I think a majority of my writing for this class has been sub-par to say the least. But I'm simply one of those people that 1) Doesn't like to be told what to write or read and 2) Hates anything I don't have complete control over.
So following directions and deadlines is off putting and frustrating. It's also frustrating to have to think of something to write about when I simply don't want to write. School work and I simply don't get along. Which is why I tend not to follow deadlines and due dates, if I have to do the work I am going to do it aty my own pace and however I want it done. I've been doing what other people wanted me to do my whole life. I want my turn to do what I want.
Essay 1, I did what I like to do. I told a story. It was a true story, but it didn't have any theme behind it, So I decided not to revise it.
Essay 2 I finally finished a few days late, but I was happy with it. It was a great piece that I really put myself into 100%.
Essay 3, I wrote twice. Once about my car, and again about the Metro. I liked the Metro better but I chose to edit the car piece because I didn't want to change the Metro.
I want my writing to be realistic, witty, and relatable. I think I'm on my way there, but to be honest non-fiction makes it very difficult.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Rhetorial Analysis
http://www.splintergeneration.com/
The Splinter Generation is a literary compilation with submissions by those who were born between 1973 and 1993. It is an attempt to expose people who spend most of their time with people who are exactly like them to people that are nothing like them. It’s an attempt to bring strangers who have differing ideals, values, and interests together.
The niche that the Splinter Generation fits is, in their own words, “Our generation is split into a million different cultures and subcultures, whether they are religious, musical, literary, ethnic, class-based or consumer-based. Our identities have become selective and insular. We have each found the little niche we think we fit in and we stay there. As a result, we stay in our little group — or our little splinter — and we rarely talk to each other.”
The first essay I read was about a 35 year old woman who was quitting Catholicism. She writes about her experience in church as a child, to which I could easily relate. This is a great example of what they are looking for because it offers a childhood experience that someone else may never had, and other may be able to draw parallels.
http://www.splintergeneration.com/sleeping-in-on-sunday/
The second essay I read a slightly different view of religion. It was about a couple in their late 20’s/Early 30’s going to a modern mass that was pitch black except for flashlights, candles, and a choir. The author also had a strong upbringing as a Mormon. However rather than question his beliefs he mocks those of others.
http://www.splintergeneration.com/a-candle-in-the-dark/
Right now they are accepting submissions of interviews with a stranger, someone who you would never talk to due to your difference in interests.
"Find someone you wouldn’t ordinarily meet, or someone you disagree with on almost everything and have dinner, or a drink, or an email exchange. Record it, transcribe it, edit it down, and send it in."
No more than 3000 words, attached as .doc or .txt
Their submission requests are these really obscure eye opening pieces that make you realize how different people really are.
The Splinter Generation is a literary compilation with submissions by those who were born between 1973 and 1993. It is an attempt to expose people who spend most of their time with people who are exactly like them to people that are nothing like them. It’s an attempt to bring strangers who have differing ideals, values, and interests together.
The niche that the Splinter Generation fits is, in their own words, “Our generation is split into a million different cultures and subcultures, whether they are religious, musical, literary, ethnic, class-based or consumer-based. Our identities have become selective and insular. We have each found the little niche we think we fit in and we stay there. As a result, we stay in our little group — or our little splinter — and we rarely talk to each other.”
The first essay I read was about a 35 year old woman who was quitting Catholicism. She writes about her experience in church as a child, to which I could easily relate. This is a great example of what they are looking for because it offers a childhood experience that someone else may never had, and other may be able to draw parallels.
http://www.splintergeneration.com/sleeping-in-on-sunday/
The second essay I read a slightly different view of religion. It was about a couple in their late 20’s/Early 30’s going to a modern mass that was pitch black except for flashlights, candles, and a choir. The author also had a strong upbringing as a Mormon. However rather than question his beliefs he mocks those of others.
http://www.splintergeneration.com/a-candle-in-the-dark/
Right now they are accepting submissions of interviews with a stranger, someone who you would never talk to due to your difference in interests.
