Ok, so I went to Club Grub today and I was being the "background lady" and trying to soak up as much as possible, and I realized at the end that I was totally misinterpreted by the club people, and now I'm a member, I guess.
So, I'm probably ruining my story. Ugh. I'll have to talk about it.
In funny news, Club Grub was going over healthy versus non-healthy foods and as they were shouting out things like "oranges!" and "kiwi" I heard the following:
Kid: "I'm going to go to McDonalds or Burger King after this."
Some habits you just can't break.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
My housemate keeps playing "Walking on broken glass"
I was just reading through some comments and I think Aaron does bring up a good point about what is more appealing in a story, "cute vs. tragic."
Like the old-timer I am, It reminds me of a story. One day I picked up my local newspaper to see a picture of kids playing in sprinklers on the front page.
"Really?" I asked, reading the equally flowery caption. "All that's going on and they put a picture some kids playing around in sprinklers above the fold?" I was being critical, edgy, like an angry Bruce Wayne peering down at the sinful Hillsdale County with all the rogue farmers and shifty Amish clomping around with their devil horses looking for trouble.
"Why not?" my dad asked, jolting me out of my self-involved fantasy. "What's wrong with focusing on something good and happy for a change? We're always seeing news about wars and death tolls."
I felt stupid, thought about getting defensive, but in the end let my silence speak for me. "Yeah, you're absolutely right," it echoed. The kids' bright swimsuits and expressive faces were making people smile and remember the simplicity of summer afternoons, why the hell was I complaining?
Not to get defensive now, but I guess because in my desire to write fiction, I learned that there has to be some conflict, some sort of deeper meaning that makes something worthy of reading. Or I thought I learned that. I wrote a story as a spacey teenager about the future me getting a job as a disc jockey in Florida and meeting amazing people and having this angsty sexual tension with my male housemate who I thought I hated for the first few months (there was a communication meltdown somewhere that led to us rooming together). But I never ended the story. I had tons of them. These happy what-if stories going on forever and ever. I guess when I write and read stories I like gritty real-life situations. They don't make me happy, but I like reading what I perceive as something closer to reality that sets it apart from the rainbow stories of my youth. Who knows.
I did love the Memory story, though, and I think that was mostly positive. It was turning this rest home life into something beautiful. They've lost so many people whom they loved, but have found avenues and new relationships that keep them going and give meaning to their lives. The story never overtly asks the question "Why am I still here?" but it was present throughout the piece. They live in a world mixed with past and present, the memories of their lost loved ones are as much present as characters as those still in the home. Rest homes are so fascinating. Also, on page 376, I laughed out loud several times at the line "The tiny Fleur, the woman who was always wanting to call her mother on the phone, asked the room in general, 'We havin' a party or somethin'?'" That's both cute and tragic, we've come full circle. I think Keely Houghton would think that was funny, too.
Telling True Stories
I'm really starting to appreciate the zoom in metaphor, because the more I think about it, the more the narrative story about the underground music scene I wrote last fall seems a little like a summary. I'm not sure, I'd have to read it over again.
I brought up the summary vs. dramatic narrative in one of my other English classes when talking about Mrs. Dalloway. I think that utilizes some dramatic narrative. I can dig it.
Like the old-timer I am, It reminds me of a story. One day I picked up my local newspaper to see a picture of kids playing in sprinklers on the front page.
"Really?" I asked, reading the equally flowery caption. "All that's going on and they put a picture some kids playing around in sprinklers above the fold?" I was being critical, edgy, like an angry Bruce Wayne peering down at the sinful Hillsdale County with all the rogue farmers and shifty Amish clomping around with their devil horses looking for trouble.
"Why not?" my dad asked, jolting me out of my self-involved fantasy. "What's wrong with focusing on something good and happy for a change? We're always seeing news about wars and death tolls."
I felt stupid, thought about getting defensive, but in the end let my silence speak for me. "Yeah, you're absolutely right," it echoed. The kids' bright swimsuits and expressive faces were making people smile and remember the simplicity of summer afternoons, why the hell was I complaining?
Not to get defensive now, but I guess because in my desire to write fiction, I learned that there has to be some conflict, some sort of deeper meaning that makes something worthy of reading. Or I thought I learned that. I wrote a story as a spacey teenager about the future me getting a job as a disc jockey in Florida and meeting amazing people and having this angsty sexual tension with my male housemate who I thought I hated for the first few months (there was a communication meltdown somewhere that led to us rooming together). But I never ended the story. I had tons of them. These happy what-if stories going on forever and ever. I guess when I write and read stories I like gritty real-life situations. They don't make me happy, but I like reading what I perceive as something closer to reality that sets it apart from the rainbow stories of my youth. Who knows.
