My final post :(
I wrote this is class the other day using the words "umbrella" and "bright."
Kurt grabbed an umbrella and slipped on his new pair of running shoes. He had a long way to run to her place. He ran in place a couple of times to get his heart pumping. The sun began to paint moisture onto his skin. With the umbrella tucked under his arm, he started to run. His footsteps were methodic as his feet married with the concrete—a new piece of pavement with each step. Always new cracks to skip, new pebbles to slip on, new gum left by some other riff raff before him. Kurt’s gut began to scream—only a little ways left. His skin was beginning to cook and his body was begging him to stop this mad dash. Useless, and he wasn’t going to get anywhere anyway. The thudding inside his chest began to pump faster than his legs were moving, and the umbrella was chaffing his underarm. Kurt closed his eyes because the sun was bright. And Pam was bright, so he kept running. As he went, he began to feel to his heart slowing to a crawl. Finally, it crawled to a gentle buzz. His chest felt concave and he tried to just keep walking. The sound of his footsteps reverberated in his ear. The lampposts turned on and were bright, but artificial when compared to the sun. The darkness lapped the perspiration from his skin and his heart was completely stopped. He got to her house and hit the door. Pam opened it. He handed her the umbrella for when it rained.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Class Exercise. Word: Reflection
In the Psychiatric Ward
The guy next to me was snoring, even though he was awake. The sounds from his Mario game were muffled by the people talking in the rooms surrounding us. Sitting in the alcove waiting room, we couldn’t see anyone. We could hear their footsteps and the doors creak as they opened and shut them. There was a picture of a parrot on the wall that was screaming “yellow.” It was all loud. I leaned my head against the wall. There was another picture on the wall of a skull and it said “death.” There was a man in a top hat that had been staring at it ever since I had been there. He never even blinked, but he just started ahead. I stood up because my legs hurt and I was curious. I walked to where he was standing and looked at the picture. I was startled when I saw myself looking back. And I realized the skull and my twin were reflections. I looked at the man in the top hat. His face was covered in flesh. Then I looked in the mirror and: bones. I looked at myself in the mirror and thought I looked pretty okay, until green smoke started to flit out of my mouth. Slowly the green smoke began to tear away my skin, too. I flinched but it didn’t really hurt. Not really. I looked at the man with a top hat for an explanation. He said, “It is just beginning.”
Three Reading Responses (make up)
Here are three reading responses in one—all revolving around chapter 10. 600 words. Ugh. : p
Crowding and leaping—two techniques that I had never considered until this chapter of Steering the Craft. Ursula K. Le Guin in reference to crowding says, “It’s what we mean when…never use ten vague words where two will do.” I am guilty of overcrowding. I remember once in high school a friend was editing a manuscript of mine and she crossed out words that were “unnecessary.” I didn’t understand her logic—I thought more words meant longer and that longer meant better. Through this class, I’ve begun to realize that I actually prefer to be shorter. I thought about what would I like, as a reader. I am drawn to shorter stories and poems, and I think most people would agree there. I have discovered I have short tolerance when it comes to short stories or poetry. When I wrote my first short story for this class, I was working toward page length and trying my hardest to make it long. I look back on that particular short story and am really embarrassed by it. I know there was some great use of language imbedded in it, but the story itself was cliché. I remember then one day when I was writing another story and happened to be short on time. That short story ended up being only a page long—but it’s one of my favorites that I have written. I’m learning that length really almost means nothing….and perhaps the shorter, more concise, less wordy a story or poem is—then all the better.
Leaping is the technique that I am making myself familiar with. I have a fear of confusing my readers. I know a lot of times I will let my parents or friends read some of the pieces I have written and I get the typical, “It’s great! But I have no clue what you’re talking about.” I get really frustrated when that happens, so I then try to include details and make my message clearer. I’ve realized lately that sometimes details make a short story messy and really cliché. A lot of times my explanations are outright boring, and really don’t even help with the story. Sometimes the reader doesn’t want to know why Bill just walked into the bank…they want to know the action—what is he doing? What does it look like? Where is the action? When practicing leaping, certain “unimportant” informational details are left out so that the story can progress. I all actuality, I think this technique is one of the best that I have learned in this class. I’m learning what is important to leave in my pieces, and what I can do without. Crossing out portions of my work sometimes is really painful…taking all the time to write something to simply discard seems like a waste of time. I was mulling this over when I started to consider my English Classes—in English, we right multiple analytical responses about whatever text we are reading. Through this process, we throw out the irrelevant “junk” to get to the “meat and potatoes” of our Essays. I have found, though, that sometimes the responses that I discard end up being the introduction or conclusion to my Essay. In the same way, some of the sentence that I cross out for my poetry or short stories could most definitely be incorporated in some other work piece that I’m writing. Nothing anyone ever writes should be “thrown away” completely…who knows when it might be needed again.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Classmate Response 4/23/11
A doll, like one of those models in my mother's magazines, she was beautiful. Her hair a golden color, like crushed lemon on sun. I was born to follow in anticipation. My jealousy would one day engulf me, suffocate me, and I would die. Green and cold, beneath the grass, never achieving, never smiling, never knowing I was beautiful. I became aware of the fluff of my hips at sixteen. Awaken: a winged umbrella, an arm, my hip soaked with the beginning of the end.
I think I posted about something of Emily's last week, too; but I liked this so much that I had to give some feedback. The clast two sentences are freakin AWESOME and should go much further, in my opinion. I also love the line "like crushed lemon on sun." Beautiful. This piece as a whole is beautiful, though. Emily uses soft and sweet language to discuss an unhappy topic. The way I read is that the blonde girl is potentially a sister that the narrator is jealous of and eventually dies (suicide?). So sad...but love the way this is written. My only criticism is that it should be longer!! :)
I think I posted about something of Emily's last week, too; but I liked this so much that I had to give some feedback. The clast two sentences are freakin AWESOME and should go much further, in my opinion. I also love the line "like crushed lemon on sun." Beautiful. This piece as a whole is beautiful, though. Emily uses soft and sweet language to discuss an unhappy topic. The way I read is that the blonde girl is potentially a sister that the narrator is jealous of and eventually dies (suicide?). So sad...but love the way this is written. My only criticism is that it should be longer!! :)
Junkyard Quotes 4/23/11
"If people don't like you, you must be doing something right."
"The way I see it is the more people that hate you, the less you have to deal with."
"I'm so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I'm saying."
"The average woman would rather have beauty than brains because the average man can see better than he can think."
"Just remember--if the world didn't suck, we'd all fall off."
"The way I see it is the more people that hate you, the less you have to deal with."
"I'm so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I'm saying."
"The average woman would rather have beauty than brains because the average man can see better than he can think."
"Just remember--if the world didn't suck, we'd all fall off."
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Free Writes- 1 for last week, 1 for this week
Two more letters. Sorry if anyone finds offense in these...I'm really not a pessimistic person and I seriously don't hate the government at all...it was just more interesting to write about a potentially bad situation than an optomistic viewpoint (which I ironically have).
Letter 2
Trillions of your dollars are buried into the camps. They were once your dollars and borrowed dollars. Now they are hidden camps. I’ll call them camps, because camps make it sound better than it really was and my intention isn’t to scare you.
Well, maybe it is.
I bet you’re picturing something really horrific now. Bet it doesn’t come close to what I’ve seen. Instead of giving you a picture, I’ll give you a sound: A never ending belting of human voices, screeching, terrifying, nauseating sound that make your heart beat fast and glaze your body with sweat. Salt. Once you’ve been underground for a while, this sound becomes normal. I think if there had ever been silence, we all would have died. There were rumors of what made people scream. A withered old woman once told me that it was a pasta machine…but for people. Population control at its finest. Did you ever wonder why everyone was pro-choice? Or the worries of global warming because there were too many people on the earth? Well, we’re taking care of that problem…down here in hell.
Letter 3
This is my final letter because I’m about to take the walk for the last time. It was a long walk, and down a hallway of sorts. The smell was earth blended with human. There was no ceiling, really. Just mud. I began to wonder what exactly was holding this prison together. It felt like some imaginable force had burrowed its way through the underground and carved out a nook for us. God. Science. Technology. I think we should have stuck with the first one.
I’ve done this walk for what seems like a million times since I’ve been here. But I know today’s the day. They told me, isn’t that sad? To tell someone they are about to be killed? I wonder what it will feel like. I know I’ll turn left at the end instead of right, which led to more “prison cells.” I know what I go left, I won’t come back—they never come back.