"Find someone you wouldn’t ordinarily meet, or someone you disagree with on almost everything and have dinner, or a drink, or an email exchange. Record it, transcribe it, edit it down, and send it in."
No more than 3000 words, attached as .doc or .txt
Their submission requests are these really obscure eye opening pieces that make you realize how different people really are.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
New essay EYE
THE METRO
It's Sunday morning, which means i'm going to breakfast with my parents. We debate for a few moments on where to go, and as it ends every single time, we choose the Metro upon my insistence. Although its the furthest of all the restaurants in our preferred radius, the decision remains the same. The metro is a classic American style diner that serves breakfast all day but is closed in Mondays. At the entrance is a man made pond full of obese coy fish and a sign in the window that says 'rest rooms for customers only. No soliciting. '
As we enter, the hostess greets us with familiarity as we are regulars. By now they know my parents prefer a booth. And we are seated in our usual section. we pick up our menus for what has to be the 300th time, even though both my parents know exactly what they're going to order. The waitress greets us and starts a familiar conversation with my mother about her knitting group who meets at the metro on Wednesday mornings. She's a young, married hispanic woman with a 7 year old boy. I stare at the menu, still indecisive, as my mother announces that we are ready to order, regardless of the fact that i am clearly unprepared.
She orders the blintzes, my father, the healthy choice omelette as he is borderline diabetic. My turn has come and still I find myself immersed in the menu, trapped in limbo between breakfast and lunch. One look at the time, 11:00, and i commit to the lunch section. my eyes meet a generic picture of a steak sammich under which it says' product may differ from image provided. ' but I'm swayed by the glistening juiciness of the sliced steak and my decision is made.
Customarily, my mother strikes up a conversation about the girl that waitresses on Wednesday's that is my age.
"I think she's so cute. She's taking night classes at Rutgers. You should ask her out." I roll my eyes as i brush off the suggestion and continue my business of listening to other tables' conversations.
The waitresses do well to earn their tips, bringing up their children or tuition, or their children's tuition organically in conversation, as the customers prepare to order. One, a former stay at home mom, chimes in at our table about her son, as she and my mother are acquaintances and like to compare myself and her son as if it's a competition. I almost always win.
Our waitress arrives with our food and joins the conversation about children, bringing up how she's started a college fund for her own child.
The owner, a portly, well aged Sicilian, makes his daily stroll through the restaurant with usual accessories, his fedora and walking stick, greeting the regulars and schmoozing. The portrait on the wall reveals his younger days in the navy, before he became a little baked potato of a restaurant owner. His wife works the register, and their daughter, whom seated us is the hostess.
Piano music begins to play as the brunch hour begins during which live entertainment is provided my a local musician. This week it is a middle aged pianist with thick frame glasses, playing jazzed out versions of classics such as Frank Sinatra slowly progressing into Elton John and Billy Joel.
As the lunch hour grows closer, our conversation transitions from recent news to financial concerns such as car repairs, rent, and bills.. Mostly mine. But like all Sunday breakfasts, the conversation ends with my mothers concerns about my brother's well being, credit card debt, and her crack pot theory about how he hates her and never wants to come home.
The familiar feelings of fullness and jealousy of how my mother does everything for my brother arrive, and I suggest that it's time to depart. The final two traditions of Sunday breakfast include my mother ridiculing my father into leaving a bigger tip, and me grabbing a handful of peppermints before we exit.
The ride home is like a post game press conference as my parents and I exchange questions about what we discussed at breakfast. The final question is a two parter. Will I be home for dinner, and if so what would I like to eat? I have no comment. The ride home is quiet and calm as I think about the waitress that works Wednesdays.
It's Sunday morning, which means i'm going to breakfast with my parents. We debate for a few moments on where to go, and as it ends every single time, we choose the Metro upon my insistence. Although its the furthest of all the restaurants in our preferred radius, the decision remains the same. The metro is a classic American style diner that serves breakfast all day but is closed in Mondays. At the entrance is a man made pond full of obese coy fish and a sign in the window that says 'rest rooms for customers only. No soliciting. '
As we enter, the hostess greets us with familiarity as we are regulars. By now they know my parents prefer a booth. And we are seated in our usual section. we pick up our menus for what has to be the 300th time, even though both my parents know exactly what they're going to order. The waitress greets us and starts a familiar conversation with my mother about her knitting group who meets at the metro on Wednesday mornings. She's a young, married hispanic woman with a 7 year old boy. I stare at the menu, still indecisive, as my mother announces that we are ready to order, regardless of the fact that i am clearly unprepared.