I did love the Memory story, though, and I think that was mostly positive. It was turning this rest home life into something beautiful. They've lost so many people whom they loved, but have found avenues and new relationships that keep them going and give meaning to their lives. The story never overtly asks the question "Why am I still here?" but it was present throughout the piece. They live in a world mixed with past and present, the memories of their lost loved ones are as much present as characters as those still in the home. Rest homes are so fascinating. Also, on page 376, I laughed out loud several times at the line "The tiny Fleur, the woman who was always wanting to call her mother on the phone, asked the room in general, 'We havin' a party or somethin'?'" That's both cute and tragic, we've come full circle. I think Keely Houghton would think that was funny, too.
Telling True Stories
I'm really starting to appreciate the zoom in metaphor, because the more I think about it, the more the narrative story about the underground music scene I wrote last fall seems a little like a summary. I'm not sure, I'd have to read it over again.
I brought up the summary vs. dramatic narrative in one of my other English classes when talking about Mrs. Dalloway. I think that utilizes some dramatic narrative. I can dig it.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Outline attempt
Conflict: Marni bruises flower
Development: 1. Family loves Marni
2. Marni buys flower
3. Marni loses way
Resolution: Family loves flower
I guess.
Development: 1. Family loves Marni
2. Marni buys flower
3. Marni loses way
Resolution: Family loves flower
I guess.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
She did it on time (for once)
All of the readings we have for this Wednesday I think brought up some ethical questions. It started with the beginning of the Telling True Stories section, specifically page 31 "I laugh at their jokes, whether I think they're funny or not." This came after a string of do's and don't's Isabel Wikerson came up with, and I know what she's saying and I may even agree with her, but I can't get the image out of my mind of someone being fake to get more information so they can turn around and write a negative profile. Like, someone makes a sexist joke, the interviewer laughs and then in the piece the person is portrayed as a sexist, and the part where the interviewer laughed (thus egging them on) isn't included and I think that's absolutely dishonest. It seems Wikerson may be trying to say to go along with what people are saying without inserting your own personality or interests and make the interviewee as comfortable as possible, but this is where I think things get blurry. It could go either way.
I mean, this whole class is based on this idea of truth or pieces of truth from a single perception that I have always picked apart in other settings. You can only get a little subjective piece of a person with a profile and that's that.
On to the actual narrative pieces: The American Man at Age Ten.
Hmm. Other than making me extremely nostalgic and missing my brothers and episodes of G.I. Joe, I found myself asking, "Why was this written?" Reading it in 2009 is fun in some ways, but I think it's fun in the same way that watching Kindergarten Cop every few years is fun. You get a couple good laughs in at the video game technology, the fashion, the icons (Schwarzenegger) but you don't watch it to get a deeper meaning out of anything. Also, I think if I picked up an issue of Esquire in the early 90s and read this story, I would think it was either cute or pointless. I like that she wanted to interview an oridinary kid instead of a celebrity, but I think this piece proves why people would rather read about celebrities. There's an abundance of 10-year-old boys who think stealing things from girls they call Maggot is flirting.
Trina and Trina was different. It was gripping, tragic, and frustrating. It also had that element of culture from the mid-90s, but it also had a clear and crazy-dramatic conflict. This is going to be a really fun piece to talk about, because I think Leblanc overstepped her boundaries at points, and I wonder how writing this story affected her relationship with Trina. It was gritty and disgusting in some parts, but I think it was true. Although I just wanted Trina admitted somewhere the whole time, I realize between her rebellion and bureacracy it wasn't as easy as Lifetime makes it seem sometimes. This is a great example of a piece where the author is present throughout, and I'm not sure I really liked the author that much. She wasn't awful, but she wasn't a likable character I was drawn to. It made it even more real. Oh! I remember what this reminds me of (of what this reminds me?). I read a bunch of stories like this my first year in a Prisons and Public Policy class. This is exactly how it is, people try rehab, they try starting over, but they always end up back on the streets doing what they know best. It's frustrating and tragic, but it's how these societies work. It's hard to get back in the system when you've spent so long staying out of it.
I mean, this whole class is based on this idea of truth or pieces of truth from a single perception that I have always picked apart in other settings. You can only get a little subjective piece of a person with a profile and that's that.
On to the actual narrative pieces: The American Man at Age Ten.
Hmm. Other than making me extremely nostalgic and missing my brothers and episodes of G.I. Joe, I found myself asking, "Why was this written?" Reading it in 2009 is fun in some ways, but I think it's fun in the same way that watching Kindergarten Cop every few years is fun. You get a couple good laughs in at the video game technology, the fashion, the icons (Schwarzenegger) but you don't watch it to get a deeper meaning out of anything. Also, I think if I picked up an issue of Esquire in the early 90s and read this story, I would think it was either cute or pointless. I like that she wanted to interview an oridinary kid instead of a celebrity, but I think this piece proves why people would rather read about celebrities. There's an abundance of 10-year-old boys who think stealing things from girls they call Maggot is flirting.