If you were walking down the hallway with me you wish you were wearing shoes. You would wish that you had light, but we don’t have light anymore. I don’t think Hell has light either, actually. Maybe flames. If you had light, you wouldn’t need someone to lead you like will be leading me this afternoon. I don’t even know who that guy is…a guard? The president? Charlie Sheen? Who the heck knows. Whoever he is, he’ll be my last contact with this world. I’ll pretend that it’s you and that you can save me. Read this, and read it carefully. Pay attention to what’s happening and take a stand. Don’t let this happen again…
Friday, April 15, 2011
Reading Response 4/15/11
I've been thinking more and more about what I didn't like about Willi since Professor Edwards asked me in class this week. In English class, I wrote a paper about the irony of Willi's mother's modest attire and his sexual attraction to her. I guess the more that I analyzed that, the more I found myself not enjoying the story. Though this is something that occurs in life, it was distasteful for reading to me. So basically, I just don't like the story. I can't really find any other way to say it. I don't like the scene with Willi's father and the dogs; it's blunt and I just personally do not enjoy reading it. Like I said though, I can appreciate the text. When someone brought up the potential of it being an allegory of World War 1, I found myself liking it a little more. I can't say that I would particularly "change" anything about the story because everything in it is crucial. And I can say positively that I like the language in the first few pages, even though I needed a map to traverse through it the first time. I realize that most people would say that my evidence for not liking it is minuscule. Simply put, however, it isn't my taste. Yet, I can appreciate it for what it is--I just don't want to read it again.
Classmate Response 4/15/11
I wasn't sure who I was meeting, a stranger in black, the mystique, the curiosity beat thoroughly, circulating blood throughout my body. A surge of anticipation shot through my sweaty palms. I'd seen many men before, dressed in nice coats with fat wallets, but never before a religious man; furthermore, one interested in me. My heels hurriedly clanked, as I paced on the concrete slabs, awaiting my mysterious guest. I took a puff and exhaled, allowing the smoke to encompass me, like a cloud of serenity.
The stranger approached slowly as if allowing a surrender to be known. His face was different than I had imagined, softer, more soothing, while his eyes remain lifeless, deserted years before. I wondered what had tainted him and what kept him alive, minimally at best, to bring him to this street. My heart began to ring rather than pound, similar to a siren, echoing deeply in my thoughts.
I really enjoyed reading this. In class I also tried writing something from Stella's perspective and quickly abandoned it because it became SO dramatic; therefore, I appreciate the way that Emily wrote this after attempting (and failing) to do it on my own.
What I like: The first section is great; the anxiousness is conveyed extremely well. I suggest maybe adding a few nervous gestures for Stella to make to even further solidify her nervousness. This way, you can "say it without saying it" in a sense...use actions to depict what is being said. My favorite part is that Stella noticed his eyes and wonders what keeps him alive. This literally could be part of the story, because Leo also is entranced by Stella's eyes. So...I love this.
Suggestions: There are some awkward comma-providing run-on sentence that should be edited. Particularly, the second and third sentence of the second section (I have labeled it in bold font.) Other than that, I think this is great!
The stranger approached slowly as if allowing a surrender to be known. His face was different than I had imagined, softer, more soothing, while his eyes remain lifeless, deserted years before. I wondered what had tainted him and what kept him alive, minimally at best, to bring him to this street. My heart began to ring rather than pound, similar to a siren, echoing deeply in my thoughts.
I really enjoyed reading this. In class I also tried writing something from Stella's perspective and quickly abandoned it because it became SO dramatic; therefore, I appreciate the way that Emily wrote this after attempting (and failing) to do it on my own.
What I like: The first section is great; the anxiousness is conveyed extremely well. I suggest maybe adding a few nervous gestures for Stella to make to even further solidify her nervousness. This way, you can "say it without saying it" in a sense...use actions to depict what is being said. My favorite part is that Stella noticed his eyes and wonders what keeps him alive. This literally could be part of the story, because Leo also is entranced by Stella's eyes. So...I love this.
Suggestions: There are some awkward comma-providing run-on sentence that should be edited. Particularly, the second and third sentence of the second section (I have labeled it in bold font.) Other than that, I think this is great!
Random Impulse
This is a prologue to the collection of letters that I have been writing for the past couple of weeks. After posting one last week, I felt that there needed to be some sort of disclaimer so that my audience would not be too confused. Basically, these letter were written by someone who has been captured by the government and held in a human population control center. These letters are found sometime after these incidents in the distant future. I haven't yet decided on whether or not the government has lost complete control--my plot is loosely bound and developing as I go. This is when some person comes across these letters. I write this in class as the exercise of a scene without a particular character. Enjoy--
The treeless forest. Burning, that's what it looks like when the trees lie around in black powdery fragments. Once earth has been burned, it becomes barren. The scene is nnestled in a detached alcove, one that only a very adventurous traveler could happen upon. In the ground are metal doors, built adjacent to Hell. rusty hinges suggest that they wouldn't even open anymore, not matter how hard they were pulled. No matter what type of strength was exerted, no matter how they were prodded or convinced. Still, they want to open their mouths and tell a story, but the crust of dirt and the threat of exposure silences them. A green tin canister is half buried in the earth--evidence. It's lock has been melted off; the contents vomited on the . ground. Crumbling parchment, words written in red ink. Blood? It's screaming. Screaming...
The treeless forest. Burning, that's what it looks like when the trees lie around in black powdery fragments. Once earth has been burned, it becomes barren. The scene is nnestled in a detached alcove, one that only a very adventurous traveler could happen upon. In the ground are metal doors, built adjacent to Hell. rusty hinges suggest that they wouldn't even open anymore, not matter how hard they were pulled. No matter what type of strength was exerted, no matter how they were prodded or convinced. Still, they want to open their mouths and tell a story, but the crust of dirt and the threat of exposure silences them. A green tin canister is half buried in the earth--evidence. It's lock has been melted off; the contents vomited on the . ground. Crumbling parchment, words written in red ink. Blood? It's screaming. Screaming...
Junk Yard Quotes 4/15/11
"One of the most tragic things I know about human nature is that all of us tend to put off living. We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon--instead of enjoying the roses that are blooming right outside our windo today."
-Dale Carnegie
"Only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile."
-Albert Einstein
"This time, like all times, is a very good one, if we but know what to do with it."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
"Courage is doing what you're afraid to do. There can be no courage unless you're scared."
-Eddie Rickenbacker
"Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to you're own.
-Robert A. Heinlein
-Dale Carnegie
"Only a life lived for others is a life worthwhile."
-Albert Einstein
"This time, like all times, is a very good one, if we but know what to do with it."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
"Courage is doing what you're afraid to do. There can be no courage unless you're scared."
-Eddie Rickenbacker
"Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to you're own.
-Robert A. Heinlein
Monday, April 11, 2011
Free Write (last week)
Forgot to post this...it's what we wrote in class about The Magic Barrel.
Salzman peered out his office window. She should be here soon, he had basically begged her--and this had to work. He squinted through his smudged glasses and caught a glimpse of her in a crowd full of strangers. She was impossible to miss; dressed head to toe in yellow, with a sun hat and parcel to match. Embarrassing. He watched her walk. She was beautiful, if nothing else. Why couldn't her actions match her face? Salzman rubbed his withered hands together, formulating the words he would say to Stella, hoping they would make sense. He was ready to set her on that long train to redemption, and never, ever look back. The bell on the door gave a ring when she walked in. Salzman stayed poised, looking out the window through his dirty glasses for a moment before he turned to tell Stella his great news.
Salzman peered out his office window. She should be here soon, he had basically begged her--and this had to work. He squinted through his smudged glasses and caught a glimpse of her in a crowd full of strangers. She was impossible to miss; dressed head to toe in yellow, with a sun hat and parcel to match. Embarrassing. He watched her walk. She was beautiful, if nothing else. Why couldn't her actions match her face? Salzman rubbed his withered hands together, formulating the words he would say to Stella, hoping they would make sense. He was ready to set her on that long train to redemption, and never, ever look back. The bell on the door gave a ring when she walked in. Salzman stayed poised, looking out the window through his dirty glasses for a moment before he turned to tell Stella his great news.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Reading Response 4/10/11
“The Fat Girl” is not one of my favorite short stories. It’s not really the genre that I prefer reading, so maybe that is the reason; but even besides that, I was really unsatisfied with the ending. I wanted the main character to be released from her food addiction. While I thought it was great that she accepted her body and herself the way that she was, if only for health reasons, I wish that she could have been delivered from what I consider to be an addiction. A lot of people that over-eat do it because of an emotional trauma. I think that the main character over-ate because of rejection from her mother. When that wasn’t resolved or even considered, I found myself a little disappointed. When we discussed this text in class, someone brought up the fact that the main character was never content when she was skinny. Yet, I would also argue that she wasn’t very happy overweight, either--until the end, that is. Even still, I felt that that happiness was not going to last. Food can’t replace companionship; and I feel that is was the main character was lacking in the first place that drove her to overeating. Besides what I consider flaws in the storyline, I liked the author’s writing style and would probably read more of her work in the future.