She orders the blintzes, my father, the healthy choice omelette as he is borderline diabetic. My turn has come and still I find myself immersed in the menu, trapped in limbo between breakfast and lunch. One look at the time, 11:00, and i commit to the lunch section. my eyes meet a generic picture of a steak sammich under which it says' product may differ from image provided. ' but I'm swayed by the glistening juiciness of the sliced steak and my decision is made.
Customarily, my mother strikes up a conversation about the girl that waitresses on Wednesday's that is my age.
"I think she's so cute. She's taking night classes at Rutgers. You should ask her out." I roll my eyes as i brush off the suggestion and continue my business of listening to other tables' conversations.
The waitresses do well to earn their tips, bringing up their children or tuition, or their children's tuition organically in conversation, as the customers prepare to order. One, a former stay at home mom, chimes in at our table about her son, as she and my mother are acquaintances and like to compare myself and her son as if it's a competition. I almost always win.
Our waitress arrives with our food and joins the conversation about children, bringing up how she's started a college fund for her own child.
The owner, a portly, well aged Sicilian, makes his daily stroll through the restaurant with usual accessories, his fedora and walking stick, greeting the regulars and schmoozing. The portrait on the wall reveals his younger days in the navy, before he became a little baked potato of a restaurant owner. His wife works the register, and their daughter, whom seated us is the hostess.
Piano music begins to play as the brunch hour begins during which live entertainment is provided my a local musician. This week it is a middle aged pianist with thick frame glasses, playing jazzed out versions of classics such as Frank Sinatra slowly progressing into Elton John and Billy Joel.
As the lunch hour grows closer, our conversation transitions from recent news to financial concerns such as car repairs, rent, and bills.. Mostly mine. But like all Sunday breakfasts, the conversation ends with my mothers concerns about my brother's well being, credit card debt, and her crack pot theory about how he hates her and never wants to come home.
The familiar feelings of fullness and jealousy of how my mother does everything for my brother arrive, and I suggest that it's time to depart. The final two traditions of Sunday breakfast include my mother ridiculing my father into leaving a bigger tip, and me grabbing a handful of peppermints before we exit.
The ride home is like a post game press conference as my parents and I exchange questions about what we discussed at breakfast. The final question is a two parter. Will I be home for dinner, and if so what would I like to eat? I have no comment. The ride home is quiet and calm as I think about the waitress that works Wednesdays.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Blog 3.1
As I turned the ignition I could hear the exhaust start to rattle. In the rear view mirror, the fumes began to cloud and rise until it disappeared. I took a deep breath and saw it rise and disappear like the exhaust. It was especially cold because my window was broken and permanently open a few inches. The auto body shop wanted $400 to fix it and I don't have that kind of money, as I am a broke college student. I drive a chevy pickup full of books, shoes, empty bottles, and clothes.. My brother drives an SUV full of clothes and soccer balls. Cars have always been a status symbol. When the first car was made available to the public only the rich could afford them. Now that cars are more affordable and there are so many, your status is dependant on what kind of car you drive. The spectrum ranges from 'mommy and daddy bought me an Audi for my sweet sixteen' to 'For my 16th birthday I got a job and bought this $500 piece of shit that barely runs.' I'm somewhere in the middle. I paid for my first car out of my own money, my family paid insurance. My brother never had the same luxury because he kept getting into accidents or getting speeding tickets. Driving with him used to make me sick to my stomach and I'd be halfway through making my peace with god by the time we got where we were going. My father is a passive aggressive driver, if someone tries to pass him he speeds up just enough so they can't. There are a lot of circles in Flemington. He drives with one thumb on the horn ready to beep anyone who impedes him. He has 4 PBA stickers on his car, hopingto ward off tickets.My mother never leaves the right lane. She'll call the house and say she's on her way home from work and she'll be there in a half an hour. 45 minutes later the front door opens and in she comes. Once again, I find myself somewhere in the middle, driving 85mph on route 78, but only ever having been ticketed once for not coming to a complete stop at a stop sign. I'm sure after writing this I'll jinx myself and get a fat speeding ticket and a couple points on my license. My ex-girlfriend's driving style can be summed up in one short sentence. She recieved two speeding tickets in less than 24 hours on the same road. Driving with someone for the first time can be quite an educational experience. My teammate, Mike, is from Bayonne, and I've never been part of the breaking of so many traffic laws in my life. He passes cars where no man should ever pass cars, does illegal u-turns at the most innapropriate times, and I'm 90% sure he doesn't know there's a such thing as a speed limit. |
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Essay 3
As I turned the ignition I could hear the exhaust start to rattle. In the rear view mirror, the fumes began to cloud and rise until it disappeared. I took a deep breath and saw it rise and disappear like the exhaust.