Trina and Trina was different. It was gripping, tragic, and frustrating. It also had that element of culture from the mid-90s, but it also had a clear and crazy-dramatic conflict. This is going to be a really fun piece to talk about, because I think Leblanc overstepped her boundaries at points, and I wonder how writing this story affected her relationship with Trina. It was gritty and disgusting in some parts, but I think it was true. Although I just wanted Trina admitted somewhere the whole time, I realize between her rebellion and bureacracy it wasn't as easy as Lifetime makes it seem sometimes. This is a great example of a piece where the author is present throughout, and I'm not sure I really liked the author that much. She wasn't awful, but she wasn't a likable character I was drawn to. It made it even more real. Oh! I remember what this reminds me of (of what this reminds me?). I read a bunch of stories like this my first year in a Prisons and Public Policy class. This is exactly how it is, people try rehab, they try starting over, but they always end up back on the streets doing what they know best. It's frustrating and tragic, but it's how these societies work. It's hard to get back in the system when you've spent so long staying out of it.
Monday, April 20, 2009
My story idea, yo
I'm planning on interviewing a woman at a local old folk's home in Hillsdale County. I have yet to hear back if she is still in this home, but if she isn't, there are plenty of nice women I could profile, who have interesting stories. The conflict, if there isn't one already in their lives, is living at this home (which I can't remember the name of) because the place is more of a harshly lit factory than a happy place to stay for their last months/years. I think it's called Medical Care.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
People on the streets, da da dee doe dep
So I read the narrative pieces for today, and I was waiting for the part in the Rio story Joseph posted for the Robby Fisher conversation to come back into the story. Although I gave good 'ol Franklin a hard time in my last post, he was absolutely correct bringing up the shotgun image. Luckily, the very last sentence refrenced the Fisher conversation and all was well in the universe.
I liked the piece Jackie posted because it was both illuminating and humorous all at once. Gill was able to laugh at the fact that you could buy anything at the intersections and also show the huge disparity between the classes. I loved how it came back at the end when Mr. Bhogilal pulls out a plastic photo album that could be bought in the intersections, but it's filled with pictures of cars. Such a poignant juxtaposition.
From Jackie's article, I was intrigued by a link on the sidebar of a video of Christopher Hitchens getting waterboarded for a story. So I checked it out and it was disturbing how little he could stand it before he dropped the metal rod that meant it would all end. It lasted maybe 8 seconds. They were talking about fifteen on and off until they worked up to thirty, and I'm not sure if they meant seconds or minutes but either way, it's truly torture what the Guantanamo Bay prisoners endure. That flowed nicely into Elizabeth's article about Swift and his attempts to aid his client in Guantanamo Bay. It's a very long article.
I liked the piece Jackie posted because it was both illuminating and humorous all at once. Gill was able to laugh at the fact that you could buy anything at the intersections and also show the huge disparity between the classes. I loved how it came back at the end when Mr. Bhogilal pulls out a plastic photo album that could be bought in the intersections, but it's filled with pictures of cars. Such a poignant juxtaposition.
From Jackie's article, I was intrigued by a link on the sidebar of a video of Christopher Hitchens getting waterboarded for a story. So I checked it out and it was disturbing how little he could stand it before he dropped the metal rod that meant it would all end. It lasted maybe 8 seconds. They were talking about fifteen on and off until they worked up to thirty, and I'm not sure if they meant seconds or minutes but either way, it's truly torture what the Guantanamo Bay prisoners endure. That flowed nicely into Elizabeth's article about Swift and his attempts to aid his client in Guantanamo Bay. It's a very long article.
I knew a kid in grade school named Jon Franklin
There's no doubt that Franklin did something right, that he hit some chord that reverberated in editors' souls everywhere. Unfortunately, I didn't swoon at Franklin's prose--which made reading the 200-something page book a little painful. From the beginning, I was put off by what I read as Franklin's arrogance. Yes, he won two Pulitzer Prizes, and that's one heck of an achievement, but after 50 pages of "here's where most writers go wrong, and here's why I succeed" I started feeling a hierarchy set up that by nature I wanted to resist.
His narrative pieces are uncomfortably reminiscent of children's books. He overuses the ellipsis, for starters, and he does it in a way that makes me picture the narrator as either a melodramatic actor, or an excited child.
"One of his student teachers was a young lady named Geneva Crouch...and...and she was one of the prettiest women he had ever seen" (53).
"And yet...somehow...without it he would perish" (45).
"It had a romantic sound, rich with rhythm and vowels, and to hear the incomprehensible words filled hime with a restless, inarticulate lust to...to...to go" (42).
I appreciate, on the other hand, that this means he really thrusts himself into the job of storyteller and goes as far as using and overusing both punctuation and content to give a picture to his narrative. I don't want to review this book and say "Oh man, this guy is full of himself and has very little to show for it," because he knows more about writing than I can even imagine. But, after forcing myself to read most of this book, I've been longing to pick apart his narratives just because he seems so sure of himself as a fantastic writer and never seems to talk about how he can improve.