Reading Response 4/10/11
I loved reading "The Magic Barrel." I also had to read it for English 1102 and write a paper on it. For my paper, I discussed Stella's white dress and red shoes, in opposition of Leo's vision of her in a red dress with white shoes. My interpretation of the story was that Salzman's perception of Stella was either flawed or exaggerated and that because of this, he led Leo to believe that she was an immoral person. In class we discussed whether or not Salzman intentionally set the two up; I still firmly believe he connected the two of them because he wanted his "immoral" daughter to connect with a "religious" man. I think Salzman used reverse psychology on Leo to make him want Stella. In regards to the end, my interpretation now is that Salzman is praying for the redemption of his daughter. Though he believes that Stella is "spiritually dead," I believe that Salzman believes that there is still hope for her to be "saved" or "religious." After talking thinking on this more after class, this is my official reading if this text. I'm probably not going to change my mind again...probably.
Classmate Response 4/10/11
Skittles of the rainbow
dropping off
one by one into a dark maze
heading to the bottom
of the slate rectangle
that holds this candy
in the palm of it's hand
until it's all eaten by the shark
that controls it's taste.
This poem is different and I think it deserves more explination and detail. My first question is what or who is "It?" "It" holds candy in the palm of "it's" hand until the shark eats the candy. And then, where did the shark come from? What does this shark symbolize or represent? Whose taste does the shark control? And what do you mean by taste? It's such an interesting image, so I think it should be played with a little more so we can see what you're really saying.
I like that you're talking about skittles--I suggest playing with a color theme more or the taste. Since you've got taste later on, I think it would be neat to pick that one. Play with the sourness of the lemon, tart line, sweet cherry, medicine like grape. :) You could go so many diffrent directions by playing off the different taste of each skittle. Keep playing with this piece, it could really be awesome!
dropping off
one by one into a dark maze
heading to the bottom
of the slate rectangle
that holds this candy
in the palm of it's hand
until it's all eaten by the shark
that controls it's taste.
This poem is different and I think it deserves more explination and detail. My first question is what or who is "It?" "It" holds candy in the palm of "it's" hand until the shark eats the candy. And then, where did the shark come from? What does this shark symbolize or represent? Whose taste does the shark control? And what do you mean by taste? It's such an interesting image, so I think it should be played with a little more so we can see what you're really saying.
I like that you're talking about skittles--I suggest playing with a color theme more or the taste. Since you've got taste later on, I think it would be neat to pick that one. Play with the sourness of the lemon, tart line, sweet cherry, medicine like grape. :) You could go so many diffrent directions by playing off the different taste of each skittle. Keep playing with this piece, it could really be awesome!
Free Write 4/10/11
Letter one:
Dear Stranger,
I'm still wearing stripes, because I have to. They don't let you off easy anymore; not like they used to. Long gone are the days when criminals lounged in comfortable jail cells, putting off punishing them for murder with mediocre evidence against them. That is the past...this, well this is now for me. Hopefully it's the past for you. Hopefully you aren't living what I am.
My mother always told me things were changing. It is easy to ignore what you don't want to hear. I would tune out her words, change the television channel, ignore the newspaper headlines. I liked hearing, "United! United under no one! United under ourselves!" It made me feel empowered. Sounds good, right? Who knew that would lead to our own demise?
I'll tell you that I stole. I did it with no shame or depth. When you're cold and starving, you'll do more, go further, than you ever imagined. And when you're still wearing stripes, you'll never forget what you did. You'll still be theirs. Wandering in their territory, letting them devour you...I'll stop their. I don't know how much you can take, how much you can understand, how much you already know.
I do wonder, though, if people will remember us. Or if this era will continue forever...or if it will be forgotten. That's why I'm writing it down.
Dear Stranger,
I'm still wearing stripes, because I have to. They don't let you off easy anymore; not like they used to. Long gone are the days when criminals lounged in comfortable jail cells, putting off punishing them for murder with mediocre evidence against them. That is the past...this, well this is now for me. Hopefully it's the past for you. Hopefully you aren't living what I am.
My mother always told me things were changing. It is easy to ignore what you don't want to hear. I would tune out her words, change the television channel, ignore the newspaper headlines. I liked hearing, "United! United under no one! United under ourselves!" It made me feel empowered. Sounds good, right? Who knew that would lead to our own demise?
I'll tell you that I stole. I did it with no shame or depth. When you're cold and starving, you'll do more, go further, than you ever imagined. And when you're still wearing stripes, you'll never forget what you did. You'll still be theirs. Wandering in their territory, letting them devour you...I'll stop their. I don't know how much you can take, how much you can understand, how much you already know.
I do wonder, though, if people will remember us. Or if this era will continue forever...or if it will be forgotten. That's why I'm writing it down.
Junk Yard Quotes 4/10/11
Tennyson Quotes
Better not be at all than not be noble.
Dreams are true while they last, and why do we not live in dreams?
Knowledge comes but wisdom lingers.
Love is the only gold.
Words, like nature, half reveal ann half conceal the soul within.
Better not be at all than not be noble.
Dreams are true while they last, and why do we not live in dreams?
Knowledge comes but wisdom lingers.
Love is the only gold.
Words, like nature, half reveal ann half conceal the soul within.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Three Makeup Reading Responses
Got a tad behind on reading responses! One of these is for the week of (3/21/11) and the next two are from last week (3/28/11)
Steering The Craft Chapter 3
Chapter three is all about sentence length. I find myself varying on sentence length occasionally when I'm writing something, but I think I should take it into greater consideration from here on out. I believe I have always understood the theory of sentence length having great impact on my work, but I have not given it enough attention in the past. Ursula K. LeGuin said that "Prose consisting entirely of short, syntactically simple sentences is monotonous, choppy, a blunt instrument." While I agree with this statement for the most part, I find myself recalling a short story that I wrote. In my story, I was trying to play up a little "emotionlessness" and felt that short sentences did the work for me. I guess this is one of those rules that are allowed to be broken occassionally! Otherwise, short sentences just remind me of third grade. On the opposite side, I find long sentences exhausting. I skim them so rapidly that I miss half the beauty of the words. The example from Jane Austen's Mansfield park really is a beautiful piece, but I would be able to follow and appreciate it better if it was broken up in a few places. Just my oppinion. :)
Steering the Craft Chapter 5
This chapter was on Adjective and Adverb. The exercise that we did in class oracticing this was one of the most effective exercises I have ever done. Though I wasn't thrilled with the outcome of what I wrote, I saw the effectivenss of the adjectives and adverbs that I chose. To be honest, I didn't even realize what I was doing. I was just changing words here and there, not entirely seeing the effect until after a couple of different themse. Another reason I enjoyed the exercise was because I find myself writing in the same voice with a lot of my prose pieces. Though I do believe consistency is a good thing--too much is simply too much. This exercise allowed me to play a little with my voice, which I found very helpful. A good point that Ursula K. LeGuin had in the book was the overuse of adjectives like "great" and adverbs like "suddenly" had cause them to really lose their meaning. I never really lean towards the word "great" but I know without doubt that I have used "suddenly" in a cheesy fashion. I love how LeGuin says that "somehow" is a weasel word. I agree one million percent! In tutoring, I've read the "somehow" sentences that students have written in their essays. These sentences are weak--just make up something for goodness sake! ;)
Steering the Craft Chapter 6
Chapter six in entitled, "Subject Pronoun andVerb." The first section of this chapter is about passive voice. This is something else that I may have neglected in past writing. The book later discusses verb tense. This is something that I take a bit to the extreme. I absolutely love writing in present tense. Something about it seems more alive and genuine. Writing in present tense is more natural to me...I have to force myself to write in past. But I also love reading books in present tense, too. It's always somthing that stands out to me.
The book then addresses person of the verb. The exercise we did in class on this was loads of fun. I have known for a while, though, that I perfer writing in first person. However, I thought it was fun playing around with third and second persons (especially snce I had never tackeled second person before). The hardest part in writing a story or a novel in first person is that you have to solve ever problem you create with one character, whereas with third person, the reader is able to see different perspectives and learn about situations before the main character sometimes. I have read books that are in first person where the author still jumps around to other characters to avoid this problem. (I actually even did it myself once.) Later, I felt like this was almost cheating. The beauty of first person is that readers feel more intimate with the main character. When the author abandons him even for a brief while, that connection is lost.
