Paragraph One

Note: I originally wrote about getting lost on a hike in Hawaii. The more I attempted to work with it and improve it, the more I was dissatisfied. So, I wrote a new piece about my Red Rock Relay experience this last weekend. I played more with varying short and long sentences, and also tried to develop a stronger beginning. I also found myself implementing more repetition to give the repetitious feeling of running for extended amounts of time, so there are some elements of that throughout. I pinched my eyes closed and inhaled, pure mountain air filling my lungs. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. Pavement crunched as I began to jump in place in a poor attempt to warm my freezing legs. A short distance away, a headlamp bobbed into sight. My teammate had arrived. In a fit of nerves, I began to mentally run through my to-do list of preparations. Shoelaces tight. Reflective vest on. Muscles stretched. Hair tied. Ready to run. My teammate arrived at the runner exchange at a full sprint, passing me the wristband which acted as a baton and yelling encouragements. I burst into a run, weakly reminding myself to keep to my set pace and not burn out too quickly. I settled into a comfortable pace. My body adjusted to the motion of running after being pent up in a car for multiple hours. It was two in the morning, far from my standard mid-afternoon jogging time. Silence abounded. Crickets sang their nocturnal songs. They would be the only soundtrack for the next seven miles. Mile 1. Mile 2. Mile 3. The hills rolled higher and higher but I refused to tire. Never in my life had I run so far at once and I was ready to show myself what I was capable of. My lungs and legs burned as I continued to cover more distance. I ran on. Slowly, the hills leveled and became a weaving flatland through the farms. Figuring I had plenty of time to enjoy the scenery, I took some moments to gaze upwards to the heavens. The endless surrounding farmland acres and mountains had allowed the stars to twinkle on, unadulterated by pollution. Mile 4. Mile 5. Mile 6. I had finally reached the last mile of my exchange, and still I had energy to carry on. I imagined the excitement in my teammates faces as I came into sight to pass the wristband to the next runner. I increased my pace. I glanced at my watch and calculated how quickly I had been moving, realizing it was faster than I had ever run. I increased my pace. I imagined my grass field I would be able to fall into when I had finished. I increased my pace. Soon, the flags came into view. Surging into a sprint, I threw myself towards the finish as fast as my legs could physically carry me. I crossed the finish line and handed off the wristband. Euphoria.

Paragraph Two
Note: In re-reading my piece from last week, I felt as though it had a very consistent pace throughout the whole story. This time, I decided to play with changing the speed in the middle, and then regaining the speed for the finish. To do this, I added more about the speed in the beginning and end, and cut out some of the more wordy passages in the middle. I pinched my eyes closed and inhaled, pure mountain air filling my lungs. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. Pavement crunched as I began to jump in place in a poor attempt to warm my freezing legs. A short distance away, a headlamp bobbed into sight. My teammate had

arrived. In a fit of nerves, I began to mentally run through my to-do list of preparations. Shoelaces tight. Reflective vest on. Muscles stretched. Hair tied. Ready to run. My teammate approached the runner exchange at a full sprint, passing me the wristband, our psuedo-baton, and yelling encouragements. I burst into a run, weakly reminding myself to keep my set pace and not burn out too quickly. My legs pumped furiously, propelling me forward at breakneck speed. Knowing I would not be able to maintain this forever, I settled into a comfortable pace. My body adjusted to the motion of running after being pent up in a car for multiple hours. It was two in the morning, far from my standard mid-afternoon jogging time. Silence abounded. Crickets sang their nocturnal songs. They would be the only soundtrack for the next seven miles. Mile 1. Mile 2. Mile 3. The hills rolled higher and higher but I refused to tire. My lungs and legs burned as I continued to cover more distance. I ran on. Slowly, the hills leveled and became a weaving flatland through the farms. Mile 4. Mile 5. Mile 6. I had reached the last mile of my exchange, and still I had energy to carry on. I imagined the excitement in my teammates faces as I came into sight to pass the wristband to the next runner. I increased my pace. I glanced at my watch and calculated how quickly I had been moving, realizing it was faster than I had ever run. I increased my pace. I imagined the grass field I would be able to fall into when I had finished. I increased my pace. My heart and feet pounded in tandem, reminding me exactly how fast I was running. The flags came into view. Surging into a sprint, I threw myself towards the finish as fast as my legs could physically carry me. I crossed the finish line and handed off the wristband, euphoria filling my soul.

