Who is Word Riot?
Word Riot Inc. is a nonprofit organization that provides an outlet for emerging writers to get their material out to the public. It started up in 2011 after converting from a music magazine. It is an online publication venue for a number of genres ranging from Flash Fiction, Short Stories, and Novel Excerpts to Creative Nonfiction and more. The issues are published monthly however there was not a publication in June, July, August, September and October of this year.
Does Word Riot pay?
Though Word Riot does not pay those whose submissions get accepted, they do provide other services for upcoming authors including grants for short stories and travel grants. Word Riot accepts submissions for grants for $100-$500 to assist in paying travel fees for readings across the globe.
Word Riot also currently supports the Paula Anderson book award which requires a $25 dollar submission fee and awards $1,000 to the winner. The requirements are that a book be published by a small publishing house in 2011 in the genre of Short Stories or Fiction.
What sets Word Riot apart?
“Good Writing. No Remorse.”
Word Riot is unapologetic, unabashed and forward writing. Submissions do not hide behind the banners of politeness or political correctness; instead offered works push the envelope of normalcy and accepted publication pieces.
“We like edgy. We like experimental. We like publishing the best up-and-coming writers and poets so we can say we knew 'em when.”
Artistry and Format on Word Riot
After reviewing a number of genres on Word Riot I can attest to the fact that they are in fact pushing the envelope with some pieces. They are thoroughly engaging works that forgo common and accepted language in most literary journals for favor of powerful and thoughtful essays. The works on the site utilize every word in the English language, ‘appropriate’ literary words or not to their inherent and often downright gritty and powerful meanings.
Creative Nonfiction on Word Riot
Word Riot submissions are accepted regardless of length up to 6,500 words. “Whatever the length or the subject matter, preference will be given to compelling stories strong in lyricism, wit, compassion, or daring.”
Word Riot – http://www.wordriot.org/
Unknown Places - http://www.wordriot.org/archives/2470
Pork Ribs - http://www.wordriot.org/archives/3303
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
The Significant Other
I step through the tiny portal into my bedroom, pushing the red velvet drape over with my hand and ducking under it. The floorboards creak beneath me, shifting after years of burden. Recently I covered the mangled oak boards with a Christmas gift from my girlfriend, a Dallas Cowboys rug. It doesn’t cover the entirety of the floor, but its enough to provide relief from splinters.
The bedroom is supposed to be a place of intimacy. Not always a place of that kind of intimacy, just a place of discretion. A place to get away; a place of relaxation and comfort. My bedroom is none of these things. It’s actually half of a room, cordoned off by closets, dressers and a "door" that’s stapled to the ceiling.
A two family house converted for one family use. My mother decided it was time to move. There is more value in a two family house, and so began the construction to return it to its original state. That was seven years earlier. After closing some entry ways my original room had to be abdicated to my father as he works in shifts and is required to work frequent overtime. He needs sleep and the thin walls provided little reprieve from the continuous barking of the dogs next door.
For a year and a half my room was under the bay window in the living room. A mattress on the floor. Out of my three brothers I was the only one with a girlfriend and I was living on the floor, in the living room. I didn't complain, but I felt the desire for privacy approach fast, and so I decided I'd take my fathers old room and make it my own. There was one problem however, that room had now become the default hallway. In order to provide the privacy I desired I used two closets and a dresser to create "walls" arcing slightly to provide just enough room for a “hallway” that my younger brothers could walk through to get to their full sized rooms.
I sit now staring at the computer screen. The computer desk at which I drone away is burdened with a layer of dust that isn’t worth cleaning. Within weeks it will be the same thickness; a result of a house that’s “a work in progress,” nearing its 8th year of work.
The top shelf holds a book of burned CD’s that I’ll never touch again. Sitting above that is a still packaged gift, a live scribe notebook from my girlfriend. Sitting atop that is a makeshift folder containing all of my college paperwork. They lean against the printer, which hasn’t worked in years. A clear gameboy sits on the top shelf as the still packaged Master Chief stature is frozen mid stride; attempting to flee, but only to be destined to an unopened box sitting on the top shelf of some bum’s computer desk.
The middle shelf harbors my “dream catchers.” Watching me type away are an array of video game characters. Toys, statues, busts, dolls, whatever.