Steering The Craft Chapter 3
Chapter three is all about sentence length. I find myself varying on sentence length occasionally when I'm writing something, but I think I should take it into greater consideration from here on out. I believe I have always understood the theory of sentence length having great impact on my work, but I have not given it enough attention in the past. Ursula K. LeGuin said that "Prose consisting entirely of short, syntactically simple sentences is monotonous, choppy, a blunt instrument." While I agree with this statement for the most part, I find myself recalling a short story that I wrote. In my story, I was trying to play up a little "emotionlessness" and felt that short sentences did the work for me. I guess this is one of those rules that are allowed to be broken occassionally! Otherwise, short sentences just remind me of third grade. On the opposite side, I find long sentences exhausting. I skim them so rapidly that I miss half the beauty of the words. The example from Jane Austen's Mansfield park really is a beautiful piece, but I would be able to follow and appreciate it better if it was broken up in a few places. Just my oppinion. :)
Steering the Craft Chapter 5
This chapter was on Adjective and Adverb. The exercise that we did in class oracticing this was one of the most effective exercises I have ever done. Though I wasn't thrilled with the outcome of what I wrote, I saw the effectivenss of the adjectives and adverbs that I chose. To be honest, I didn't even realize what I was doing. I was just changing words here and there, not entirely seeing the effect until after a couple of different themse. Another reason I enjoyed the exercise was because I find myself writing in the same voice with a lot of my prose pieces. Though I do believe consistency is a good thing--too much is simply too much. This exercise allowed me to play a little with my voice, which I found very helpful. A good point that Ursula K. LeGuin had in the book was the overuse of adjectives like "great" and adverbs like "suddenly" had cause them to really lose their meaning. I never really lean towards the word "great" but I know without doubt that I have used "suddenly" in a cheesy fashion. I love how LeGuin says that "somehow" is a weasel word. I agree one million percent! In tutoring, I've read the "somehow" sentences that students have written in their essays. These sentences are weak--just make up something for goodness sake! ;)
Steering the Craft Chapter 6
Chapter six in entitled, "Subject Pronoun andVerb." The first section of this chapter is about passive voice. This is something else that I may have neglected in past writing. The book later discusses verb tense. This is something that I take a bit to the extreme. I absolutely love writing in present tense. Something about it seems more alive and genuine. Writing in present tense is more natural to me...I have to force myself to write in past. But I also love reading books in present tense, too. It's always somthing that stands out to me.
The book then addresses person of the verb. The exercise we did in class on this was loads of fun. I have known for a while, though, that I perfer writing in first person. However, I thought it was fun playing around with third and second persons (especially snce I had never tackeled second person before). The hardest part in writing a story or a novel in first person is that you have to solve ever problem you create with one character, whereas with third person, the reader is able to see different perspectives and learn about situations before the main character sometimes. I have read books that are in first person where the author still jumps around to other characters to avoid this problem. (I actually even did it myself once.) Later, I felt like this was almost cheating. The beauty of first person is that readers feel more intimate with the main character. When the author abandons him even for a brief while, that connection is lost.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
(2) Free Writes 3/31/11 and (2) to Make Up Last Week.
I'm in a hurry, but I got no where to be. My tattered jeans scrape unforgiving cement while by duffle bag bounces on my back. It thumps to the rythm of my solitairy footsteps. I'm alone now, now that we're over. I can talk to nobody about it, because everytime I admit it aloud it gets worse. My keys jangle in my pocket. they go to nothing but make me feel like I actually have somewhere to go. I feel like I have more than the hobo walking next to me. But I bet he is a screw up, just like me. But hey--I have a duffle bag and a ring of keys. Things are looking up.
I've never had much, but I did have her. Her skin was soft and white,compared against mine. People talked...but ain't that why we do the junk we do? So people will talk? And we were serious as two kids could ever be. I pretend now while I'm walkin' that I'm about to go meet her. I imagine that we're about to be reunited after a long days work from me and with her sparkely from hours of household chores. Lookin' like June Cleaver maybe. I imagine that she molds her thin lips to mine...murmers hello.
The mush on the street seeps into my shoes and makes my feet wet. I curse, and hurry, looking for a place to be. She ain't part of me anymore. I hate the crap about "two soulds becoming one" but I think it might have happened to me, cause I'm missing something. Missing her, and jacket, and an old baseball cap.
We talked a lot. We faught a lot. about her parents. They called me a thug. I'd fight that with all my guts back in those days. Right now, I'd have to agree with them. It really ain't that I'm a bad person...well maybe it is that. Maybe we're all bad people.
I was driving home from her parents. Just now I step in some indistinguishable crud on the street. I keep on walking so no one will see. But yeah, I was real mad at her when I shouldn't have been...she couldn't help that they hated me. I was driving too fast for sure...but I saw it coming. I saw the car. She called me a bastard, and idiot, some stuff I won't repeast cause I'm still trying to forget. I realize now she was just griping...being a woman and all. That car was coming fast around that curve. My fingers twitched. I jerked hard. My old baseball cap flew off her head and into the floorboard.
It didn't work. I'm still alive.
-This is creepy and weird..I don't know why I keep writing creepy and weird but it happens a lot these days. Anyway, I just want to say that the whole purppose of this piece is to illustrate what I believe about all people being born with immoral or "bad" tendencies. Anger builds, people explode. These emotions and actions have to be addressed. This is my representation of a situation where it isn't.
A few of the versions that I actually liked from Wednesday's exercise about the weather.
1. Original:
The shadowless day. Hynotized the world into a prolinged slumber, Slows the day and its quest. Like the elderly, everyone moves through the water infused air. Their hair grows while their eyes droop and they splash their rubber soled feet down the path.
2. Scholarly:
The day is lacking of sunlight, causing a devoid of shadows. This transfixes the earth, resulting in a prolonged slumber. The day moves at a slower pace, similar to an elderly person. Movement is delayed as the populace meanders through the water infused air. Strands of hair expand with the added moisture. Downcast eyes, indicators of a sleepless evening, as the people in gollashes traverse along.
3. Romantic
The shadowless dawn. Hypnotizes the world into a restless and lonely slumber. The day moves alarmingly slow...akeen to my hearts beating. My body harmonizes with it's thud as I stroll along the ruthless day. My locks become infused with the ungodly moisture. Dark circles around my eyes cast a shadowy ugliness across my face. My feet squeak with each step. Oh the tragic day.
4. 12 year old
It was gross outside. It was really dark so you couldn't see your shadows. It makes everyone move slowly because the weather makes them really tired. They walk around like old people. The girls hair get poofy and it looks really funny. They walk by in annoying rainboots.
5. Bigfoot
Bigfoot made the weather icky. Bigfoot made the skt cry. Bigfoot not mean to make the sky cry. Now Bigfoot get wet. Bigfoot not like to get wet. Make Bigfoot fur pokey.
A poem I wrote a couple weeks ago--
Cryptic and descrete,
tell me, but don't say it.
Yet, do not hide
your emotions from my eyes.
Tell me, but don't
use your words.
They won't hold the flame,
it's inside glass.
I can see through it.
Write it on a napkin,
read it to me later.
It's better when you can't describe,
your words too weak for the weight.
In class a while back--it's embarrassing.
Loft language. Laced hose laying gently along her lengthy legs. The lady is a lioness on the prowl for a lad with a longing to be loved. Someone to tangle in her lusterous locks that lilies of the vally previosly adorned. No longer is she gallant. Lovely in all respects. Polite, Prim, and lovingly languid. The lengthy evenings led her against their evolving length. Gentlemen with long walking canes left her with a leftover feeling. Longing to be loved legitimate. A man, lacking a wallet with a knowledge of a lady.
I've never had much, but I did have her. Her skin was soft and white,compared against mine. People talked...but ain't that why we do the junk we do? So people will talk? And we were serious as two kids could ever be. I pretend now while I'm walkin' that I'm about to go meet her. I imagine that we're about to be reunited after a long days work from me and with her sparkely from hours of household chores. Lookin' like June Cleaver maybe. I imagine that she molds her thin lips to mine...murmers hello.
The mush on the street seeps into my shoes and makes my feet wet. I curse, and hurry, looking for a place to be. She ain't part of me anymore. I hate the crap about "two soulds becoming one" but I think it might have happened to me, cause I'm missing something. Missing her, and jacket, and an old baseball cap.
We talked a lot. We faught a lot. about her parents. They called me a thug. I'd fight that with all my guts back in those days. Right now, I'd have to agree with them. It really ain't that I'm a bad person...well maybe it is that. Maybe we're all bad people.
I was driving home from her parents. Just now I step in some indistinguishable crud on the street. I keep on walking so no one will see. But yeah, I was real mad at her when I shouldn't have been...she couldn't help that they hated me. I was driving too fast for sure...but I saw it coming. I saw the car. She called me a bastard, and idiot, some stuff I won't repeast cause I'm still trying to forget. I realize now she was just griping...being a woman and all. That car was coming fast around that curve. My fingers twitched. I jerked hard. My old baseball cap flew off her head and into the floorboard.
It didn't work. I'm still alive.
-This is creepy and weird..I don't know why I keep writing creepy and weird but it happens a lot these days. Anyway, I just want to say that the whole purppose of this piece is to illustrate what I believe about all people being born with immoral or "bad" tendencies. Anger builds, people explode. These emotions and actions have to be addressed. This is my representation of a situation where it isn't.
A few of the versions that I actually liked from Wednesday's exercise about the weather.
1. Original:
The shadowless day. Hynotized the world into a prolinged slumber, Slows the day and its quest. Like the elderly, everyone moves through the water infused air. Their hair grows while their eyes droop and they splash their rubber soled feet down the path.