Paragraph Three
Note: I generally struggle to write pieces that are not action-based. I was inspired by some of the pieces in the class that seem to be more about snapshots and moments in time. Because of that, I focused this time on taking a 30-second snippet of my story and telling it in more detail. I had a very time doing this and not extending the story further. I also feel like I lost a lot of the sense of time and pace that I had in my last piece because it is a snapshot, so I tried to convey a sense of anticipation. I pinched my eyes closed and inhaled, pure mountain air filling my lungs. My eyes forced themselves open, and I turned my gaze heavenward to admire the vast stretch of midnight sky. The cheers of strangers around me brought me back down to earth. Glancing down at my watch, I realized I only had a few brief moments to prepare before I would begin my leg of the race. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. Pavement crunched as I began to jump in place in a poor attempt to warm my freezing legs. I had trained for months for this event, but nothing could have prepared me mentally for the apprehension I felt while I waited. Strangers continued to breeze past me, their teammates handing off the baton and shouting encouragements as they began their journey. I was on edge. Hands shaking, I fidgeted with my watch, a wave of anxious nausea passing over me. I could do this. I had to do this. I glanced over to my crew, flashing a smile that undoubtedly appeared to be a grimace.

A short distance away, a familiar headlamp bobbed into sight. My teammate had arrived. In a fit of nerves, I began to mentally run through my final to-do list of preparations. Shoelaces tight. Reflective vest on. Muscles stretched. Hair tied. Ready to run.

Paragraph Four
Note: I was inspired by our class discussion on memoirs to write as if this was a memoir for me. Like last week, I wanted to work on creating a snapshot of a short period of time instead of having the story revolve around action. Lastly, I wanted to implement repetition. I pinch my eyes closed and inhaled, pure mountain air filling my lungs. Images of my youth flash through my mind. Nostalgia overwhelms me. 50 years ago, I had run 16 miles through this exact neighborhood as part of a relay team. 50 years ago, I had physically pushed my limits and succeeded. 50 years ago, I had run to my hearts content. When I had excitedly told my grandma of the experience, she slowly shook her head, sadness pouring from her eyes. Enjoy this while you can, sweetie. One day it will only be a memory. I had laughed at the time, shrugging off her words, my 21-year-old ignorance hindering my ability to acknowledge that truth. But now, my aching feet and arthritic knees tease me, a constant reminder of my age. Mentally, I am an athlete. I yearn to train, compete, win. Physically, I am but a weak old woman. I watch my grandchildren scurry about like field mice, dodging in and out of the web of adults. Their energy is contagious. Their legs and arms pump as they run with unrestrained energy. The older ones chatter on to me about the pressing issues in their lives: dances, the soccer team, boys. I smile and respond, teasing back with silly questions. They look to me for help, to answer questions about dress colors and the best way to get the cute boy to smile back. But the only advice I can think to give is Enjoy this while you can, sweetie. One day it will only be a memory.

Paragraph Five
Note: In some memoir examples I was reading, I noticed that the authors added more overarching ideas to their sample stories. The moment and the story are not the focus, but the thoughts and meditations on the past are. I wanted to create a stronger sense of a more broad perspective. Living in the moment, reflecting on the past, and comparing the old and new. I pinch my eyes closed and inhale, pure mountain air filling my lungs. Images of my youth flash through my mind. Age-old nostalgia overwhelms me. It seems thats all I feel these days. I guess at a certain point in time, the past becomes more lucrative than the future. My past defines me, encourages me. 50 years ago, I had run 16 miles through this exact neighborhood as part of a relay team. 50 years ago, I had physically pushed my limits and succeeded. 50 years ago, I had run to my hearts content. When I had excitedly told my grandma of the experience, she slowly shook her head, sadness pouring from her eyes. Enjoy this while you can, sweetie. One day it will only be a memory. I had laughed at the time, shrugging off her words, my 21year-old ignorance hindering my ability to acknowledge that truth. Memories? Ha! Why would I need those if I could continue to create more experiences for myself? But now, my aching feet and arthritic knees tease me, a constant reminder of my age. I am feuled by my memories.

