The Plot Sickens: Free-Write & Reflection

               It was Christmas Eve. Fog stuck to the tarmac at Lindbergh field. Tonight was the night I would arrive back home to my family after living in Florida for 3 years. Three years, I hadn't seen my parents. Three years, I celebrated holidays with my friends, which was completely different. Sitting in front of a shoddy, fake Christmas palm tree and watching re-runs of Big Bang Theory was nothing compared to sitting in front of a beautiful pine tree with the strong smell of pine leaves permeating the air and watching classic Christmas movies. Even on Thanksgiving, we’d just order out. Once again, nothing like home. Nothing like the smell of all the different types of food, all just waiting to be eaten, my entire family all talking over each other and our excitement for Auntie Rosie's pistachio and butterscotch cakes.  I smiled at the thought of my father constantly turning around to check and see what was hitting the back of his feet and it would always be the pom-pom of the five-foot long Santa hat he wore every year.

                I got off the plane, smelling the familiar air again for the first time in three years. I gripped my carry-on bag tightly as I walked into the airport.  The lights burned for a quick minute until my eyes got used to it while I walked to the luggage pick-up. As I waited for my bag to come around, I turned and started looking for anyone from my family here to pick me up. My eyes scoured over all the people. All these people reuniting, after a long time away or even a short vacation, it seemed like everyone was smiling. Everybody except me while I looked harder until I saw a familiar, loving smile. My father. He sped up his walking speed over to me. My smile grew bigger as he got closer and his arms flew open.

“Wake up!” the words that came out of his mouth didn't match his lips. Neither did the voice. This was a girl’s voice. My brows furrowed and he disappeared into blackness. Everything disappeared.

                Finally, my eyes opened. It was all a dream.

“Gianna, wake up, you’re gonna miss your flight!” My roommate called out from the doorway. I sighed as I realized my dream would soon become reality. Home, sweet home. 

Q: How does your free-write product either substantiate or deviate from the author’s claim regarding the tendencies and flaws of young writers? 

I believe my free-write deviates from Fanny Howe’s claim regarding the tendencies and flaws of young writers. I think this  because Fanny believes writers these days use too much violence and don’t back it up with why or how it happens, as she said in the article, “It’s not the violence per se; it’s the fact that violence enters the story without benefit of plot. My product deviates from that because it doesn’t involve any violence, just pure nostalgia and family reunions. Even when I do use violence in my stories, I’ll make sure they make sense and everything fits right.