2. Scholarly:
The day is lacking of sunlight, causing a devoid of shadows. This transfixes the earth, resulting in a prolonged slumber. The day moves at a slower pace, similar to an elderly person. Movement is delayed as the populace meanders through the water infused air. Strands of hair expand with the added moisture. Downcast eyes, indicators of a sleepless evening, as the people in gollashes traverse along.
3. Romantic
The shadowless dawn. Hypnotizes the world into a restless and lonely slumber. The day moves alarmingly slow...akeen to my hearts beating. My body harmonizes with it's thud as I stroll along the ruthless day. My locks become infused with the ungodly moisture. Dark circles around my eyes cast a shadowy ugliness across my face. My feet squeak with each step. Oh the tragic day.
4. 12 year old
It was gross outside. It was really dark so you couldn't see your shadows. It makes everyone move slowly because the weather makes them really tired. They walk around like old people. The girls hair get poofy and it looks really funny. They walk by in annoying rainboots.
5. Bigfoot
Bigfoot made the weather icky. Bigfoot made the skt cry. Bigfoot not mean to make the sky cry. Now Bigfoot get wet. Bigfoot not like to get wet. Make Bigfoot fur pokey.
A poem I wrote a couple weeks ago--
Cryptic and descrete,
tell me, but don't say it.
Yet, do not hide
your emotions from my eyes.
Tell me, but don't
use your words.
They won't hold the flame,
it's inside glass.
I can see through it.
Write it on a napkin,
read it to me later.
It's better when you can't describe,
your words too weak for the weight.
In class a while back--it's embarrassing.
Loft language. Laced hose laying gently along her lengthy legs. The lady is a lioness on the prowl for a lad with a longing to be loved. Someone to tangle in her lusterous locks that lilies of the vally previosly adorned. No longer is she gallant. Lovely in all respects. Polite, Prim, and lovingly languid. The lengthy evenings led her against their evolving length. Gentlemen with long walking canes left her with a leftover feeling. Longing to be loved legitimate. A man, lacking a wallet with a knowledge of a lady.
Classmate Response 3/31/11
Slowly she walks by watching all the people. Her head is held high but she twirls her hair and looks ever so down everytime she is near any one person. Eighty degrees outside and she covers her skin in baggy jeans and an oversized sweatshirt. She hides her eyes and most of her face behind big dark sunglasses, and scuries just a little bit faster through the crowd. Obviously she is sad, as she makes her way to the library unnoticably, to go sit in silence, alone, and bury her head into her books in order to avoid her truth.
I assume this was written in class the day that we were watching the people walk by. I like a lot about it, but there are a few things I would change.
Like: Descriptions-I really like the images of someone literally "covering their skin in baggy jeans and an oversized shirt" in 80 degree weather. And then the over sized sunglasses are like icing on the cake. Really, really good...it reads so well.
What I would consider editing/changing: "Head held high" does not fit this time of person that is described later. Also the word "she" is used a lot. It would be great to have some variety there. Also, if it's "obvious that she is sad" I would like to know why, and a little more background information...be creative! Make up something totally crazy tragic that this person is trying to forget or hide from! If that's too cliche. try writing something opposite. Maybe she is under cover for something. It kind of sounds like it from her description. The possibilities are endless...and the decription you have of the girl is really great! Keep working on it and I think that something totally awesome can be born.
I assume this was written in class the day that we were watching the people walk by. I like a lot about it, but there are a few things I would change.
Like: Descriptions-I really like the images of someone literally "covering their skin in baggy jeans and an oversized shirt" in 80 degree weather. And then the over sized sunglasses are like icing on the cake. Really, really good...it reads so well.
What I would consider editing/changing: "Head held high" does not fit this time of person that is described later. Also the word "she" is used a lot. It would be great to have some variety there. Also, if it's "obvious that she is sad" I would like to know why, and a little more background information...be creative! Make up something totally crazy tragic that this person is trying to forget or hide from! If that's too cliche. try writing something opposite. Maybe she is under cover for something. It kind of sounds like it from her description. The possibilities are endless...and the decription you have of the girl is really great! Keep working on it and I think that something totally awesome can be born.
Junkyard Quotes 3/31/11
All from the book of Proverbs. (New Living Translation)
To learn you must love discipline; it is stupid to hate correction.
Proverbs 12:1
Guard your heart above all else, for it determines the course of your life.
Proverbs 4:23
Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a dream fulfilled is the tree of life.
Proverbs 13:12
Just as the rich rule the poor, so the borrower is servant to the lender.
Proverbs 22:7
Rumors are dainty morsles that sink deep into one's heart.
Proverbs 26:22
To learn you must love discipline; it is stupid to hate correction.
Proverbs 12:1
Guard your heart above all else, for it determines the course of your life.
Proverbs 4:23
Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a dream fulfilled is the tree of life.
Proverbs 13:12
Just as the rich rule the poor, so the borrower is servant to the lender.
Proverbs 22:7
Rumors are dainty morsles that sink deep into one's heart.
Proverbs 26:22
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Classmate Response 3/26/11
Charlene stood looking out the window, holding back the blinds. She wore a calico dress and her was in a bun. The day was warm and sunny like July. She had 4 American flags around her house. She had one on the flag stand, a flag pole in the yard, and two hanging off of opposite sides of the porch. Her husband sat down in front of the TV. He was reading the paper and was not paying attention to the box.
“What time is he s’posed to be coming, John?”
“S’posed to be here about four.”
“What time is it?”
He looked at his watch.
“3:52.”
“Oh. He’ll be here any minute.”
“Should be.”
He went back to reading the paper.
In the kitchen was feast of food. A smoked ham and macaroni and cheese. Mashed potatoes and green beans. Two pies were in the oven and biscuits sat on top of the stove on a plate underneath a napkin.
“You think he’ll be hungry?”
“Prolly.”
“I made all of his favorite. I bet he’s starving for some home cooking.”
“I know I am.”
“Aw shush.”
“Just sayin’.”
There were pictures on the mantle. A candle of prayer glowed next to a picture of a muscular boy with a crew cut and a smile. Next to that was the black and white picture of less muscular man in uniform with a crew cut. Next to that was the picture of a little boy with a white plaster cast on his right arm. The boy smiled and had a backpack on his back as he stepped onto a yellow school bus.
Charlene saw the boys circling their bikes in the road. The Swanson girl was brushing her doll’s hair on the porch. A bus came up and stopped in front of the house.
“He’s here! He’s here!”
She ran to the mirror and checked herself. John heaved himself off of the chair and was behind her.
“Aw don’t fuss. He’s your son. Not your date.”
“I just wanna look good for our soldier boy.”
They stood holding hands in front of the closed door. They heard the offbeat sound on the steps. The heard the creeks of the porch. They heard it stop in front of the door. They held their hands tighter. He knocked. John said:
“Come on in.”
He was having trouble with the door handle. John unlocked from Charlene. He opened the door with a smile on his face. It quickly fell. He blocked the outside with his body.
“Who is it John?”
John didn’t answer.
“Is that our soldier boy?”
John said after a few seconds:
“Go into the kitchen, Charlene.”
“What?”
“Go to the kitchen. I’ll call you in a second.”
“What are you talking about, John? I wanna see my son.”
“Charlene, please.”
“No, John. Let me see my son.”
John sank his head and moved out of the doorway. Charlene saw her son. His left arm was made of metal as was his leg. She could say nothing, nor could John. Their soldier boy stood at the doorway.
This is one of my favorites of Lucas’ short stories. The beginning is great; I love the setting of the warm July day, the four American flags, the mother in a calico dress—it was fantastic, screaming “patriotic.”
Lucas talks about liking to write dialogue in class, and the way he does it in this piece is amazing. I love how is so beautifully descriptive, and yet that doesn’t get in the way of his spurts of dialogue. Lucas has a distinct writing style that I can really appreciate. The way his characters converse seems genuine, not scripted. I could really take lessons from some of his pieces.
I like the mother’s name, Charlene, but I wasn’t as thrilled with “John.” I felt that Charlene was more unique that the average “John.” Also, when I heard “military” and the name “John,” I immediately thought of the movie/book “Dear John.” I am 100% positive that Lucas does not want to be compared with Nicholas Sparks, so in the next draft of this I might change the dad’s name if I weren’t extremely attached to it.
Other than the one minor detail, I loved this! The ending was a punch very emotional. Maybe it could be a little longer? :)
Junkyard Quotes 3/26/11
These are just some of my favorite quotes:
Our Creator would have never made such lovel days and given us the deep hearts to enjoy them, above and beyond all though, unless we were meant to be immortal.
-Nathanial Hawthorne
The fullness of our heart is expressed in our eyes, in our touch, in what we write, in what we say, in the way we talk, the way we recieve, the way we need.
-Mother Teresa
To love by freely giving is its own reward. To be possessed by love and to in turn give love away is to find the secret to abundant life.