Mentally, I am an athlete. I yearn to train, compete, win. Physically, I am but a weak, old woman. When did I become this way? When did my body begin to fight against me? I watch my grandchildren scurry about like field mice, dodging in and out of the web of adults. Their energy is contagious. Their legs and arms pump wildly as they run with unrestrained energy. The older ones chatter on to me about the pressing issues in their lives: dances, the soccer team, boys. I smile and response, teasing them with silly questions. They look to me for help, to answer questions about dress colors and the best way to get a cute boy to smile back. But the only advice I can think to give is Enjoy this while you can, sweetie. One day it will only be a memory.

Paragraph Six
Note: I wasnt completely satisfied with my paragraph last week. This week I focused on formatting and fine tuning the paragraph based on your suggestions and some of my own ideas. I broke my two large paragraphs into lots of little paragraphs, to give it a stronger sense of stream of consciousness. I pinch my eyes closed and inhale, pure mountain air filling my lungs. Images of my youth flash through my mind. I pretend I am 21 again and allow age-old nostalgia to overwhelm me. It seems thats all I feel these days. I guess at a certain point in time, the past becomes more lucrative than the future. My past defines me, encourages me. 50 years ago, I had run 16 miles through this exact neighborhood as part of a relay team. 50 years ago, I had physically pushed my limits and succeeded. 50 years ago, I had gone and gone and gone. When I had excitedly told my grandma of the experience, she had congratulated me, but something felt amiss. I pressed her for her ideas. She slowly shook her head, sadness pouring from her eyes. Enjoy this while you can, sweetie. One day it will only be a memory. I had laughed at the time, shrugging off her words, my 21-year-old ignorance hindering my ability to acknowledge that truth. Memories? Ha! Why would I need those if I could continue to create more experiences for myself? She obviously did not know what she was talking about. But now, my aching feet and arthritic knees tease me, a constant reminder of my age. I am fueled by my memories. Mentally, I am an athlete. I yearn to train, compete, win. Physically, I am but a weak old woman. When did I become this way? When did my body begin to fight against me? I watch my grandchildren scurry about like field mice, dodging in and out of the web of adults. Their energy is contagious. Their legs and arms pump wildly as they run with unrestrained energy. The older ones chatter on to me about the pressing issues in their lives: dances, the soccer team, boys. I smile and respond, teasing back with silly questions. They look to me for help, to answer questions about dress colors and the best way to get a cute boy to smile back. But the only advice I can think to give is

Enjoy this while you can, sweetie. One day it will only be a memory. But they dont understand. They wont for another 50 years or so.

Paragraph Seven
Note: After reading more about memoirs, I realized that something I needed to fix was not being too idyllic in the description of myself. This work I focused on being more realistic and not portraying myself as a perfect athlete. I pinched my eyes closed and inhaled, pure mountain air filling my lungs. They were still burning from the altitude climb on the last leg of my run; I worried I would not be able to breathe normally on this. My eyes forced themselves open, and I turned my gazed heavenward to admire the vast stretch of midnight sky. The cheers of strangers around me brought me back down to earth. Gazing down at my watch, I realized I only had a few brief moments to prepare before I would begin my leg of the race. My stomach lurched at the thought of running again. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. Pavement crunched as I began to jump in place in a poor attempt to warm my freezing legs. The strain from the race caused my legs to tighten and ache in places I didnt know they could. I had trained for months for this event (halfheartedly at times), but nothing could have prepared me mentally for the apprehension I felt while I waited. Strangers continued to breeze past me, their teammates handing off the baton and shouting encouragements as they began their journey. How did they look so composed? Why were they so excited to run and run and run and run? Maybe I was not cut out for this sort of thing. I was on edge. Hands shaking, I fidgeted with my watch, a wave of anxious nausea passing over me. I could do this. I had to do this. I glanced over to my crew, flashing a smile that undoubtedly appeared to be a grimace. A short distance away, a familiar headlamp bobbed into sight. My teammate had arrived. In a fit of nerves, I began to mentally run through my final to-do list of preparations. Shoelaces tight. Reflective vest on. Muscles stretched. Hair tied. Ready to run.