Commander Shepard, Grunt, Thane and Tali watch over me with a careful eye. That earthquake we had knocked Grunt off and one of his legs broke. I simply just propped it up, as earthquakes are a once in a lifetime occurrence in New Jersey; something I didn’t even feel. I was on the golf course that day, unbeknownst to my girlfriend.
Kratos scowls in Ares’ armor as I type something I know I’ll edit shortly. Samus Aran points her arm cannon to ward off any terrible ideas that approach. A Mr. Potato head version of Bumblebee from Transformers stares with bewilderment, seemingly out of place.
My computer, now well out of date, churns like a rusted Model T. It still runs though, somehow. The monitor has a few scratches in it. At least I think they’re scratches. My old license and two pairs of my glasses nestle among the dust at the base of the monitor. Nail clippers, tape and a sharpie round out the bottom shelf. Under the computer tower rests three birthday cards from my girlfriend. A floppy drive sits atop the tower along with an IPod box, various CD’s and cords. Two Mastodon stickers and a Killswitch Engage sticker barely remain on the side of the tower, which has been opened up only twice; once to jam a video card in that didn’t fit and the second to replace it when it popped out a year later.
On the table top are the Xbox controller charger sitting amongst coins, candy wrappers, a plate and coffee mug. Guitar picks, my wallet, television remote and phone sit like beacons of distraction. The right side of the table is a mess of receipts, writings, various other paperwork and my Creative Nonfiction book. At the end in the corner is a rotating picture holder containing a picture of me and my girlfriend.
The black keyboard rests on a precarious pull out shelf. The shelf is broken and I’ve bent the steel a few times to ensure it still somewhat retracts beneath the table. To my right is a red velvet curtain. Unfortunately its beauty is distorted by two heavy duty staples covering the window.
To my left is a book shelf I bought a while back. It holds everything that was never important. Only a few small items of importance rest on there, my contacts, DVD’s and video games. The other items, shot glasses, CD’s, toys and dust are worthless. The 37 inch television I bought sits at a forty five degree angle on a coffee table I smuggled from downstairs. Resting on the little space remaining are a few prominent video games currently in use and a pretty kick ass beat up “Reserved" sign. I can't remember exactly where or when I got it but I think I secretly managed to hijack from a restaurant. I always forget that’s there.
I don't get any channels in on my television. It got reception for a short period of time. I even went so far as to buy a cable and clumsily hang it on whatever I could. It ran haphazardly into my brothers room and into a decrepit three way that linked up outside.
Beneath that nicked, bemoaned coffee table though rests the brain and circulatory system of my room. It contains my Xbox 360 and two ancillary organs, the PS3 and Wii. I spend more time with my Xbox than I do with my girlfriend. We're more than friends.
I just did laundry yet the basket of dirty clothes has already breached above the brim. A pair of jeans I just took off as well as my dirtied softball uniform sit outside the basket, which hides the bookcase and dresser nearly entirely hidden behind the television. The bookcase used to brim with items. Due to recent budgetary concerns however many of the video games I’d been retaining for no apparent reason had to be sacrificed for newer, shinier video game cases. A facial foam, deodorant, powder and cologne poorly mask the void left by the video games. A Fallout 3 limited edition lunchbox separates the PS3 and Wii games from the Xbox games like the Mason Dixon line during the Civil War. A few books have the privilege of calling the bookshelf home. Mass Effect comics and novels, a copy of Moby Dick a friend lent me for a while, which has slowly become eternity. Dan Brown’s Digital Fortress and a Star Wars novel are sandwiched in too. Naturally, a Mississippi Mud jug and “The Boot” divide that from a picture of my friends 21st birthday. There’s a framed picture of a novelty photograph my girlfriend and I got in Seaside while dressing up as outlaws. A Tickle-Me Cookie Monster stands untouched for ages; another gag gift from my girlfriend.
All of my college books sit unmoved, forgotten like the bones of a rhinoceros that died in an elephant graveyard, along with PC games that I’ve really never played. I can’t access two of the drawers as the Television and coffee table impede its operation. One of the accessible drawers face fell off and more textbooks are shoved in there. The others are barricaded in by the laundry basket.
Papers are scattered about like beer cans after a house party, along with change. I can’t remember where the fuck I put the container I used to put my coins in., but now instead they too are strewn about like forgotten Easter eggs. A closet sits nearly on top of the dresser. The closet door barely opens due to the curvature of the sagging floors. I remedied this with a piece of Sheetrock. I jammed it underneath to give it a slight tilt which allowed the doors to open. Atop sits an unused Rock Band drum kit.