I understand the need for an outline and I gave his outline style serious thought and am trying to work it into my writing and see how it works. I also appreciate that he breaks down the process of writing and polishing and everything else.
In fact, I didn't realize why his writing bothered me so much until I read some of my classmates' posts, and someone said they liked how the whole book was a narrative explaining a narrative. That's it. It was long and drawn out and I felt like I was stuck on the phone with Uncle Joe after he's had a few beers. I just wanted the Strunk and White condensed version, so if I didn't understand I could flip back and read it three times until I did. I did not want, nor do I ever want a book like this during a full quarter, to waste my time with little images and digressions and play-by-plays of Donny Do-Wrong's way to write a story versus Sally Success'. And there I've gone and pulled a Franklin, my apologies.
Telling True Stories, on the other hand was as fabulous and easy-to-read as Marin promised. I like how it broke down the process of writing and choosing narrative subjects concisely, and then--best of all--I loved the very last section about the difference between a signature and a sample. I just got a hand-out in yoga that talks about a person's multiple layers and how identity can become confusing until you realize what part of your identity you're trying to convey. Physical versus professional versus personal versus biological etc. etc. etc. How relieving to hear that there's no way to give an accurate representation of someone in a profile, and instead focus on the situation and the society at that time instead. It's like Monet's water lilies, where he painted them at all different times of the day to give an accurate representation of them, and even then it's not complete.
His narrative pieces are uncomfortably reminiscent of children's books. He overuses the ellipsis, for starters, and he does it in a way that makes me picture the narrator as either a melodramatic actor, or an excited child.
"One of his student teachers was a young lady named Geneva Crouch...and...and she was one of the prettiest women he had ever seen" (53).
"And yet...somehow...without it he would perish" (45).
"It had a romantic sound, rich with rhythm and vowels, and to hear the incomprehensible words filled hime with a restless, inarticulate lust to...to...to go" (42).
I appreciate, on the other hand, that this means he really thrusts himself into the job of storyteller and goes as far as using and overusing both punctuation and content to give a picture to his narrative. I don't want to review this book and say "Oh man, this guy is full of himself and has very little to show for it," because he knows more about writing than I can even imagine. But, after forcing myself to read most of this book, I've been longing to pick apart his narratives just because he seems so sure of himself as a fantastic writer and never seems to talk about how he can improve.
I understand the need for an outline and I gave his outline style serious thought and am trying to work it into my writing and see how it works. I also appreciate that he breaks down the process of writing and polishing and everything else.
In fact, I didn't realize why his writing bothered me so much until I read some of my classmates' posts, and someone said they liked how the whole book was a narrative explaining a narrative. That's it. It was long and drawn out and I felt like I was stuck on the phone with Uncle Joe after he's had a few beers. I just wanted the Strunk and White condensed version, so if I didn't understand I could flip back and read it three times until I did. I did not want, nor do I ever want a book like this during a full quarter, to waste my time with little images and digressions and play-by-plays of Donny Do-Wrong's way to write a story versus Sally Success'. And there I've gone and pulled a Franklin, my apologies.
Telling True Stories, on the other hand was as fabulous and easy-to-read as Marin promised. I like how it broke down the process of writing and choosing narrative subjects concisely, and then--best of all--I loved the very last section about the difference between a signature and a sample. I just got a hand-out in yoga that talks about a person's multiple layers and how identity can become confusing until you realize what part of your identity you're trying to convey. Physical versus professional versus personal versus biological etc. etc. etc. How relieving to hear that there's no way to give an accurate representation of someone in a profile, and instead focus on the situation and the society at that time instead. It's like Monet's water lilies, where he painted them at all different times of the day to give an accurate representation of them, and even then it's not complete.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
I have to be in class in 20 minutes.
Joseph,
This is an interesting story, I’m glad you told it. You have some strong images that really keep me interested the entire time. The thesis-type statement you have in the beginning: “Initially I thought indulging in one of the advantages of metropolitan living—clubbing—would entrance me. Sadly not, after one horrid experience,” felt like it was either referring to a different event or too spoon-feedy. I want you to get right into the story without that big of a preface. In fact, you could start with the second paragraph and it wouldn’t confuse the readers at all, just stick “in New York” after “while I was studying journalism.” I like the pause to consider your ideals and whether the show fits in, but I’m a little confused about the decision of the outfit, do you want to make it more explicit that at that point you would either go or not go? For instance, if you said that picking your outfit gave you time to consider the reality of the situation instead of a fun idea and at that point you had to choose. You have a really strong image of the middle aged men snorting coke on the bar, but your inner dialogue seems out of place.