-Gloria Gaither
When we do the best we can, we never know what miracle is wrought in our life, or in the life of another.
-Helen Keller
Think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy.
-Anne Frank
Our Creator would have never made such lovel days and given us the deep hearts to enjoy them, above and beyond all though, unless we were meant to be immortal.
-Nathanial Hawthorne
The fullness of our heart is expressed in our eyes, in our touch, in what we write, in what we say, in the way we talk, the way we recieve, the way we need.
-Mother Teresa
To love by freely giving is its own reward. To be possessed by love and to in turn give love away is to find the secret to abundant life.
-Gloria Gaither
When we do the best we can, we never know what miracle is wrought in our life, or in the life of another.
-Helen Keller
Think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy.
-Anne Frank
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Reading Response 3/23/11
A Good Man is Hard to Find:
I really enjoyed reading this short story in Engl 1102; however, I liked it even more when I read it the second time for this class. It's one of those stories that has so many details that it takes more than one reading to take them all in. This time when I read it, I noticed that O'Connor gave a very visual description of what each character was wearing. I thought it was interesting that the Misfit did not have on a shirt...maybe like he was misssing something that the rest of society seemed to have--something that is "ordinary" or "normal" was impossible for him to attain. He apologizes to the Grandmother for it, and then agrees to take one of Baily's shirts. As he puts it on, the grandmother "couldn't name what the shirt reminded her of," but then moments later exclaims, "Why you're one of my babies! You're one of my own children." I think this simple act of putting on Baily's shirt shirt made the Grandmother really able to see the Misfit as more like a person that she could relate to. This is an amazing use of a physical sign that has deeper meaning. There are countless other symbolic meanings in this short story, and that is one of the reasons that I enjoyed it so much.
I really enjoyed reading this short story in Engl 1102; however, I liked it even more when I read it the second time for this class. It's one of those stories that has so many details that it takes more than one reading to take them all in. This time when I read it, I noticed that O'Connor gave a very visual description of what each character was wearing. I thought it was interesting that the Misfit did not have on a shirt...maybe like he was misssing something that the rest of society seemed to have--something that is "ordinary" or "normal" was impossible for him to attain. He apologizes to the Grandmother for it, and then agrees to take one of Baily's shirts. As he puts it on, the grandmother "couldn't name what the shirt reminded her of," but then moments later exclaims, "Why you're one of my babies! You're one of my own children." I think this simple act of putting on Baily's shirt shirt made the Grandmother really able to see the Misfit as more like a person that she could relate to. This is an amazing use of a physical sign that has deeper meaning. There are countless other symbolic meanings in this short story, and that is one of the reasons that I enjoyed it so much.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Reading Responses 3/20/11
1/3 1/3 1/3
This story was interesting. I love how decriptive it is written. One line that really stodd out to me was, "I was standing in from of my shack, eating an apple, and staring at a black ragged toothache sky that was about to rain." There are plenty of other lines that I could pull too that are equally as beautiful descriptively. I was really liking the story until I got to the end. I didn't understand the last line, "Howdi ther rins said Maybell blushed like a flouare whole we were all sitting there in that rainy trailor, pounding at the gates of American Literature." I'm confused as to how I was reading part of the story the man was writing, and then thrown back into the typewritters prospective...at least I think that's what happened there. However, I believe the enitre story is about how American Literature is sometimes written by people who can't even write, edited by people who can't edited...ect.
Steering the Craft
Chapter 1. Playing with the sound of my writing comes more naturally when I'm writing prose as opposed to poetry. For some reason, poem scared me when I started this class. But now I find myself trying to convert some of my prose into poems. Ursula K. Le Guin says, "We think of poetry as getting to be gorgeous and prose as having to be plain." I haven't ever thought that, really. I thought poetry was boring. Now I see that both can be "gorgeous."
Chapter 2. I love my punctuation. I love it too much to let it go. When doing the exercise in class, I actually came up with a decent idea for a short story. The problem is, I didn't have time to finish it and I basically forgot the ending. So the 3/4's that I have written is now just word vomit in its most extreme form. I'm wary of tackling it now because none of it really makes sense now. I'll keep my commas, thank you.
This story was interesting. I love how decriptive it is written. One line that really stodd out to me was, "I was standing in from of my shack, eating an apple, and staring at a black ragged toothache sky that was about to rain." There are plenty of other lines that I could pull too that are equally as beautiful descriptively. I was really liking the story until I got to the end. I didn't understand the last line, "Howdi ther rins said Maybell blushed like a flouare whole we were all sitting there in that rainy trailor, pounding at the gates of American Literature." I'm confused as to how I was reading part of the story the man was writing, and then thrown back into the typewritters prospective...at least I think that's what happened there. However, I believe the enitre story is about how American Literature is sometimes written by people who can't even write, edited by people who can't edited...ect.
Steering the Craft
Chapter 1. Playing with the sound of my writing comes more naturally when I'm writing prose as opposed to poetry. For some reason, poem scared me when I started this class. But now I find myself trying to convert some of my prose into poems. Ursula K. Le Guin says, "We think of poetry as getting to be gorgeous and prose as having to be plain." I haven't ever thought that, really. I thought poetry was boring. Now I see that both can be "gorgeous."
Chapter 2. I love my punctuation. I love it too much to let it go. When doing the exercise in class, I actually came up with a decent idea for a short story. The problem is, I didn't have time to finish it and I basically forgot the ending. So the 3/4's that I have written is now just word vomit in its most extreme form. I'm wary of tackling it now because none of it really makes sense now. I'll keep my commas, thank you.
Classmate Response 3/20/11
Inspiration
I wanna play
Just as good as you, but better
I wanna stroke the strings
Talk about intimate things
Almost like you, but better.
I wanna get lost in the song
Let my body roam where it doesn't belong
And put my fans out of their misery
Have their hearts, their minds
Have their bodies for one night
And keep them wanting more forever
I wanna make people feel the way
You made me feel
Like you wrote these tunes and sang the blues
With intentions to make me ecstatic and cry
How do you do it...make me melt?
How do your stories come out so heartfelt?
I wanna be that good
Exceed limitations
If that then happens
MAybe i'll go out on tour
Maybe i'll see you there
Maybe there could be a table and meal that we
both share.
Maybe our minds could cross paths
And our souls intertwine
You'll tell me your dreams
And i'll tell you mine
I can't tell you that for years, you've been my inspiration
Or just how much you've contributed to this talented creation.
I think this is a good poem! With some work, I think it could be great.
I'm pretty sure the lowercase "i's" are unintentional. If not, I think you should change it. Also the puntuation is a little all over the place, so pull it back together! That will make it more cohesive. Also, the rhyme scheme doesn't really flow so well for me. If you want to play with different schemes in one poem, maybe you should break it up into seperate pieces instead of one long stretch.
I really liked a lot of the lines in the poem: "I wanna stroke the strings/Talk about intimate things" was my favorite part. The sensuality of this poem is really awesome without being extremely obvious, and I really like that. In fact, I love the whole beginning so much that I think you should go back and make sure that it connects all the way through because it's really awesome. Compared to the beginning, the end is a little weak--"I can't tell you that for years, you've been my inspiration/Or just how much you've contributed to this talented creation." I found it entirely too predictable. However, I really love the rest of the poem so I think it you make a few ,(especially there) it will be really awesome!
I wanna play
Just as good as you, but better
I wanna stroke the strings
Talk about intimate things
Almost like you, but better.
I wanna get lost in the song
Let my body roam where it doesn't belong
And put my fans out of their misery
Have their hearts, their minds
Have their bodies for one night
And keep them wanting more forever
I wanna make people feel the way
You made me feel
Like you wrote these tunes and sang the blues
With intentions to make me ecstatic and cry
How do you do it...make me melt?
How do your stories come out so heartfelt?
I wanna be that good
Exceed limitations
If that then happens
MAybe i'll go out on tour
Maybe i'll see you there
Maybe there could be a table and meal that we
both share.
Maybe our minds could cross paths
And our souls intertwine
You'll tell me your dreams
And i'll tell you mine
I can't tell you that for years, you've been my inspiration
Or just how much you've contributed to this talented creation.
I think this is a good poem! With some work, I think it could be great.
I'm pretty sure the lowercase "i's" are unintentional. If not, I think you should change it. Also the puntuation is a little all over the place, so pull it back together! That will make it more cohesive. Also, the rhyme scheme doesn't really flow so well for me. If you want to play with different schemes in one poem, maybe you should break it up into seperate pieces instead of one long stretch.
I really liked a lot of the lines in the poem: "I wanna stroke the strings/Talk about intimate things" was my favorite part. The sensuality of this poem is really awesome without being extremely obvious, and I really like that. In fact, I love the whole beginning so much that I think you should go back and make sure that it connects all the way through because it's really awesome. Compared to the beginning, the end is a little weak--"I can't tell you that for years, you've been my inspiration/Or just how much you've contributed to this talented creation." I found it entirely too predictable. However, I really love the rest of the poem so I think it you make a few ,(especially there) it will be really awesome!