It was especially cold because my window was broken and permanently open a few inches. The auto body ago wanted $400 to fix it and I don't have that kind of money.
The kind of car a person drives can tell a lot about them. I drive a 2001 chevy s10 with the logo of the misfits on the back. Not really sure what that says about me.
My brother drives a Nissan xterra. It's full of clothes and soccer balls. He's a soccer coach at the local community college. People who have clothes in their car lack organization in their life... Or just the opposite. They're careful and prepared, ready to change on a moment's notice. It all depends on how their clothes are folded I guess.
Cars have always been a status symbol. When the first car was made available to the public only the rich could afford them. Now, it's all about what kind of car you drive. The spectrum ranges from 'mommy and daddy bought me an Audi for my sweet sixteen' to 'I bought this car that barely runs for 500 bucks and now I can't afford to get it fixed.'
I've been blessed into a family that can afford to pay for my car insurance. So paying for my own car isn't so bad in the long run, just as long as I don't break it.
Buying my own car, especially my first car, was a proud moment for me until I totaled it 6 months later.
It was especially cold because my window was broken and permanently open a few inches. The auto body ago wanted $400 to fix it and I don't have that kind of money.
The kind of car a person drives can tell a lot about them. I drive a 2001 chevy s10 with the logo of the misfits on the back. Not really sure what that says about me.
My brother drives a Nissan xterra. It's full of clothes and soccer balls. He's a soccer coach at the local community college. People who have clothes in their car lack organization in their life... Or just the opposite. They're careful and prepared, ready to change on a moment's notice. It all depends on how their clothes are folded I guess.
Cars have always been a status symbol. When the first car was made available to the public only the rich could afford them. Now, it's all about what kind of car you drive. The spectrum ranges from 'mommy and daddy bought me an Audi for my sweet sixteen' to 'I bought this car that barely runs for 500 bucks and now I can't afford to get it fixed.'
I've been blessed into a family that can afford to pay for my car insurance. So paying for my own car isn't so bad in the long run, just as long as I don't break it.
Buying my own car, especially my first car, was a proud moment for me until I totaled it 6 months later.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
brainStorm
I thought about writing about certain locations or objects that could be representative of other things to other people. It's all about perspective.
Possible topics include:
Possible topics include:
- A diner near my house called the Metro
- A Vacation I took every year until recently
- A Sweater
Thursday, October 13, 2011
what I want from comments
Please help me find some structure and form. I totally pooped this essay out and I can see there's some potential there but I was so unhappy with the form and order of it that I really hate it.
FORM
STRUCTURE
ORDER
and is the content worth writing about?
Do you agree or disagree?
FORM
STRUCTURE
ORDER
and is the content worth writing about?
Do you agree or disagree?
Essay 2
Adoptive Living
Hundreds of thousands of children are adopted every year all over the world. In 1990, I was one of them. Twenty one years later, I’ve yet to meet my biological parents.
