Excerpts from Narrative Writing
For the rest of the night, I built upon that idea, spending hours typing away, deleting half of what I had written, and repeating the process until a feeling of satisfaction replaced the uncertainty. “You know,” I murmured, “I haven’t felt this proud of myself in a while. The lack of diffidence is a pleasant feeling.” My brain, normally completely muddled, allowed itself to fall to a lull and accept the serenade of contentment. The coffee at my desk lay dormant, untouched and forgotten as I permitted myself to rest.
On the car ride to my new home, my black converse swayed, my dark curly hair hugged my face in the breeze and this time, there was nothing my sister could do to annoy me. I couldn’t believe I would live in a place where screaming wasn’t my alarm clock and fighting wasn’t routine. I heard the sound of my mother’s long nude nails digging into the steering wheel, then she gradually relaxed. Come to think of it, I never really saw my mother in any nail color that wasn’t nude. That’s just not her. She exhaled. Perhaps she felt relieved of my father’s insecurities, relieved of constant worry, and relieved of self imprisonment. My sister put her headphones. Listening to "Nights" by Frank Ocean, she rocked her tamed curls side to side and crooned the lyrics “new beginnings.”