I wrote about ten titles before this one.

     I'm not the best writer in my grade, my class, or even my circle of friends. I know plenty of people who can pour their thoughts onto a piece of paper and it'd be ready for publishing. I can only produce passable work after at least two complete revisions.
     Before I met Mrs. Cardona, I was proud of my writing. Most of my writing assignments were to convey ideas, so it didn't matter how many jagged edges the words had. I would write what I knew, and the reader could wince at my inappropriate diction (I've always been too formal) or awkward cadences without my sympathy. Now, however, I spend hours to write things that took me thirty minutes in lower communications classes. This is mostly because my methods of writing are too inefficient.
     I haven't yet invented the wheel for my writing. I need to push every new essay out of my head as if it were a cart with square, stone wheels. I push it slowly, making slight, relatively insignificant changes, chipping grains of sand out of the stone blocks. Then, I determine that the wheels are taking too long to make; I start over, in spite of all the work I put into each sentence, making each sound like a major chord. That's another problem with the first draft, the sentences sound nice, but they're too predictable.
     With every new essay, I bash away chunks from the stone wheels, then add odd flairs from objects that belong and usually don't; I adorn my cart with golden lining and shards of bone. Each piece gives and takes attention from the others, the gold looks exceptionally beautiful among the bones, and the bones give the viewer something to contemplate. In the end, I'm still pushing a cart while some have created Cadillacs, but it'll get me where I need to go.