People often ask me if I have the desire to meet them. Every time I’ve answered a simple no. I’ve gone my whole life without them, being raised by what I consider to be my ‘real’ parents. Why bother trying to find them now?
I never had any interest, that is, until the last three years. Each year my mom slipped some new piece of information about my biological parents into passing conversation.
At age 19, she told me their names. My father was Carl Webb. My mother was LeTisha Powers. They never married.
At age 20 she told me I had a sister. Her name was Marielle. She was a year and a half younger than me.
At age 21 she blew my mind.
It began very subtle...
“Have I ever told you about your grandmother?..
She was a very influential person in your parents lives. She was the one that suggested they put you up for adoption. She was a very smart person.
Then things got real weird..
You know how John had that big gambling problem? Well.. he gets it from your grandmother. One day, when your grandfather came home from work, she killed him! Then, she stuffed his body in the closet, took all their possessions, and ran off to Atlantic City.
I was in awe. My mouth hung open like the jaws of a claw machine at an arcade. Was she for real right now?
She’s still alive, you know. She’s in a prison in Pennsylvania. You can visit her if you want.
I wasn’t sure why, but I could not stop laughing. At first I didn’t believe her. I thought she was lying to me to insure that I, unlike my brother, never consider gambling. She swore to God she was telling the truth. To this day, I’m still unsure how to feel about this information. A part of me wants to visit her. But I’m fearful it will end up being creepy like Silence of The Lambs. I’ve played it out numerous times in my head, but I would never go through with it.
These days, I like to use that story as an ice breaker, because I still find it hilarious and it really shocks people. When I was younger, it seemed like I always had the same conversation a million times about how I’m adopted. I always got the same questions. Always answered them the same.
At 21, the subject only comes up when I bring new people over the house. The questions remain the same. The answers do not.
Being adopted, I’ve met a number of other adopted kids, as if we were all magnetically drawn to each other. In my experience, growing up around them, I feel that every adopted person I’ve met, or heard about or seen on television, all have an outstanding kind of quirk or attribute about them. This is a theory that I’ve read about online but is not considered realistic in professional psychology. It’s call Adopted Child Syndrome. It claims that adopted children are prone to act out, develop bad habits, and become violent. As someone who interacts with adopted children on a daily basis and have since I was but a boy, I find some truth in this theory.
People may argue that these traits can be found in any person, adopted or not. But I allege that, although they can be found in people, most times they are directly related to the person’s genetics or their upbringing if they are not adopted. For some adopted people it is very hard to relate and connect to their biological background.
Adopted children, have very little history of their family history or ethnic heritage. I think that the adopted find it hard to find an identity. Personally, I struggle to identify and belong to any group, but mostly cultural. People often assume I am from Latin or South America. I work in retail and spanish speaking customers come up to me and immediately speak to me in Spanish. Granted, I took five years of Spanish in high school and college, it is not my preferred language. Last week a teammate and friend of mine had to explain to some ignorant person that I was not a ‘Mexican.’
Many people wear their ethnicity on their sleeve, bring it up in conversation, or brag about their heritage, whether it be Italian, or Irish, or Latino, or Asian or any other culture. Growing up, other kids, mostly white, would insult me by calling me both nigger and spic. In fact, other minorities would make fun of me and call me white for not acting in accordance to what they thought was my ethnic upbringing. I understand that being proud of where you’re from can be important, but attacking someone for looking different or not acting stereotypically as they are expected is not a way to show pride in an appropriate manner.
Some people embrace this harassment and try to fit in to those stereotypes as a way to be accepted. I am not, nor will I ever be one of those people. I am my own person, not a color, or a country, or a stereotype. But, still people assume that we all have to act a certain way according to where we are from. This theory of Adopted Child Syndrome, accuses a group, one that I belong to, of being different and having stereotypical flaws and developing negative traits. What the theory fails to exhibit, is that adopted people also have traits that allow them to be amazing people. The late Steve Jobs, is the perfect example of an adopted person without these stereotypical traits that changed the world.
Adopted people search for a sense of identity, something that they can connect to on an intimate level that other people get to such as ethnicity, family dynamic, or a social group. My hope is that everyone develops a more individualistic approach to life and doesn’t care about belonging to a certain group.