Camillo,
You have some awesome writing with this. I really like your wit with the piece and you set up some vivid images. There are some places where the language gets choppy and confusing, but for the most part this is a smooth read. You could consider taking out a few parts that seem to stray from the main point of the story—the details of your vacation for instance. You bring up a lost backpack and I really can’t decide whether I want to hear that whole story (well, actually I do) or if I’m totally OK without it. You captured the discomfort of being pulled over for no reason well, and I felt nervous while reading it that something worse was going to happen. I’m really glad something worse didn’t happen, but it speaks to the strength of your writing. Throughout the piece, you’ve relayed this story that seems so annoying and insulting for you, yet at the end you say you weren’t upset at the immigration officer, and I want to know why. I think I would have been upset, and I think from what you’ve written, I think you should be upset.
Colin,
This story made me laugh out loud several times. It’s hilarious and I’m glad I read it twice so I could pick up the funny stuff I had missed the first time. The story seems a little short, could you go deeper into some of these events to develop the characters more? I’m sure there’s some more material from the 12-hour bus ride. Right now you have a few snapshots of what the experience was like and I’d really like more of a story of it. There are a couple parts where I’m not sure if you’re making fun of yourself or your peers, like when you say you were caring less and lass that the people around you were either snarky dicks or douchebags. I guess that could go either way and maybe I don’t need to know. It ends a bit quickly, too, and since you summarize it more than give a picture of how you’d become friends, I don’t really understand how you got over your initial reactions. It sounds like you have some awesome stories from LandSea, I’d like to hear more of it.
Lindsey,
This is an interesting story. A new perspective of the prodigy child. What I want more of is your internal feeling. Right now you’re telling me how you felt and how angry you were—can you write about a specific memory that shows this? You’re covering a lot of ground here and if you singled out two memories—one that illustrated how you were treated unfairly, and then develop this last image more of breaking the violin, I think that would be concise and shorten this without losing meaning. Your images and superb and I love your wit with some of these lines. It’s so effective when you have the juxtaposition of your mom and the wicked witch of the west lines. Also, when you break the violin, you have awesome images there, too. I’m very confused about the ending. As it is now, I’m afraid you’ve killed your mother and that makes me uncomfortable. Again, if you wrote about a separate memory, maybe the first one where you had stayed out too late and then gave us a resolution to this last memory it would give a clearer picture. This made me want to hear you play violin, and you probably would hate to hear that. Lastly, I would love to travel around Europe during the summers, even if I had to play an instrument for a stuffy old judge. :) (I’m usually anti-emoticons, but that needs to be there so you know I’m picking on you instead of being an ass).
Emily,
What a great story to tell. I’ve heard you talk about how great your mom’s Matzo balls are, but this story illustrates it well. Have you ever talked to her about how she makes them and where your Matzo balls went wrong? Maybe you could include that. It seems like the underlying theme is this idea of fluid spirituality and how things can be so great and not exactly fit the mold. I wanted more of that. I want a scene where you’re interrogating her about the soup and she doesn’t know how she makes them so good. Or maybe where she gives you the recipe and you’re still confused. I mean, of course these things may not have happened, but it seems like you’ve just resigned to the fact that she’s inherently good at making the soup and it seems like you would want to perfect it just like she has. I love the scene at the end with your dad singing and Hannah throwing toys and Jason sitting there probably uncomfortably as you get the soup, you wrote that really well. This was really easy to read, thanks for writing it!
Mary,
This story is full of personality. You have such witty comments and entertaining points of view that made this piece a pleasure to read. I loved how you opened it. When I first read the part about the car going in the ditch I laughed but then tried to stop myself and hoped that no one got hurt. I’m so glad no one got hurt, because that is a funny story. You also have really strong lines in this. Like when your parents got divorced and Pronto replaced your dad’s number on speed dial, that one sentence encompasses so much, I love it. There are a few parts in this that I don’t understand and I think it’s because I’m not a New Yorker. Specifically, the part where you—oh wait, I think I get it now, looking at it for the fourth time. It was the part where you said there was no loyalty and I didn’t know you were talking about the cab service you used so frequently, and they’re probably telling you they’re only 2 minutes away but it still takes forever. Lastly, it’s so interesting to me that you see a car as independence and spontaneity in New York, which is relatively a very walkable city. Whereas I thought I was going to die a thousand boring deaths being in the middle of farms and fields without a car growing up. I guess it’s that teen angst that gets us all.
Maureen,
You do such a great job of describing how awkward middle school was and how hard it was to come into your own as a person. It’s good to know everybody has this moment. The last paragraph tries to cover too much too quickly and gets off topic. I feel that could be its own independent narrative piece. You haven’t run out of things to say about your friendship with Arnando. What happened? How long were you friends? Did you ever dress up again or did you mostly go back to your comfy clothes? Also, I think that by dressing up that one day, you got his attention and then you two became friends because of your personality, so in that way I disagree with what you say about your looks having nothing to do with a boy liking you. Though I’d like to agree. I love the voices and characters in this piece, specifically your Aunt Oneida, and I love that they ran to find you an entire outfit because of your curves. That part is really cute. You wrote this in a conversational way that I like and it was fun to read it both times.