Paragraph Eight
Note: This time around, I wanted to find a stronger balance of polysyndeton and asyndeton. In order to keep a sense of pace, I felt that the actual run should be more constant and not have multiple breaks so a large amount of conjunctions belong there. In the parts before and after the run, I wanted to employ asyndeton to show the choppy and disjointed thoughts caused my nerves and adrenaline. I pinched my eyes closed, inhaling. Pure mountain air filling my lungs. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. Pavement crunched as I began to jump in place in a poor attempt to warm my freezing legs. A short distance away, a headlamp bobbed into sight. My teammate had arrived. In a fit of nerves, I began to mentally run through my to-do list of preparations. Shoelaces tight, reflective vest on, muscles stretched, hair tied, ready to run.

My teammate arrived at the runner exchange at a full sprint, passing me the wristband which acted as a baton and yelling encouragements. I burst into a run, weakly reminding myself to keep to my set pace and not burn out too quickly. My legs pumped furiously and propelled me forward at what felt like breakneck speed. I knew I would not be able to maintain my speed so I settled into a comfortable pace. My body adjusted to the motion of running and running and running after being pent up in a car for multiple hours. It was two in the morning, far from my standard mid-afternoon jogging time. Silence abounded but for crickets singing their nocturnal songs and the crunch of gravel and the tall grass whispering in the wind; They would be my only soundtrack for the next seven miles. Mile 1 and Mile 2 and Mile 3. The hills rolled higher and higher but I refused to tire. My lungs and legs burned as I continued to cover more distance yet I ran on. Slowly, the hills leveled and became a weaving flatland through the farms. Mile 4 and Mile 5 and Mile 6. I had finally reached the last mile of my exchange, and still I had energy to carry on. I imagined the excitement in my teammates faces as I came into sight to pass the wristband to the next runner and I increased my pace. I glanced at my watch and calculated how quickly I had been moving, realizing it was faster than I had ever run, and I increased my pace. I imagined my grass field I would be able to fall into when I had finished and I increased my pace. My heart and feet pounded in tandem, reminding me exactly how fast I was running. The flags came into view so I surged into a sprint and threw myself towards the finish as fast as my legs could physically carry me. I crossed the finish line and handed off the wristband. Euphoria.

Paragraph Nine
Note: I read a piece that was circular, meaning it started with the end of the story, traced back to the middle, and then ended with the same paragraph it started with. I really liked it and wanted to mirror that style to break out of the standard chronological frame. Legs and lungs burning, I threw myself towards the flags as fast as my legs could physically carry me. I crossed the chalk lines and the world around me spun like a merry go round, causing me to stumble across the crowded street to a patch of grass. Friends called my name in the distance, but they echoed through my head. I couldnt comprehend their yells. I was fading quickly. My body began to shut down. Sweat streamed down my face and back and chest but I could not cool down. 6 miles didnt sound so bad when I began the run. Somehow I thought that my 3 and 4 mile training runs had prepared me. If it wasnt for my teammates waiting in the car and watching me run, I never would have completed it. I would have listen to the cries of my body after mile 5 and come to a screeching halt. But with them there, I couldnt. I just couldnt. I had started strong. Mile 1. Mile 2. Mile 3. The hills had rolled higher and higher but I refused to wear down. I dutifully pressed on, working hard to keep a set pace and not burn out. My muscles settled into a rhythm of contracting and releasing. I was a machine. But the hills kept coming. They taunted me, convincing me that the finish line would be just over the next hilltop. But the end would not come. My heart thudded so loud I was sure the stars could hear my struggles. A reflective sign in the distance flashed in the moonlight and adrenaline coursed through my veins: I had one mile left!