Hundreds of thousands of children are adopted every year all over the world. In 1990, I was one of them. Twenty one years later, I’ve yet to meet my biological parents.
People often ask me if I have the desire to meet them. Every time I’ve answered a simple no. I’ve gone my whole life without them, being raised by what I consider to be my ‘real’ parents. Why bother trying to find them now?
I never had any interest, that is, until the last three years. Each year my mom slipped some new piece of information about my biological parents into passing conversation.
At age 19, she told me their names. My father was Carl Webb. My mother was LeTisha Powers. They never married.
At age 20 she told me I had a sister. Her name was Marielle. She was a year and a half younger than me.
At age 21 she blew my mind.
It began very subtle...
“Have I ever told you about your grandmother?..
She was a very influential person in your parents lives. She was the one that suggested they put you up for adoption. She was a very smart person.
Then things got real weird..
You know how John had that big gambling problem? Well.. he gets it from your grandmother. One day, when your grandfather came home from work, she killed him! Then, she stuffed his body in the closet, took all their possessions, and ran off to Atlantic City.
I was in awe. My mouth hung open like the jaws of a claw machine at an arcade. Was she for real right now?
She’s still alive, you know. She’s in a prison in Pennsylvania. You can visit her if you want.
I wasn’t sure why, but I could not stop laughing. At first I didn’t believe her. I thought she was lying to me to insure that I, unlike my brother, never consider gambling. She swore to God she was telling the truth. To this day, I’m still unsure how to feel about this information. A part of me wants to visit her. But I’m fearful it will end up being creepy like Silence of The Lambs. I’ve played it out numerous times in my head, but I would never go through with it.
These days, I like to use that story as an ice breaker, because I still find it hilarious and it really shocks people. When I was younger, it seemed like I always had the same conversation a million times about how I’m adopted. I always got the same questions. Always answered them the same.
At 21, the subject only comes up when I bring new people over the house. The questions remain the same. The answers do not.
Being adopted, I’ve met a number of other adopted kids, as if we were all magnetically drawn to each other. In my experience, growing up around them, I feel that every adopted person I’ve met, or heard about or seen on television, all have an outstanding kind of quirk or attribute about them. This is a theory that I’ve read about online but is not considered realistic in professional psychology. It’s call Adopted Child Syndrome. It claims that adopted children are prone to act out, develop bad habits, and become violent. As someone who interacts with adopted children on a daily basis and have since I was but a boy, I find some truth in this theory.
People may argue that these traits can be found in any person, adopted or not. But I allege that, although they can be found in people, most times they are directly related to the person’s genetics or their upbringing if they are not adopted. For some adopted people it is very hard to relate and connect to their biological background.
Adopted children, have very little history of their family history or ethnic heritage. I think that the adopted find it hard to find an identity. Personally, I struggle to identify and belong to any group, but mostly cultural. People often assume I am from Latin or South America. I work in retail and spanish speaking customers come up to me and immediately speak to me in Spanish. Granted, I took five years of Spanish in high school and college, it is not my preferred language. Last week a teammate and friend of mine had to explain to some ignorant person that I was not a ‘Mexican.’
Many people wear their ethnicity on their sleeve, bring it up in conversation, or brag about their heritage, whether it be Italian, or Irish, or Latino, or Asian or any other culture. Growing up, other kids, mostly white, would insult me by calling me both nigger and spic. In fact, other minorities would make fun of me and call me white for not acting in accordance to what they thought was my ethnic upbringing. I understand that being proud of where you’re from can be important, but attacking someone for looking different or not acting stereotypically as they are expected is not a way to show pride in an appropriate manner.
Some people embrace this harassment and try to fit in to those stereotypes as a way to be accepted. I am not, nor will I ever be one of those people. I am my own person, not a color, or a country, or a stereotype. But, still people assume that we all have to act a certain way according to where we are from. This theory of Adopted Child Syndrome, accuses a group, one that I belong to, of being different and having stereotypical flaws and developing negative traits. What the theory fails to exhibit, is that adopted people also have traits that allow them to be amazing people. The late Steve Jobs, is the perfect example of an adopted person without these stereotypical traits that changed the world.