The entrance way into my room is at a 30 degree angle, another red velvet sheet stapled to the ceiling beams. Another cabinet sits at a 30 degree angle, with a Rock’em Sock’em Robots and the empty package for Rock Band perched atop. In front of the closet sits a Spyder amplifier, unused due to a broken input. Pushed against the wall are the Line Six half cabinet amplifier and head and sandwiched in the small corner are three guitars, two of which collect dust. One sees considerable usage, if not from me then my one brother who likes to visit from his room next door to see what I‘m up to.
The fan in that same corner rests partially on one of the guitar stands. It’s faint whirring helps drown out the odd creaks and groans from the outdated balloon structure house. In the corner sits a sword, awaiting an actual wall to be displayed on. Then the bed, a twin stretches from the guitars back to the computer desk.
There are walls, but I don’t consider them actual walls. Each beam is 16 on center, true 2x4’s. Chunks of plaster cling desperately to the wall, waiting for the opportunity to drop off and blast me in the head. What remains instead is just pieces of paneling nestled up haphazardly against the wall. They aren’t even nailed or fastened on, just simply sandwiched against the wall. Patchwork lattice stretches across the expanses between beams, where insulation should rest.
The ceiling, like the walls are bare. The only difference is that there is actually insulation; ancient, mangled insulation. The paper covering that once contained the itchy yellow stuff inside was cut and falling off. My mother gave me a plastic sheet that covered about a third of the ceiling to put up. That too was riddled with holes and gashes. Just enough for the chips of wood and chunks of insulation to fall through once they've lost their grip. My girlfriend always asks where the scratches on my back come from, as if I'd been having a rough romp with another. I steadfastly proclaim my innocence and promptly blame the shards of wood that have made it past my permeable ceiling falling onto my bed beneath. The bed of nails.
When people talk about their rooms or ask me about mine I quickly respond with "I have one. It‘s different, but its mine." I’ve settled into it comfortably. While I wish and want more, I’m content for now with what I have.
The bedroom is supposed to be a place of intimacy. Not always a place of that kind of intimacy, just a place of discretion. A place to get away; a place of relaxation and comfort. My bedroom is none of these things. It’s actually half of a room, cordoned off by closets, dressers and a "door" that’s stapled to the ceiling.
A two family house converted for one family use. My mother decided it was time to move. There is more value in a two family house, and so began the construction to return it to its original state. That was seven years earlier. After closing some entry ways my original room had to be abdicated to my father as he works in shifts and is required to work frequent overtime. He needs sleep and the thin walls provided little reprieve from the continuous barking of the dogs next door.
For a year and a half my room was under the bay window in the living room. A mattress on the floor. Out of my three brothers I was the only one with a girlfriend and I was living on the floor, in the living room. I didn't complain, but I felt the desire for privacy approach fast, and so I decided I'd take my fathers old room and make it my own. There was one problem however, that room had now become the default hallway. In order to provide the privacy I desired I used two closets and a dresser to create "walls" arcing slightly to provide just enough room for a “hallway” that my younger brothers could walk through to get to their full sized rooms.
I sit now staring at the computer screen. The computer desk at which I drone away is burdened with a layer of dust that isn’t worth cleaning. Within weeks it will be the same thickness; a result of a house that’s “a work in progress,” nearing its 8th year of work.
The top shelf holds a book of burned CD’s that I’ll never touch again. Sitting above that is a still packaged gift, a live scribe notebook from my girlfriend. Sitting atop that is a makeshift folder containing all of my college paperwork. They lean against the printer, which hasn’t worked in years. A clear gameboy sits on the top shelf as the still packaged Master Chief stature is frozen mid stride; attempting to flee, but only to be destined to an unopened box sitting on the top shelf of some bum’s computer desk.
The middle shelf harbors my “dream catchers.” Watching me type away are an array of video game characters. Toys, statues, busts, dolls, whatever.
Commander Shepard, Grunt, Thane and Tali watch over me with a careful eye. That earthquake we had knocked Grunt off and one of his legs broke. I simply just propped it up, as earthquakes are a once in a lifetime occurrence in New Jersey; something I didn’t even feel. I was on the golf course that day, unbeknownst to my girlfriend.