I imagined the excitement in my teammates faces as I came into sight to pass the wristband to the next runner. I increased my pace. I glanced at my watch and calculated how quickly I had been moving, realizing it was faster than I had ever run. I increased my pace. I imagined the patch of grass I would be able to fall into when I had finished. I increased my pace. My heart and feet pounded in tandem, reminding me exactly how fast I was running. The flags came into view. I threw myself towards the flags as fast as my legs could physically carry me. I crossed the chalk lines and the world around me spun like a merry go round, causing me to stumble across the crowded street to a patch of grass. Friends called my name in the distance, but they echoed through my head. I couldnt comprehend their yells. I was fading quickly.

Paragraph 10
The following is an imitation of a piece by Rachel Carson. The first paragraph is the original, the second paragraph is my imitation. Having always loved the lichens because they have a quality of fairyland-silver rings on stone, odd little forms like bones or horns or the shell of a sea creature-I was glad to find Roger noticing and responding to the magic change in their appearance wrought by the rain. The woods path was carpeted with the so-called reindeer moss, in reality a lichen. Like an old-fashioned hall runner, it made a narrow strip of silvery gray through the green of the woods, here and there spreading out to cover a larger area. In dry weather the lichen carpet seems thin: it is brittle and crumbles underfoot. Now, saturated with rain which it absorbs like a sponge, it was deep and springy. Roger delighted in its texture, getting down on chubby knees to feel it, and jumping up and down in the deep, resilient carpet with squeals of pleasure. Having always loved running because it has the quality of death-silver sweat on my face, odd little pains in the joints and muscles and bones of my body-I was glad to find Roger noticing and responding to the magic change in my soul wrought by the exercise. The woods path was carpeted with the so-called path, in reality gravel. Like a dirt road, it made a narrow strip of rocks and rubble through the green of the woods, here and there thinning out to barely create a path at all. In dry weather the trail seems pleasant: it is loud and crunches underfood. Now, saturated with rain which runs around it like a river, it was wet and slippery. Roger delighted in its texture, getting down on chubby knees to touch them, and jumping up and down in the deep, muddy puddles with squeals of pleasure.

Paragraph 11
The following is an imitation of a piece by Joan Didion. The first paragraph is the original, the second paragraph is my imitation. When the twilights got long in June I forced myself to eat dinner in the living room, where the light was. After John died I had begun eating by myself in the kitchen (the dining room was too big and the table in the living room was where he had died), but when the long twilights came I had a strong sense that he would want me to see the light. As the twilights began

to shorten I retreated again to the kitchen. I began spending more evenings alone at home. I was working, I would say. By the time August came I was in fact working, or trying to work, but i also wanted not to be out, exposed. One night I found myself taking from the cupboard not one of the plates I normally used but a crackled and worn Spode plate, from a set mostly broken or chipped, in a pattern no longer made, Wickerdale. This had been a set of dishes, cream with a garland of small rose and blue flowers and ecru leaves, that Johns mother had given him for the apartment he rented on East Sevety-third Street before we were married. Johns mother was dead. John was dead. And I still had, of the Wickerdale Spode, four dinner plates, five salad plates, three butter plates, a single coffee cup, and nine saucers. I came to prefer these dishes to all others. By the end of the summer I was running the dishwasher a quarter full just to make sure that at least one of the four Wickerdale dinner plates would be clean when I needed it. When the twilights got long in June I forced myself to run in the evening, when the light was still about. After Rob died I had begun running by myself in the neighborhood (the track was too boring and the neighborhoods reminded me of him before he died), but when the long twilights came I had a strong sense that he would want me to run in the light. As the twilights began to shorten I lazed again to stop running. By the time August came I was in fact running, or trying to run, but I also wanted not to be out, exhausted. One night I found myself taking from the closet not the watch I normally used but an old stopwatch, from an athletic set mostly lost or destroyed, in a model no longer made, Champion. This had been a stopwatch, black and sleek and sturdy, that Robs mother had given him for his first coaching job before we were married. Robs mother was dead. Rob was dead. And I still had, of the athletic gift set, one stopwatch, five orange cones, three small weights, and two jump ropes. I came to prefer these tools to all others. By the end of the summer I was exercising multiple times a day just to make sure that at least one of my workouts would use these gifts.