Junk Yard Quotes 3/20/11
Junkyard Quotes:
I stole all of these of of people's Facebook Status'. Enjoy!
"Just a few feet away, but we're miles apart."
"The past was lurking, but you made it stop."
"If this is the best time of my life, then I am really dissappointed."
"
I stole all of these of of people's Facebook Status'. Enjoy!
"Just a few feet away, but we're miles apart."
"The past was lurking, but you made it stop."
"If this is the best time of my life, then I am really dissappointed."
"
Classmare Response Makeup
I know you-with the house on the corner, the one with the white picket fence
two kids, a dog, a mommy, and a daddy.
I know you, but you don't know me.
I know that after everyone sleeps at night , daddy has a secret life-
an online fantasy life-I know your perfect family isn't so perfect.
I know the facade you put on for everyone
To hide the pain and bitterness of a life that is slowly going downhill
I know that beach vacation wasn't as perfect as the pictures you put on facebook
I know the kids are spoiled brats because you don't care
I know you, but you don't know me.
I know the facebook-picture perfect family you show the world
hides a problematic family
I know all about you but you don't know me
I know the foods you eat, the gym membership that goes unused
I know the fancy car you drive and beautiful mansion you live in
Is out of your budget and buries you in a hole of debt
Oh yea I know all about you
Where you shop, where you eat, when you go on vacation,
The route you take to work every morning.
How do I know so much about you?
Privacy doesn't exist in this world
Technology reveals the world's masquerade
two kids, a dog, a mommy, and a daddy.
I know you, but you don't know me.
I know that after everyone sleeps at night , daddy has a secret life-
an online fantasy life-I know your perfect family isn't so perfect.
I know the facade you put on for everyone
To hide the pain and bitterness of a life that is slowly going downhill
I know that beach vacation wasn't as perfect as the pictures you put on facebook
I know the kids are spoiled brats because you don't care
I know you, but you don't know me.
I know the facebook-picture perfect family you show the world
hides a problematic family
I know all about you but you don't know me
I know the foods you eat, the gym membership that goes unused
I know the fancy car you drive and beautiful mansion you live in
Is out of your budget and buries you in a hole of debt
Oh yea I know all about you
Where you shop, where you eat, when you go on vacation,
The route you take to work every morning.
How do I know so much about you?
Privacy doesn't exist in this world
Technology reveals the world's masquerade
I really like the concept of this poem. Social networking allows people to share so much information that I personally do not care about either. I didn't think the poem was too cryptic. There are great images like, "facebook-picture perfect family" and "with one click." It is obvious to me that it is about social networking. The part of the poem that I would make some changes to would perhaps be the ending line. I would cut it completely and possible change the title becuase I think it would be great if the poem just ended with "privacy doesn't exist." That line is pretty hard hitting and I feeling like it is even more effective than "Technology reveals the world's masquerade." The reason I feel this way is because I felt that the poem is specifically pointing to one person--so the ending became far too broad for me. Another line that also confused me is "I know you, but you don't know me." If you are "friends on facebook" they why don't they know who you are? Just something to consider. Otherwise, I really enjoyed the poem. Two thumbs up!
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Free Write Makeup 3/13/11
-This still needs to be completed...but it's something that I started this week.
In the sweet town of Tallapoosa,
Papa and his new teeth live with Mawmaw, Alma.
Papa's new teeth
make him whistle and creak.
His slippery S's
similar to the snake he detests.
Papa's cheek bones look higher
and his back stands much straighter.
His sweet spirit is the same,
his loud personality is anything but tame.
In the sweet town of Tallapoosa,
Papa and his new teeth live with Mawmaw, Alma.
Papa's new teeth
make him whistle and creak.
His slippery S's
similar to the snake he detests.
Papa's cheek bones look higher
and his back stands much straighter.
His sweet spirit is the same,
his loud personality is anything but tame.
Junkyard Quotes Makeup
"Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove. O no, it is an ever fixed mark that looks on tempest and is never shaken."
-Shakespeare
"There is something about death, like love itself."
-Spoon River
"To love would be an awfully big adventure"
-J. M. Barrie
You know that place between sleeping and awake, that place where you can still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always think of you."
- J. M. Barrie
And it would have been worth it, after all,
after the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
-Shakespeare
"There is something about death, like love itself."
-Spoon River
"To love would be an awfully big adventure"
-J. M. Barrie
You know that place between sleeping and awake, that place where you can still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always think of you."
- J. M. Barrie
And it would have been worth it, after all,
after the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Free Write Makeup 3/13/11
End of short story
She told me she loved me one night when we were walking through the forest. The leaves on all the trees had turned into a bright Autumn’s red. They loomed above us, swaying a whispering advice. I felt rage build up inside of me. Why would “love” do this to a man? And why couldn’t I say it back? Cause I knew I loved her, I already told you that I did. But I am only a man, a selfish man at that. I took her soft white hand in mine. She smiled up at me, waiting for me to say something back. My lips and throat began to work together to try and process the words; yet if we had stayed in that thicket for a hundred years, I still don’t think I would have ever told her I loved her.
When the awkwardness crept upon us, we started walkin’. Somehow we ended up at Louisa’s place. I guess she was navigating, and maybe that was the problem with the whole relationship—I’d lost control. We walked up those lonely steps for the last time. She slowly released my hand and walked to the door. Without turning around she said, “I know there is good in you, Jett.”
That’s the last thing I ever did hear her say because I left down that day. I went to find my own path, my own journey without God or some women. I managed without God for a while, but not the women. There was this one lady who I held company with more often than other. She was the complete opposite of my Louisa. Black hair and eyes to match. She didn’t worry about love and stuff…and I thought that was pretty good for a woman. But one night when she was at my place, an emotion came over me and I started to cry. She kissed the tears off my face and held them on her tongue. Thinking they were for her, when really they were Louisa’s. Her prayers were not in vain. That night I sent that awful girl home and never saw her again, either. I came back to God and he took me, I think. But I never found myself going back to Louisa. My soiled body wasn’t fittin’ for her anymore. She didn’t deserve my stench—even though I sort of knew that she wanted my back anyhow.
I don’t know what I ever meant to Louisa, but I know what she meant to me. I learned that just because I’m a man doesn’t mean that I have to control. Louisa taught me how to love a woman, and not in the way that you’re thinkin’. She taught me to cherish, to enjoy just talkin’, to grow with someone. She loved me no matter what, and I still love her. You prayers are not in vain, Louisa. They aren’t.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Reading Responses 2/27/11
Chapter 11: Subject
Making the exceptional mundane is one of the techniques discussed in this chapter. Davidson and Fraser give an example in the poem “Bigfoot Stole My Wife”. In this way, the poet talks about how his wife left him, but in a creative and almost humorous way. I really think this is interesting and fun to read and write. The next technique was The Magical Realist approach. This is something that I would be more likely to try while I’m writing. One of my favorite poets, Emily Dickenson, has a poem featured in this chapter. In her poem, she compares death to someone picking her up in a carriage. Carriage rides are typically thought of as romantic; so this comparison is really unique, unexpected, and ingenious in my opinion. I would like to try this with a topic such as love—writing about it different way as to break away from the typical or expected. I think this is something that I really should focus on in the future because I tend to use language that is too flowery and definitely expected from the nature of the topic that I would happen to be writing on.
Evening
I like the line breaks in this poem. They are kind of sharp and unexpected but the way the lines are double layered is appealing. This poem is about a father and son sitting down for dinner after gardening. I have read it a couple of times now and really cannot find a deeper meaning in the poem. I think it is simply about a father and son who work together and the day is ending. I found it odd, though, that the salad that the pair eats is only made of green vegetables and the father uses ketchup as dressing, which is rather gross. Then the boy is writing a post card to his mother. From the tone of the poem, I first assumed that the mother had left the boy and his father. The second time I read it though, I realized that postcards are what people send when they themselves leave. It’s very possible that I’m reading into the language a little too much there, but still it’s an idea. In all honesty though, I have had a very hard time deciphering what this poem really all boils down to.
Junk Yard Quotes 2/27/11
It's Jane Austen Junkyard Day.
"How quick come the reasons for approving what we like."
"The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid."
"I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal."
-best quote ever....
"Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us."
"To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love."
"How quick come the reasons for approving what we like."
"The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid."
"I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal."
-best quote ever....
"Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us."
"To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love."
