Zhaoran Chen

Reflection

Through the past year, I have changed my writing style a lot, improving and adding changes to what I thought was perfect, until I looked at it again and realized the mistakes I made. With much help from teachers, friends and my parents, I finally decided to publish this piece of writing that I chose from my Slices of Life. I chose this piece because it talks about an ordinary event that many people experience. This piece in particular demonstrated a lot of description, which in my point of view, was a great addition and showed the readers what was happening. I made several changes throughout this piece, namely, descriptions, similes and the general story plot. These changes made my piece better, and more interesting. Without further ado, my piece:

Extreme Boredom, Ponderings, and a Traitor

As I waited, I glanced down at my watch, beaming back at me like always. Tick- Tock. Eight -o-five. Eight-o-six. Eight-o-seven. It was late. I sighed. Every Thursday morning, I took the slow, custard yellow, germy, loud bus to school. It was always late. Soon I could hear the rumbling of the school bus bumping along the road. As it stopped, the engine whistled sleepily and then sighed, allowing us to step up the dirty stairs and find a seat. I trudged along the aisle, plopping down on a nearby seat and sighed again. As the bus started up, with a wheeze and a rumble, I stared outside the window, slumping deep into my coat due to the cold weather. The bus jostled down the road, as conversation began again. I looked at the outside scenery and shivered, watching the road slowly inch by, accompanied by a dull sky with storm clouds and a colorless void of grey trees and grass. Like Dorothy in Kansas, I thought, snorting. At least Dorothy had Toto. I would be alone until the next stop. I suddenly banged my head against the front of the bench in front of me and then jerked back. Here we go, the friend I have been waiting to talk to in order to pass the time- was not here. Perplexed, I leant back and watched the bus leave the stop behind. She said she was going to be here. Traitor. Brilliant, on the only day I have no book or phone, my friend decides to leave me stranded in this miserable jail cell, alone, cold, and bored, while she swiftly rides off in her car with her parents. Thanks alot, friend. This day was cursed. I watched houses, deer, trees pass by, a couple walking their dog, a chipmunk scampering along a fence, it’s sharp claws digging deep into the soggy wood. Lone birds flapped their wings against the prosaic sky. We rode along, with me cracking my knuckles and rolling my head slowly, trying to find something to do. I shuffled my feet tediously, putting my head in my hands as I counted seconds in my head. I checked my watch again. Only five minutes had passed. I tried thinking about philosophy and other things, like architecture, to keep me confused and continuously working my brain until we got to school, but all it did was to make me even more bored. Nothing could help me now. I am in an eternal tunnel of gloom. As I then pondered the meaning of dreams, memories, and nothingness, questions I had been curious about since I was 7, I furrowed my brow.

What, really, was nothing? What did it physically look like? “Nothing looks like nothing” was not really an acceptable answer. What would you do as an artist, to capture the true meaning of nothing? It simply cannot be black, nor white, as they are both colours. You cannot just not do anything, because what your artwork is on, is something. Perhaps if you vacuumed air out of an empty box, it could be nothing, though the box was something. It could be clear, though when one says that something is clear, they usually mean it is transparent so you can therefore see something on the other side, therefore making it something, not nothing. Empty space is nothing if it has air inside it. How, truly, could nothing be perceived as?

I soon became aware of a now pounding headache, something I could never get rid of when I was on a moving contraption. Ten more minutes of this and this bus will make me throw up. I rubbed my aching temples, and glanced back at my watch. Eight minutes had passed. Wow. I still had more than ten minutes to go, a headache, and virtually nothing to do at all. Looking back outside at the darkening clouds, I groaned lightly as I listened to people talking.

Two minutes passed. I grew weary of hearing about clothes and shopping and celebrities and toilets, so I sat, deep in thought, wondering how I would be able to fix my headache and manage not to puke in front of everyone. I succeeded and then, as I was on the verge of jumping up and wailing like a banshee in a mixer with a cat, we stopped. The bus shuddered, rocked, and then sighed. Seeing the hordes of people outside, I stood up, pulled on my backpack and adjusted my jacket. I stepped off the bus into the early morning air.

About the Author

My name is Zhaoran Chen, a “normal” seventh grader ( because everyone is different) attending Dewitt Middle School, and in Mr. Scott’s third period English class. I believe that compared to last year, my writing skills have improved. While last year I was using simple everyday language and lame repetition which was really cheesy, this year I am using figurative language which is…. somewhat better than before, or at least, I think so. My improvement is solely because of my teachers and reading a wide variety of books, looking at the technique they use and different plot twists. I cringed over cliche moments and yelled at annoying soppy phrases and trying not to use them, revised my pieces. Later on, I started to browse through actual good books, like 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, a lot of Sherlock Holmes and Homer’s The Odyssey, trying to find techniques that worked for me and learning from the books. As the author for this piece, I would like to thank all previous dead and currently alive authors that have or had brilliant minds, their work still existing today, like Charles Dickens and Jane Austen, Donna Tartt, J.K.Rowling and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and acknowledge those who helped me, Mr. Scott, Ms. Sherman and my parents, and friends who have stuck with me and revised and suggested suggestions. Thank you all for helping me improve.