Paragraph 12
The following is an imitation of an excerpt from The Hunger Games. The first paragraph is the original, the second paragraph is my imitation. ! Sixty seconds. That's how long we're required to stand on our metal circles before the sound of a gong releases us. Step off before the minute is up, and land mines blow your legs off. Sixty seconds to take in the ring of tributes all equidistant from the Cornucopia, a giant golden horn shaped like a cone with a curved tail, the mouth of which is at least twenty feet high, spilling over with the things that will give us life here in the arena. Food, containers of water, weapons, medicine, garments, re starters. Strewn around the Cornucopia are other supplies, their value decreasing the farther they are from the horn. For instance, only a few steps from my feet lies a three-foot square of plastic. Certainly it could be of some use in a downpour. But there in the mouth, I can see a tent pack that would protect from almost any sort of weather. If I had the guts to go in and ght for it against the other twenty-three tributes. Which I have been instructed not to do. ! 48 minutes. Thats how long Im required to run my section before the sight of the ags release me. Stop running before the time is up, and your teammates hate you forever. 48 minutes

to take in the rolling hills of St. George, the little houses scattered in the elds, surrounded by cows and trees and land. Water, gatorade, bandaid wrappers, bananas peels, trail mix, broken headphones. Strewn on the trail are other supplies, their value decreasing as they are trampled by more and more feed. For instance, only a few steps from my feet lies a little iPod. Certainly it could be of some use in a race. But there on the ground, I can see a crack in the screen that is unxable. If I had the energy I could go in and try to x it and make it mine and ght for it against the other runner. My body instructs me not to.

Paragraph 13
The following is an imitation of an excerpt by Charles Dickens. The first paragraph is the original, the second paragraph is my imitation. ! The scene was a plain, bare, monotonous vault of a schoolroom, and the speakers square forenger emphasized his observations by underscoring every sentence with a line on the schoolmasters sleeve. The emphasis was helped by the speakers square wall of a forehead, which had his eyebrows for its base, while his eyes found commodious cellerage in two dark caves, overshadowed by the wall. The emphasis was helped by the speakers mouth, which was wide, thin, and hard set. The emphasis was helped by the speakers voice, which was inexible, dry, and dictatorial. The emphasis was helped by the speakers hair, which bristled on the skirts of his bald head, a plantation of rs to keep the wind from its shining surface, covered with knobs, like the crust of a plum pie, as if the head had scarcely warehouse-room for the hard facts stored inside. The speakers obstinate carriage, square coat, square legs, square shoulders nay, his very neckcloth, trained to take him by the throat with an unaccommodating grasp, like a stubborn fact, as it was all helped with the emphasis. ! The scene was a plain, bare, stretch of road along the highway, and the speakers slight shoulders emphasized her observations by casting a dark shadow on the road. The emphasis was helped by the speakers slight frame, which had her small ankles for a base, while her legs from their home in narrow hips, overshadowed by layers of muscle. The emphasis was helped by the speakers arms, which were thin, wiry, and fragile. The emphasis was helped by the speakers lungs, which were strong, healthy, and burning. The emphasis was helped by the speakers face, which ushed with the pulse of her heart, a at land of dripping sweat, covered in dust a grime of days of running, like a weathered piece of leather, as if the skin had scarcely recovered from a lifetime in the sun. The speakers obstinate step, slight gait, slight run, slight limp, slight pain nay, her very shirt, trained to propel her forward with brightness, like a ray of light, as it was - all helped with the emphasis.