Adopted people search for a sense of identity, something that they can connect to on an intimate level that other people get to such as ethnicity, family dynamic, or a social group. My hope is that everyone develops a more individualistic approach to life and doesn’t care about belonging to a certain group.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Critiquing my first piece
I thought my first essay turned out okay. I put a lot out there and told a good story. But, it was just that. It wasn't a good essay and that's what we were supposed to write. It was a very shallow short story about hating my job. It did not hold a candle to the readings we have done in class and this disappoints me. I will go back and revise and reread the essays from the book and fix it. Also I felt I did not use the literary techniques we reviewed in class well enough. That too, I will fix.
As for my second essay, It will be an essay not a story. That is for sure. I understand what components of the Creative Non Fiction essay I am lacking and will do my best to make sure they are present in this second writing. I think I have a subject all set and the underlying theme is stronger this time around.
As for my second essay, It will be an essay not a story. That is for sure. I understand what components of the Creative Non Fiction essay I am lacking and will do my best to make sure they are present in this second writing. I think I have a subject all set and the underlying theme is stronger this time around.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
First piece
I'm Slightly unsure Of what to write for my first piece but I like the idea of using the seasons as a pattern but also the idea of using journals or episodes. Most of what I write outside of class is in episode and I think that chronological order is an important aspect of writing. You need some kind of order otherwise the reader can't get a sense of where the story is going.
My biggest fear as s writer is to excrete some first person account of a boring life event like some of the readings assigned in many English classes or writing a straight up lie. If you're going to write non-fiction it obviously can't be fiction.
Id like to use parallelism and juxtaposition to create humor and relate to the reader as well but I fear that too many different literary devices can spoil the realism and natural flow of a piece.
My biggest fear as s writer is to excrete some first person account of a boring life event like some of the readings assigned in many English classes or writing a straight up lie. If you're going to write non-fiction it obviously can't be fiction.
Id like to use parallelism and juxtaposition to create humor and relate to the reader as well but I fear that too many different literary devices can spoil the realism and natural flow of a piece.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Defining Creative Non-fiction
What is creative non fiction?
Before classes began I had no idea what to expect out of creative non fiction. The readings thus far have opened my eyes a bit as to what to expect out of CNF but this week's readings assignments have given me the impression that CNF is open to a good amount of interpretation.
However there seem to be a few consistencies that all three authors as well as I myself agree upon. Creative non fiction must be just that. Non fiction. It should be based on true events and characters, how loosely you'd like to 'base' it is up to you as an author I suppose. Personally, I prefer it be as tightly accurate to the truth as possible.
Kidder states that "Point of view is primary; it affects everything else including voice." Voice is a very important part of defining creative non-fiction. CNF is about giving people a voice, a spotlight. It's telling someone's story so that they are heard, and people who have similarities can reach out and connect to that voice. It can be your own voice, or those of others who you have encountered.
Another major part of CNF is character development. You want the readers to really get to know the characters on a deeper level, a level that may parallel their own values, opinions, or experiences.
In Lopates' article he explains that character development occurs in expressing one's opionions, prejudices, half-baked ideas, but that you must always analyze the flaws in your thinking. He also mentions that research or contextualization is key. An accurate account of non-fiction, no matter how creative and narrative it may be must always have accurate and factual background information.
Brett Lott does the best job of attempting to define CNF upfront to the reader. He makes a point that I agree with when he says that CNF is the attempt to keep from passing altogether away the lives we have lived. CNF can be as entertaining, emotional and adventurous as fiction but allows the reader to connect to the characters even more because they are, or are based on real people. The situations that occur in CNF are relatable but not so much that they become boring and mundane, this can be achieved through voice.
On of us in class read from their journal last week about an encounter they had with a drug dealer, while living in the city. I really appreciated them sharing their personal writing because I could see the parallels to real life in it. But at the end he took it to another level. Which is exactly what readers look for in CNF. There's relatablility there, but also adventure. It is what makes creative non fiction different from simple non fiction. It's creative. CNF writers have the ability to take real life situations, and make them entertaining through literary techniques.
