songbird91 /
Oct 17, 2009 #1
OK. So this is my topic of choice essay. I need a transition later in the paper but I would also like suggestions for a better into please!
Eighteen years ago, when initially assigning bedrooms in our new house my parents thought they did me a favor by giving me the biggest children's room. However, unbeknownst to any of us at the time, my room is the only room in the house that directly faces the rising sun. So on weekend mornings, while most teenagers are comatose, I am awake by seven. Saturdays, my parents are awake long before that, and I often hear the crinkling of the newspaper as the smell of fresh brewed coffee tugs at my sleep. But, when Sunday rolls around, nothing can wake them up, not even the mouthwatering smell of cinnamon buns (to which I would awake in a heartbeat). When the sunlight filters through my curtains, I quietly slip out of bed. Listening at my parent's door, the rhythmic snoring of my dad complements the steady breathing of my mom. I tiptoe down the stairs, carefully skipping the creaky third-from-last step. Facing the towering bookshelves in my living room, I reach up to the one just above my head. My fingertips are searching for the well-worn leather of my journal, which sits comfortably nestled between my equally well-worn collection of Harry Potter books and my unused copy of Algebra for Dummies. Being the youngest of three with two loud but loveable brothers, my words were often lost in the chaotic conversations. Yet, when my perceptive fifth-grade English teacher Mrs. Blust gave me a journal to write in, I found my voice using the written word. I used to write faithfully every day, chronicling the turbulent journey through middle school in a glittery, fairy-covered pink notebook that still sits in my closet. But as I grew older, my precious journal time became occupied by homework, club meetings, and the activity that often eludes a high-school student, sleep.
(I NEED A TRANSITION HERE)
I look forward to lazing about in my pajamas with a cup of tea and my thoughts for company. Despite my compulsion to re-write messy notes and organizes CDs alphabetically, I always write in pen, unafraid of the permanence of it. Collapsing into the welcoming chair of my study, I open my journal and a new, creamy page beckons. Sometimes I write for twenty minutes, other times an hour. Often I ramble, writing thoughts as fast as they come into my head. But it is not just the motion of pen to paper that gives me momentum. For once, there is no set prompt to write about, no authority figure demanding contextual evidence or scrutinizing my fragments. On Sundays such as this, I am doing exactly what I want to be doing.
Soon my parents will be up, expecting me to have gotten the paper. The ever-popular Beatles will be singing and banana pancakes will fly off the griddle as my family falls into the familiar routine of Sunday. But for now, I am alone with a journal of blank pages and the thoughts in my head.
Eighteen years ago, when initially assigning bedrooms in our new house my parents thought they did me a favor by giving me the biggest children's room. However, unbeknownst to any of us at the time, my room is the only room in the house that directly faces the rising sun. So on weekend mornings, while most teenagers are comatose, I am awake by seven. Saturdays, my parents are awake long before that, and I often hear the crinkling of the newspaper as the smell of fresh brewed coffee tugs at my sleep. But, when Sunday rolls around, nothing can wake them up, not even the mouthwatering smell of cinnamon buns (to which I would awake in a heartbeat). When the sunlight filters through my curtains, I quietly slip out of bed. Listening at my parent's door, the rhythmic snoring of my dad complements the steady breathing of my mom. I tiptoe down the stairs, carefully skipping the creaky third-from-last step. Facing the towering bookshelves in my living room, I reach up to the one just above my head. My fingertips are searching for the well-worn leather of my journal, which sits comfortably nestled between my equally well-worn collection of Harry Potter books and my unused copy of Algebra for Dummies. Being the youngest of three with two loud but loveable brothers, my words were often lost in the chaotic conversations. Yet, when my perceptive fifth-grade English teacher Mrs. Blust gave me a journal to write in, I found my voice using the written word. I used to write faithfully every day, chronicling the turbulent journey through middle school in a glittery, fairy-covered pink notebook that still sits in my closet. But as I grew older, my precious journal time became occupied by homework, club meetings, and the activity that often eludes a high-school student, sleep.
(I NEED A TRANSITION HERE)
I look forward to lazing about in my pajamas with a cup of tea and my thoughts for company. Despite my compulsion to re-write messy notes and organizes CDs alphabetically, I always write in pen, unafraid of the permanence of it. Collapsing into the welcoming chair of my study, I open my journal and a new, creamy page beckons. Sometimes I write for twenty minutes, other times an hour. Often I ramble, writing thoughts as fast as they come into my head. But it is not just the motion of pen to paper that gives me momentum. For once, there is no set prompt to write about, no authority figure demanding contextual evidence or scrutinizing my fragments. On Sundays such as this, I am doing exactly what I want to be doing.
Soon my parents will be up, expecting me to have gotten the paper. The ever-popular Beatles will be singing and banana pancakes will fly off the griddle as my family falls into the familiar routine of Sunday. But for now, I am alone with a journal of blank pages and the thoughts in my head.