank with a serious case of writer's block. I looked at the clock on the plain, beige colored wall and sighed. An hour had passed and I continued to look at that dusty, old clock on the wall. Seconds turned into minutes, which eventually turned into an hour. My long, wavy brown hair brushed over the paper that decided if I would become a lawyer or not. I had endured almost seven years of school all to stare at this paper for an hour and have nothing. My vision was blurry, but I ignored it and tried to push through my pounding headache so that I could start my LSAT

Sitting in 5th period, I absentmindedly slid my pencil along the left margin. As the graphite swirled into abstract designs, my mind began to wander. Rain landed on the metal roof, lulling me into a false sense of comfort and security. I felt myself drifting out of hall three and into a soft daydream. A yawn crept up my throat and escaped from my mouth as I continued scratching at the narrowing margin. For a split second, I tuned back into the voice of my Spanish teacher, making sure that I hadn't missed anything important while I etched flowers into my notes. Suddenly, my pencil stopped its steady motion across the page. The blurry sections in the corners of my vision disappeared abruptly, and the formerly calming drumming of rain sharpened

“Wyandotte High School,” Mrs. Marilyn said. We were next. My anxiety screaming “you have to get up and do stuff or you’ll fail in life.” I got up from my seat and headed to the stage. My heart was racing loudly that I was afraid that everyone would hear it. My hands dripped with sweat. I kept taking deep breaths to calm myself. I felt the spotlight following my every move.

Over the first and second quarters of Dual Enrollment English at Brooke Point High School, I have grown immensely as a writer. I learned a great deal about how to write a paper, as well as, about myself. In the beginning of this course, I felt as if my assignments were going to overwhelm me; I also felt apathetic about completing them. This led me to create my own personal agenda as to how I would complete my assignments. My plan was to overcome my weaknesses and enhance my strengths within the construction my essays, depth of paragraphs and overall assignments.

I reached the entrance of the school and the surroundings felt different. The hallways were usually crowded, filled with students trying to get to the next class. The hectic hallways were hazardous, with heavyhearted . The receptionist in the office told me where my testing room was. My proctor took me to the third floor of the school and she gave me the test. I went through the reading and math portion in a hour, although I didn’t understand the math. I was told that I was doing the Writing on Monday. When I left the building, my mind and body felt as if someone emptied out my insides, but there was no pain, just emptiness. I wasn’t sad, just

It is the weekend before that English Essay is due. You wake up at 8 a.m., have a simple breakfast, then start to write the essay. You take a few, short breaks in between, and then you head straight back to work. After all of the planning, thinking, writing, rethinking, rewriting, revising, proofreading, grammar checking blah blah blah, BOOM! Your bedtime alarm rings! You don’t believe your ears but look at the clock--- you have worked over 10 hours and is still unfinished! Now at this point I hear a few of you guys sobbing because, seriously, I agree, this is such a tragedy! Back to the story. So you wouldn’t believe how dedicated you are… Seriously, 10 hours, that’s a little… insane, for one essay. Nevertheless, there is a voice inside of

I threw all of my binder and textbook into my backpack. Then, I carefully stuck in my Beats headphones into a small pouch in my backpack and grabbed my cruiser board gently in order to avoid abrading my fingertips onto the sharp, rough griptape. I walked out of the classroom and felt the breeze of fresh air hitting my body as I made my way to the stairs. I walked towards the grass field hearing my footstep change from thump noise to a more distinct crunch as I step onto the grass with my foot. I sat down crisscrossed while hearing birds chirp and the ambient sounds of college students chattering. Then, I grabbed my backpack, unzipped the main zipper, and took out my binder and pencil to write about describing peeling an

I stared at the computer screen at the three different versions of the same essay, feeling unfulfilled, knowing that starting over again would yield the best product. It is immensely difficult to open a blank page and let go of the past. On the other hand, like a fresh coat of paint, I am simply renewing who I am. And so I started my essay again…

Seven fifteen Tuesday the twenty ninth of November I bundled up in my black peacoat and headed up the road from Peabody hall to Ellison Campus center. It was a surprisingly warm evening for late November, sprinkling with a soft breeze. I was on my way to a Salem State Writer’s Series Event. Up Drinkwater Way the lights of the campus glowing in the rain it was a soft peaceful evening, a good atmosphere for a poetry reading. I headed into the campus center, it was busy considering how few people I had seen on my walk over. People were meeting up chatting amicable about the events they were arriving to witness. I headed through the lobby to the stairs and descended down into the basement. Normally the basement of Ellison reminds me a bit to much of an empty hospital hallway in a horror movie. All long windowless corridors and locked doors. But tonight, as it often is on event night, the hallways at the end of stairs was bustling with people. The metro room, the location of the nights events, was already nearly full. Faculty, alumni, students, and guest crowded together on hotel ballroom chairs. People were chatting and laughing and the atmosphere was light like fizzy water, despite the weather outside. With the usual nervous trepidation I feel as a young person going anywhere I’ve never been before alone, I sat in a chair on the end of a row closer to the back, leaving a polite distance of one chair between myself and the girl next to me. Then, as time was creeping just a few

The girl stared blankly at her surroundings. The bare walls, the blue tones, the basic furniture, the potted plants; everything was a feeble attempt to brighten up the ugly room, yet it was still a prison. Her insides screamed with frustration and defeat as she struggled to keep herself calm. Her eyes were ladled with exhaustion and she yearned for sleep, but what was the use? The nightmares would come, and the sea of solicitude would engulf her regardless of day or night.