This is an interesting story, I’m glad you told it. You have some strong images that really keep me interested the entire time. The thesis-type statement you have in the beginning: “Initially I thought indulging in one of the advantages of metropolitan living—clubbing—would entrance me. Sadly not, after one horrid experience,” felt like it was either referring to a different event or too spoon-feedy. I want you to get right into the story without that big of a preface. In fact, you could start with the second paragraph and it wouldn’t confuse the readers at all, just stick “in New York” after “while I was studying journalism.” I like the pause to consider your ideals and whether the show fits in, but I’m a little confused about the decision of the outfit, do you want to make it more explicit that at that point you would either go or not go? For instance, if you said that picking your outfit gave you time to consider the reality of the situation instead of a fun idea and at that point you had to choose. You have a really strong image of the middle aged men snorting coke on the bar, but your inner dialogue seems out of place.
Camillo,
You have some awesome writing with this. I really like your wit with the piece and you set up some vivid images. There are some places where the language gets choppy and confusing, but for the most part this is a smooth read. You could consider taking out a few parts that seem to stray from the main point of the story—the details of your vacation for instance. You bring up a lost backpack and I really can’t decide whether I want to hear that whole story (well, actually I do) or if I’m totally OK without it. You captured the discomfort of being pulled over for no reason well, and I felt nervous while reading it that something worse was going to happen. I’m really glad something worse didn’t happen, but it speaks to the strength of your writing. Throughout the piece, you’ve relayed this story that seems so annoying and insulting for you, yet at the end you say you weren’t upset at the immigration officer, and I want to know why. I think I would have been upset, and I think from what you’ve written, I think you should be upset.
Colin,
This story made me laugh out loud several times. It’s hilarious and I’m glad I read it twice so I could pick up the funny stuff I had missed the first time. The story seems a little short, could you go deeper into some of these events to develop the characters more? I’m sure there’s some more material from the 12-hour bus ride. Right now you have a few snapshots of what the experience was like and I’d really like more of a story of it. There are a couple parts where I’m not sure if you’re making fun of yourself or your peers, like when you say you were caring less and lass that the people around you were either snarky dicks or douchebags. I guess that could go either way and maybe I don’t need to know. It ends a bit quickly, too, and since you summarize it more than give a picture of how you’d become friends, I don’t really understand how you got over your initial reactions. It sounds like you have some awesome stories from LandSea, I’d like to hear more of it.
Lindsey,
This is an interesting story. A new perspective of the prodigy child. What I want more of is your internal feeling. Right now you’re telling me how you felt and how angry you were—can you write about a specific memory that shows this? You’re covering a lot of ground here and if you singled out two memories—one that illustrated how you were treated unfairly, and then develop this last image more of breaking the violin, I think that would be concise and shorten this without losing meaning. Your images and superb and I love your wit with some of these lines. It’s so effective when you have the juxtaposition of your mom and the wicked witch of the west lines. Also, when you break the violin, you have awesome images there, too. I’m very confused about the ending. As it is now, I’m afraid you’ve killed your mother and that makes me uncomfortable. Again, if you wrote about a separate memory, maybe the first one where you had stayed out too late and then gave us a resolution to this last memory it would give a clearer picture. This made me want to hear you play violin, and you probably would hate to hear that. Lastly, I would love to travel around Europe during the summers, even if I had to play an instrument for a stuffy old judge. :) (I’m usually anti-emoticons, but that needs to be there so you know I’m picking on you instead of being an ass).
Emily,
What a great story to tell. I’ve heard you talk about how great your mom’s Matzo balls are, but this story illustrates it well. Have you ever talked to her about how she makes them and where your Matzo balls went wrong? Maybe you could include that. It seems like the underlying theme is this idea of fluid spirituality and how things can be so great and not exactly fit the mold. I wanted more of that. I want a scene where you’re interrogating her about the soup and she doesn’t know how she makes them so good. Or maybe where she gives you the recipe and you’re still confused. I mean, of course these things may not have happened, but it seems like you’ve just resigned to the fact that she’s inherently good at making the soup and it seems like you would want to perfect it just like she has. I love the scene at the end with your dad singing and Hannah throwing toys and Jason sitting there probably uncomfortably as you get the soup, you wrote that really well. This was really easy to read, thanks for writing it!