If I had to define Creative Non-fiction it would be a genre of literature in which true events are expressed in a way that readers can relate, enjoy, and envelop themselves in, without being too close to the normalcies of every day life. This can be achieved through perspective, voice, and expression of personal opinion. Luckily, it isn't my responsibility to define CNF, so even if I am way off the mark no one can give me a hard time about it. But now that I have some idea of what it is, it interests me much more than before.
Before classes began I had no idea what to expect out of creative non fiction. The readings thus far have opened my eyes a bit as to what to expect out of CNF but this week's readings assignments have given me the impression that CNF is open to a good amount of interpretation.
However there seem to be a few consistencies that all three authors as well as I myself agree upon. Creative non fiction must be just that. Non fiction. It should be based on true events and characters, how loosely you'd like to 'base' it is up to you as an author I suppose. Personally, I prefer it be as tightly accurate to the truth as possible.
Kidder states that "Point of view is primary; it affects everything else including voice." Voice is a very important part of defining creative non-fiction. CNF is about giving people a voice, a spotlight. It's telling someone's story so that they are heard, and people who have similarities can reach out and connect to that voice. It can be your own voice, or those of others who you have encountered.
Another major part of CNF is character development. You want the readers to really get to know the characters on a deeper level, a level that may parallel their own values, opinions, or experiences.
In Lopates' article he explains that character development occurs in expressing one's opionions, prejudices, half-baked ideas, but that you must always analyze the flaws in your thinking. He also mentions that research or contextualization is key. An accurate account of non-fiction, no matter how creative and narrative it may be must always have accurate and factual background information.
Brett Lott does the best job of attempting to define CNF upfront to the reader. He makes a point that I agree with when he says that CNF is the attempt to keep from passing altogether away the lives we have lived. CNF can be as entertaining, emotional and adventurous as fiction but allows the reader to connect to the characters even more because they are, or are based on real people. The situations that occur in CNF are relatable but not so much that they become boring and mundane, this can be achieved through voice.
On of us in class read from their journal last week about an encounter they had with a drug dealer, while living in the city. I really appreciated them sharing their personal writing because I could see the parallels to real life in it. But at the end he took it to another level. Which is exactly what readers look for in CNF. There's relatablility there, but also adventure. It is what makes creative non fiction different from simple non fiction. It's creative. CNF writers have the ability to take real life situations, and make them entertaining through literary techniques.
If I had to define Creative Non-fiction it would be a genre of literature in which true events are expressed in a way that readers can relate, enjoy, and envelop themselves in, without being too close to the normalcies of every day life. This can be achieved through perspective, voice, and expression of personal opinion. Luckily, it isn't my responsibility to define CNF, so even if I am way off the mark no one can give me a hard time about it. But now that I have some idea of what it is, it interests me much more than before.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Grealy's Mirrorings
Grealy exposes the reader to her inner most thoughts and the process through which she conducts herself. Her self image issues reach out to readers and allow them to have a direct connection through commonalities in their own self image issues.
The piece is in no chronological order but reads as an essay, making her point known both in the introduction as well as the conclusion. Throughout the piece she struggles to hide herself from her own image and wonders if she will ever accept who she truly is.
Through major events such as chemotherapy, and s run in with some rude men, we see the putter struggles age must endure in addition to get own internal conflicts.
The fact that she was brave enough to publicly address her own personalizes so that others can connect and find strength. Is a testament to her taking her issues head on and having the courage to help others take on their issues as well.
The piece is in no chronological order but reads as an essay, making her point known both in the introduction as well as the conclusion. Throughout the piece she struggles to hide herself from her own image and wonders if she will ever accept who she truly is.
Through major events such as chemotherapy, and s run in with some rude men, we see the putter struggles age must endure in addition to get own internal conflicts.
The fact that she was brave enough to publicly address her own personalizes so that others can connect and find strength. Is a testament to her taking her issues head on and having the courage to help others take on their issues as well.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
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