Classmate Response 2/27/11
Mom
You mean the world to me
You healed my hurts when I was little
And loved me unconditionally
You sacrificed so much for me
With you open arms and loving heart
You've given me love, guidance, and strength
You support me in everything I do
And allow me to persevere
With your strength I can conquer all
You have shown me how to love unselfishly
You are the example by which I live my life
I hope someday I can be half as amazing
As the mother you are to me
You mean the world to me
You healed my hurts when I was little
And loved me unconditionally
You sacrificed so much for me
With you open arms and loving heart
You've given me love, guidance, and strength
You support me in everything I do
And allow me to persevere
With your strength I can conquer all
You have shown me how to love unselfishly
You are the example by which I live my life
I hope someday I can be half as amazing
As the mother you are to me
Katie,
I’m sure your mother loved this poem; I know my mom would if this was something I had written for her. The danger here is sounding too much like a hallmark card. This is not really a bad thing in my opinion, though. Someone has to write those little greetings, right?? J
However, if you want this to be less flowery, I suggest you change a few aspects of it. I would rework the first stanza completely to break away from the expected. However, if you worked it creatively, maybe keep “You healed my hurts when I was little.” This is kind of a cliché “mom” type attribution, but I really believe a solid image or memory would really progress the poem. I think you should go back to a specific time that you remember your mom making you feel better and write at least your whole first stanza about it to help your readers connect with the poem.
The second stanza has abstractions galore. Try adding some more concrete images like we talking about in class.
In the third stanza, I would take the second line “You are the example by which I live my life” and expand it with a legitimate illustration of how this is the case. If you make this poem more personal, I believe you will be able to find greater depth within it.
Free Write 2/27/11
My Antoine poem. I'd love some advice here! Are these pieces too disconnected?
Evidence,
A trash can lies warped of the gray cement.
The contents of its belly liter the projects.
Discarded now,
the ladder had fulifilled its purpose.
But he didn't bother to clean after himself,
No need, he'd get what he wanted,
then split faster than a window's crack.
Evidence,
She has his white t-shirt,
shredded by her unkempt nails.
His finger prints left purple
kisses on her body.
She watches the scene behind closed lids,
the real damage is there.
Check the window, keep him out.
Don't let his breath caress her face again
Evidence,
A trash can lies warped of the gray cement.
The contents of its belly liter the projects.
Discarded now,
the ladder had fulifilled its purpose.
But he didn't bother to clean after himself,
No need, he'd get what he wanted,
then split faster than a window's crack.
Evidence,
She has his white t-shirt,
shredded by her unkempt nails.
His finger prints left purple
kisses on her body.
She watches the scene behind closed lids,
the real damage is there.
Check the window, keep him out.
Don't let his breath caress her face again
Free Write 2/27/11
Part two: my busy life doesn't allow me to write as much as I want...but I do have the ending semi-planned now. Also, I've added a new intro that changes things up a bit--so sorry if you get lost while reading this.
“I’d really miss you, Walt. I know teachers shouldn’t have favorite students, but over the past year or so you really have become mine.”
I had to look away so she wouldn’t see the smile that ate my face. After gaining myself again I replied, “I could still see you, if you’d let me.”
She didn’t look real surprised that I asked. I guess a women starts to notice when a man can’t hardly form whole sentences and has to keep wiping his brow when she comes around. Louisa didn’t really give a good answer, only bobbed her head a little bit in a “yes” sort of fashion. I think she was scared of me, but I was ten times as scared of her so I got to wonderin’ how I expected to ever marry her if the thought of holding her hand gave me a slight panic attack. Bout that time, we reached her place. Her high heels clicked up the wooden steps and I watched her walk to the door. She put her hand on the brassy knob.
“I don’t know if I’m good for you, Jett.” Her eyes got real sad and I saw ‘em start to glitter.
As quick as my boots would let me, I hopped up on that porch. “I know ya are, I’ve known it forever.”
When I remember that moment, I regret sayin’ that.
“How do you know?” She said real quickly.
Then a tear fell. What’s a man supposed to do when a woman cries? Especially when there sure ain’t a good reason to bawlin’. So real quick, my man self told me to kiss her, but I was too nervous. Instead I barely pecked my lips to hers, which hardly qualified as a kiss compared to my later ventures. It kinda brightened her up though so I was pretty proud of myself. I didn’t say nothing else after that, just hopped off the porch and moseyed on home.
It was cold that night and the crickets were chirppin’ up a mighty storm. My papa always said they did that a night to attract themselves a mate. I didn’t believe him or nothin’ but it was nice to hear it that night as I walked down the beaten path. Willow Street is the most traveled road in the county. I have made my own permanent set of foot prints in the dry sand as I walk it daily. I never take the back roads, always the wide ones.
The days flew back like a sandstorm. I dropped out of classes and spent every moment that I wasn’t workin’ with sweet Louisa. It was a secret; but like I said, people talk. And pretty soon the whole town was startin’ to plan our wedding for us. It was kinda fun, I’ll admit. Daddy’s workers would come up to me every once in a while, pattin’ me on the back, congratulating me on such a prize, asking how good she was to me. Only the problem was, Louisa would hardly come close to me. Said I couldn’t control myself. I got myself all angry and worked up about it, but I tried to remain a gentleman. Then, oh but then. She told me she loved me one night when we were walking through the forest. The leaves on all the trees had turned into a bright Autumn’s red. They loomed above us, swaying a whispering advice. I felt rage build up inside of me. Why would “love” do this to a man? And why couldn’t I say it back? Cause I knew I loved her, I already told you that I did.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Reading Responses 2/20/11
Chapter 8: Form and Structure
One thing I found interesting in the chapter was the breaking down of the poem “Aubade” and his repetition of the word “no”. The first time I read the poem, I really did not pay that much attention to his repetitive use of the word (guess I should have read it a tad more thoroughly). The book lists five possible meaning of the overuse of the word “no”. I found this all interesting because I like searching for the underlying meaning(s) in texts. I appreciate when it takes a few times to read it and also when it can be interpreted to have several different meanings. The book says that instead of just ignoring the “no’s” (like I did the first time) we should “actively engage the sign, wrestle with its multifaceted contours with respect to culture, and manufacture multiple meanings with the poem.” Poetry is way more interesting when it is more than just fluff.
The most interesting poem in the chapter is Trista’s. I loved looking back to see how her poem developed. I have somewhat used this method before with Tennyson’s “The Lady of Shalott”, which is basically my favorite piece of poetry ever. Instead of really looking at the style of writing though, I stole his imagery and morphed it into my own words and it became something really different, but it got me started so it was really beneficial to me.
Chapter 9: Voice
I enjoyed the poem “Landscape with Saxophonist” in this chapter. It was in the category “leaping away from logic,” which is a technique I want to try and practice more. I like the line that compares blowing the saxophone the big bad wolf blowing down the little pig’s house. The poem has several different images that aren’t exactly plausible. For instance, “The discord and stridency set off avalanches.” The book says that the author “deliberately overstates the effects of the sax in orders to ironize long-established assumptions about cause and effect, rationality, and reason, positivism and the drive toward final explanation.” When I read that sentence, the reasoning behind the way the poem was written became a little clearer to me. I find it very clever and enjoyable to read.
Another line I liked in this chapter was “every rule of poetry writing is as good broken as upheld.” This really is why people enjoy reading and writing poetry some much—it’s something that allows complete freedom with little to no restrictions on what can be created.
One thing I found interesting in the chapter was the breaking down of the poem “Aubade” and his repetition of the word “no”. The first time I read the poem, I really did not pay that much attention to his repetitive use of the word (guess I should have read it a tad more thoroughly). The book lists five possible meaning of the overuse of the word “no”. I found this all interesting because I like searching for the underlying meaning(s) in texts. I appreciate when it takes a few times to read it and also when it can be interpreted to have several different meanings. The book says that instead of just ignoring the “no’s” (like I did the first time) we should “actively engage the sign, wrestle with its multifaceted contours with respect to culture, and manufacture multiple meanings with the poem.” Poetry is way more interesting when it is more than just fluff.
The most interesting poem in the chapter is Trista’s. I loved looking back to see how her poem developed. I have somewhat used this method before with Tennyson’s “The Lady of Shalott”, which is basically my favorite piece of poetry ever. Instead of really looking at the style of writing though, I stole his imagery and morphed it into my own words and it became something really different, but it got me started so it was really beneficial to me.
Chapter 9: Voice
I enjoyed the poem “Landscape with Saxophonist” in this chapter. It was in the category “leaping away from logic,” which is a technique I want to try and practice more. I like the line that compares blowing the saxophone the big bad wolf blowing down the little pig’s house. The poem has several different images that aren’t exactly plausible. For instance, “The discord and stridency set off avalanches.” The book says that the author “deliberately overstates the effects of the sax in orders to ironize long-established assumptions about cause and effect, rationality, and reason, positivism and the drive toward final explanation.” When I read that sentence, the reasoning behind the way the poem was written became a little clearer to me. I find it very clever and enjoyable to read.
Another line I liked in this chapter was “every rule of poetry writing is as good broken as upheld.” This really is why people enjoy reading and writing poetry some much—it’s something that allows complete freedom with little to no restrictions on what can be created.
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