Mary,
This story is full of personality. You have such witty comments and entertaining points of view that made this piece a pleasure to read. I loved how you opened it. When I first read the part about the car going in the ditch I laughed but then tried to stop myself and hoped that no one got hurt. I’m so glad no one got hurt, because that is a funny story. You also have really strong lines in this. Like when your parents got divorced and Pronto replaced your dad’s number on speed dial, that one sentence encompasses so much, I love it. There are a few parts in this that I don’t understand and I think it’s because I’m not a New Yorker. Specifically, the part where you—oh wait, I think I get it now, looking at it for the fourth time. It was the part where you said there was no loyalty and I didn’t know you were talking about the cab service you used so frequently, and they’re probably telling you they’re only 2 minutes away but it still takes forever. Lastly, it’s so interesting to me that you see a car as independence and spontaneity in New York, which is relatively a very walkable city. Whereas I thought I was going to die a thousand boring deaths being in the middle of farms and fields without a car growing up. I guess it’s that teen angst that gets us all.
Maureen,
You do such a great job of describing how awkward middle school was and how hard it was to come into your own as a person. It’s good to know everybody has this moment. The last paragraph tries to cover too much too quickly and gets off topic. I feel that could be its own independent narrative piece. You haven’t run out of things to say about your friendship with Arnando. What happened? How long were you friends? Did you ever dress up again or did you mostly go back to your comfy clothes? Also, I think that by dressing up that one day, you got his attention and then you two became friends because of your personality, so in that way I disagree with what you say about your looks having nothing to do with a boy liking you. Though I’d like to agree. I love the voices and characters in this piece, specifically your Aunt Oneida, and I love that they ran to find you an entire outfit because of your curves. That part is really cute. You wrote this in a conversational way that I like and it was fun to read it both times.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Orchid Narrative
Everyone thought the orchid was artificial. My friends questioned its authenticity after I climbed in the back of the red truck with the bright orange flower in tow. They rubbed the thick waxy petals between their fingers as they asked what type of orchid it was. I doubted myself more when the Thai blue taxi driver at the station raised her eyebrows as she asked if it was a real flower. More than once, I checked the dirt in the green plastic container at its base, fearful I had misunderstood the high price and the way the merchant had turned her back on me in what seemed to be irritation at a question I hadn’t asked at hearing the price.
Pang mag, deh suoy mag, she said. “Very expensive, but very beautiful.” I wondered if the beauty would only last until the color faded off the plastic petals.
I chose the only orchid in the greenhouse, taking its two buds as a sign. It would go to my second host family I’d stayed with in Thailand, a farming family in the small village of Mae Ta outside of Chiang Mai. A family who’d lost their only son in a car accident in the city where he had been studying. I stayed at their house for one week with a Thai student and they told us all they wanted was to have children in the house again. The two buds would represent their loogk saew sohng con, they’re two daughters who we had—in that short time--become.
I left as early the next morning after I’d bought the orchid as I could manage, carrying it by a hooked wire attached to it’s base. I wasn’t sure where I was going and I was going alone, so I took my vague directions from one of my professors and waited it out as red truck after red truck refused to take me to the blue truck station. The red trucks would tote people around within Chiang Mai and the blue trucks went outside of the city.
The first time I dropped the orchid was in the waiting area at the blue truck station to Lampang. Embarrassed by my clumsiness, I steadily propped it in a corner as I stood waiting to depart. The driver and I had just finished a confusing and inconclusive conversation in Thai and I nervously watched the truck, grabbing at my bags if he stepped near the driver’s side door, ready to jump in the back at any moment.
I dropped the orchid again inside the blue truck after I’d fumbled around trying to get comfortable on the wooden bench attached to the inside wall. The truck was full of boxes and buckets of dough to be taken to a Lampang market so I sat with my legs turned toward the end of the truck watching the traffic and passing scenery from the back door.
The orchid fell over a few more times after the blue truck had emptied and I searched nervously outside the small windows for anything that looked familiar. I didn’t pick them up right away as the driver opened the window connecting the front cab to the back seating area. He asked me where I was going and I tried to explain to him the directions I had gotten from my professor. He knew little English and I knew even less Thai, so in an act of desperation I called a Thai instructor and asked for help. I described where I was and then he wanted to speak to the driver and then to me again.
“You are in Lampang, Mahnee,” he told me. “You want to be in Lamphun!” He laughed. “You went to the wrong city!”
While holding in tears and trying to chuckle, I tried to tell him I had gotten bad directions from another professor. He laughed and wished me luck, asking him to call me when I got to the correct station.
I laid the orchid down for a while as the blue truck, empty except for me and the drivers, parked on the side of a busy road. My vision went in and out of blurs from tears as I realized I had no idea how to get back to Chiang Mai or to Mae Ta. I was in the hands of the drivers and although they tried to explain to me their intentions for sitting on the side of the road, I was using most of my concentration to keep myself from sobbing.
A large bus drove by and the driver flagged it down and waved me over to it simultaneously. He shouted in Thai to the bus driver and motioned that I get on the bus. The orchid was banged against passengers’ legs as I climbed into and empty seat near the front. I wish I had tipped the driver extra for taking care of me.
