Reflecting on your previous pieces of writing and trying to improve it makes you become a better writer. Recently, I looked upon one of my pieces of writing from Grade 7. Looking back on it now, there are many places where I could change things, more particuraly my ending. However, it makes me realize how far I have come a writer. When you read this piece, reflect on how would you improve it?
I sat sketching, in the warmth of my bed, one of the hundred lined up in the low lights and small creaking roof. The dim lights providing a ray of hope, comfort, and protection from the cruel outside layer, full of hatred. The crowdedness of this place creating a sense of community, and the creaking roof having an odd familiarity, from the day I was here. From the taunts of the warden to the laughing of my friends, the people were perfect. Even though it may not sound like the ideal house, every inch of it is cherished by me.
“Nia,” exclaimed the headmistress, Ms. Trunchbull, in a sugarcoating tone, “hurry up, will you dear!”
“Coming madam,” I replied with a humble discipline, awaking myself from my concentrated thoughts.
I placed my sketch down, jolted down the stairs, swung down the corridor, and slowed myself enough to walk the last few steps into the pink and ribbon-filled office of the Headmistress.
“Nia, please sit down, honey,” comforted the headmistress, “ would you like some tea?” she offered.
Politely I refused. Mrs.Trunchbull had never asked that before. The matter seemed serious.
“You see, Nia dear, I will get straight to the point. The board has been recently talking about you and your growing age. I am very sorry to say that you are 14 and of age to be sent to society. We all know you have been quite a well-behaved student, but I am afraid, you have to empty the orphanage in just a week,” she informed sympathetically.
“ You to find a job, something other than your artwork, that would give you a wage!” Mrs. Trunchbull warned.
Just as she finished the last sentence, my traumatized self stormed out of the room in agony. I could hear Ms.Trunchbull yelling my name, but even she knew I would not stop. Her words were brisk but they struck hard, pressurizing my innocent brain. They continued to haunt me, even as I regained my senses.
I was helpless, with no talent or skill, on top of my growing clumsiness, hopeless to find a job. The headmistress was right, my artwork would not receive much praise nor wage. No one in the society would even accept me as I am a disgusting orphan for them. In just one week, I would be rendered up homeless, treated with no respect, and living with barely enough to eat.
I could not bear these thoughts, I had to take action. I had to do something for my future. I consoled myself and promised to look for a job, and find a respectful place in society, step by step.
As soon as the sun rose and people awakened, I set off in physical silence, to look in the village for employment. I trudged through the heavy snow, wearing torn snow boots, and the warmest cloak I could find.
After 20 minutes of immense struggle, I finally arrived at the desired location.
From the moment I stepped in the village, I adored the picturesque scenery of the village covered with snow, full of warm, cottage houses, splendid smells of hot chocolate, and lined up wealthy shops. I strolled past each shop, and the new people, deciding about which plaza I should enter first, purposefully avoiding art galleries.
Although as I explored through the village, people glared incessantly at me, gossiping about the stranger with tattered clothes. Just as I supposed, rumors about me accelerated and spread like wildfire through the rigid society, reaching the store owners, before my interview.
“ Look at her clothes. Ew!” they whispered, acting as if I hadn’t heard anything.
“Ugh, get her out of the town,” others murmured.
I could distinctly hear every voice, but I hushed myself so that my first impression would not turn, even worse.
“It’s okay, my dear,” one generous lady comforted.
I appreciated her and approached the most decent shop I found, which was a regular market, decorated in the festive and Christmas theme. I was trembling as I advanced to the counter.
“Sir, Mam, may I provide assistance to you?” I questioned compassionately.
“You, how dare you!” reacted the owners, “Get out of here otherwise I will call the cops!”
“But..” I paused and exited the shop as commanded. I did not want to get in trouble with the cops. I assured myself that it was only one shop and gallantly made my way into the next one to meet the same response.
I went from shop to shop, being rejected before my first introduction, again and again. Each and every shop dismissed me, shooed me away, gave me a loss of self-respect, and reminded me about my background. I stood strong in front of everyone despite the turning of my stomach and the blood-boiling agony within me.
It was almost dawn in the scenic village and I was clueless, without a job or any recognition. I settled at a corner on the streets, anxious for the next day.
Suddenly, a ball tumbled pass me.
“Hey,” a tiny toddler squeaked, “will you pass me my ball?” he cheerfully questioned.
“Sure,” I replied with a warm and sincere smile.
Although just as I was about to pass the ball back, the mother sprinted across.
“No,” she scolded, “Alexander, do not talk to strangers, especially this one!”
She eyed me uttermost hatred with cold eyes, giving me a cautious look and hastily walking away.
I collapsed onto the pavement, having a total meltdown, not being able to tolerate this behavior. Just as regained consciousness, and was about to flee the site, a voice interrupted my thoughts.
“Don’t feel discouraged, my child. You should work hard and learn to follow your dreams,” it encouraged. I glanced all around me to find an elder woman behind me.
“Who are you?” I inquired, puzzled.
She replied with a twinkle in her eyes, “Nia, it does not matter, just promise, you will follow your dreams.”
“Who are you, did I meet you before?” I questioned again, “why do you want me to promise, mam.”
I stood bewildered about this mysterious lady and within a blink of an eye, she disappeared into the thin winter air.
I trotted back to the orphanage, my head hung low, wondering about the mysterious words of the lady, and pondering about the disastrous day. I never realized that these people despised me to this extent. It was my mistake, these people would not accept me into their shops, lives, nor society. I had to make my own career, in my expertise, my artwork. Surprisingly, the old woman was right, though completely stranger, she had offered me the best advice and I would try to follow it, even if it meant putting my future in jeopardy.
I woke up extra early, scavenging all the bits of artwork, I had created. I enclosed these precious in a bundle, and set off, in determination and nervousness for the future.
I laid down a cloth on the hard concrete on the side of the road, and exhibited all my pieces, with care and gentleness. Slowly by slowly, despite the commotion about the stranger, villagers began to notice my artwork in a positive way. I saw their eyes twinkle, in the beauty of my paintings, nevertheless, they never stopped by to compliment my work.
The clock ticked by, it was the third day and I was getting disheartened, these people were stubborn, but so was I. I was going to follow my dreams.
I set up my stall, every day, but no one cared less, to buy an artwork. Although, through my passion, people understood and communicated with me more and more. I realized I was getting accepted into society because of my artwork. That mystical woman was right.
Surprisingly, on the last day of the week, an older woman with an odd familiarity came up and acknowledged my artwork work.
“What fine paintings. Will you please tell me the price?” she inquired, with her eyes twinkling.
“Only five dimes, mam. You are very kind,” I answered.
The stranger considered and paid the amount with some extra money. More customers started coming in and bargaining for the artwork. Soon enough, all my pieces were bought, and all the villagers started conversations with me.
I was elated and could not express my joy. It was the last day and I had earned enough money for a shelter. Soon, I was gladly offered a small and amazing cottage. Before the sunrise of the 8th day, I vacated the orphanage with no regrets but promises to never forget this awesome family.
Another week passed by in seconds, and my career prospered, earning one of the highest pays in town.
In just one week, I was named as an inspiration to all those who struggle to find acceptance in the world. I stand here now, nominated as the Artist of the Year, narrating my story, hoping to encourage people like me, to change the society from its judgments and its stereotype. I hope my story spreads, not for fame, but so that people realize the small little tragedies happening in towns and became more like the mysterious woman. My only desire right now is to change all societies, but that can only happen with the willingness of the people, step by step.