At the next station, I wandered around with my Thai professor on my big blue clunky cell phone transitioning between describing where I was and handing the phone off to locals who could help me along. I climbed on the back of a motorbike clutching my orchid as we zipped through allies and to another station. On the last truck that my instructor promised would take me to Mae Ta, I had time to look at my once-beautiful flower more closely.
It was significantly bruised, broken in a few places, but it still remained mostly bright orange and I tried polishing it to improve it’s color before the truck finally lurched to a stop in front of a cooperative I’d worked at in Mae Ta.
I climbed out of the truck and waited outside as they phoned my host mom. They had heard I went to Lampang instead of Lamphun and they all laughed at me and then gave me banana chips.
My host mom drove up on her motor bike, laughing because I’d gotten lost but also because she was relieved. Embarrassed, I gave her the bruised flower and tried to explain how beautiful it had been. When we finally understood each other and I explained the buds were for her two daughters, she looked at it and contemplated. Suoy mag, she said and she hung it up in her kitchen. Very beautiful.
Pang mag, deh suoy mag, she said. “Very expensive, but very beautiful.” I wondered if the beauty would only last until the color faded off the plastic petals.
I chose the only orchid in the greenhouse, taking its two buds as a sign. It would go to my second host family I’d stayed with in Thailand, a farming family in the small village of Mae Ta outside of Chiang Mai. A family who’d lost their only son in a car accident in the city where he had been studying. I stayed at their house for one week with a Thai student and they told us all they wanted was to have children in the house again. The two buds would represent their loogk saew sohng con, they’re two daughters who we had—in that short time--become.
I left as early the next morning after I’d bought the orchid as I could manage, carrying it by a hooked wire attached to it’s base. I wasn’t sure where I was going and I was going alone, so I took my vague directions from one of my professors and waited it out as red truck after red truck refused to take me to the blue truck station. The red trucks would tote people around within Chiang Mai and the blue trucks went outside of the city.
The first time I dropped the orchid was in the waiting area at the blue truck station to Lampang. Embarrassed by my clumsiness, I steadily propped it in a corner as I stood waiting to depart. The driver and I had just finished a confusing and inconclusive conversation in Thai and I nervously watched the truck, grabbing at my bags if he stepped near the driver’s side door, ready to jump in the back at any moment.
I dropped the orchid again inside the blue truck after I’d fumbled around trying to get comfortable on the wooden bench attached to the inside wall. The truck was full of boxes and buckets of dough to be taken to a Lampang market so I sat with my legs turned toward the end of the truck watching the traffic and passing scenery from the back door.
The orchid fell over a few more times after the blue truck had emptied and I searched nervously outside the small windows for anything that looked familiar. I didn’t pick them up right away as the driver opened the window connecting the front cab to the back seating area. He asked me where I was going and I tried to explain to him the directions I had gotten from my professor. He knew little English and I knew even less Thai, so in an act of desperation I called a Thai instructor and asked for help. I described where I was and then he wanted to speak to the driver and then to me again.
“You are in Lampang, Mahnee,” he told me. “You want to be in Lamphun!” He laughed. “You went to the wrong city!”
While holding in tears and trying to chuckle, I tried to tell him I had gotten bad directions from another professor. He laughed and wished me luck, asking him to call me when I got to the correct station.
I laid the orchid down for a while as the blue truck, empty except for me and the drivers, parked on the side of a busy road. My vision went in and out of blurs from tears as I realized I had no idea how to get back to Chiang Mai or to Mae Ta. I was in the hands of the drivers and although they tried to explain to me their intentions for sitting on the side of the road, I was using most of my concentration to keep myself from sobbing.
A large bus drove by and the driver flagged it down and waved me over to it simultaneously. He shouted in Thai to the bus driver and motioned that I get on the bus. The orchid was banged against passengers’ legs as I climbed into and empty seat near the front. I wish I had tipped the driver extra for taking care of me.
At the next station, I wandered around with my Thai professor on my big blue clunky cell phone transitioning between describing where I was and handing the phone off to locals who could help me along. I climbed on the back of a motorbike clutching my orchid as we zipped through allies and to another station. On the last truck that my instructor promised would take me to Mae Ta, I had time to look at my once-beautiful flower more closely.
It was significantly bruised, broken in a few places, but it still remained mostly bright orange and I tried polishing it to improve it’s color before the truck finally lurched to a stop in front of a cooperative I’d worked at in Mae Ta.
I climbed out of the truck and waited outside as they phoned my host mom. They had heard I went to Lampang instead of Lamphun and they all laughed at me and then gave me banana chips.
My host mom drove up on her motor bike, laughing because I’d gotten lost but also because she was relieved. Embarrassed, I gave her the bruised flower and tried to explain how beautiful it had been. When we finally understood each other and I explained the buds were for her two daughters, she looked at it and contemplated. Suoy mag, she said and she hung it up in her kitchen. Very beautiful.
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