Kratos scowls in Ares’ armor as I type something I know I’ll edit shortly. Samus Aran points her arm cannon to ward off any terrible ideas that approach. A Mr. Potato head version of Bumblebee from Transformers stares with bewilderment, seemingly out of place.
My computer, now well out of date, churns like a rusted Model T. It still runs though, somehow. The monitor has a few scratches in it. At least I think they’re scratches. My old license and two pairs of my glasses nestle among the dust at the base of the monitor. Nail clippers, tape and a sharpie round out the bottom shelf. Under the computer tower rests three birthday cards from my girlfriend. A floppy drive sits atop the tower along with an IPod box, various CD’s and cords. Two Mastodon stickers and a Killswitch Engage sticker barely remain on the side of the tower, which has been opened up only twice; once to jam a video card in that didn’t fit and the second to replace it when it popped out a year later.
On the table top are the Xbox controller charger sitting amongst coins, candy wrappers, a plate and coffee mug. Guitar picks, my wallet, television remote and phone sit like beacons of distraction. The right side of the table is a mess of receipts, writings, various other paperwork and my Creative Nonfiction book. At the end in the corner is a rotating picture holder containing a picture of me and my girlfriend.
The black keyboard rests on a precarious pull out shelf. The shelf is broken and I’ve bent the steel a few times to ensure it still somewhat retracts beneath the table. To my right is a red velvet curtain. Unfortunately its beauty is distorted by two heavy duty staples covering the window.
To my left is a book shelf I bought a while back. It holds everything that was never important. Only a few small items of importance rest on there, my contacts, DVD’s and video games. The other items, shot glasses, CD’s, toys and dust are worthless. The 37 inch television I bought sits at a forty five degree angle on a coffee table I smuggled from downstairs. Resting on the little space remaining are a few prominent video games currently in use and a pretty kick ass beat up “Reserved" sign. I can't remember exactly where or when I got it but I think I secretly managed to hijack from a restaurant. I always forget that’s there.
I don't get any channels in on my television. It got reception for a short period of time. I even went so far as to buy a cable and clumsily hang it on whatever I could. It ran haphazardly into my brothers room and into a decrepit three way that linked up outside.
Beneath that nicked, bemoaned coffee table though rests the brain and circulatory system of my room. It contains my Xbox 360 and two ancillary organs, the PS3 and Wii. I spend more time with my Xbox than I do with my girlfriend. We're more than friends.
I just did laundry yet the basket of dirty clothes has already breached above the brim. A pair of jeans I just took off as well as my dirtied softball uniform sit outside the basket, which hides the bookcase and dresser nearly entirely hidden behind the television. The bookcase used to brim with items. Due to recent budgetary concerns however many of the video games I’d been retaining for no apparent reason had to be sacrificed for newer, shinier video game cases. A facial foam, deodorant, powder and cologne poorly mask the void left by the video games. A Fallout 3 limited edition lunchbox separates the PS3 and Wii games from the Xbox games like the Mason Dixon line during the Civil War. A few books have the privilege of calling the bookshelf home. Mass Effect comics and novels, a copy of Moby Dick a friend lent me for a while, which has slowly become eternity. Dan Brown’s Digital Fortress and a Star Wars novel are sandwiched in too. Naturally, a Mississippi Mud jug and “The Boot” divide that from a picture of my friends 21st birthday. There’s a framed picture of a novelty photograph my girlfriend and I got in Seaside while dressing up as outlaws. A Tickle-Me Cookie Monster stands untouched for ages; another gag gift from my girlfriend.
All of my college books sit unmoved, forgotten like the bones of a rhinoceros that died in an elephant graveyard, along with PC games that I’ve really never played. I can’t access two of the drawers as the Television and coffee table impede its operation. One of the accessible drawers face fell off and more textbooks are shoved in there. The others are barricaded in by the laundry basket.
Papers are scattered about like beer cans after a house party, along with change. I can’t remember where the fuck I put the container I used to put my coins in., but now instead they too are strewn about like forgotten Easter eggs. A closet sits nearly on top of the dresser. The closet door barely opens due to the curvature of the sagging floors. I remedied this with a piece of Sheetrock. I jammed it underneath to give it a slight tilt which allowed the doors to open. Atop sits an unused Rock Band drum kit.
The entrance way into my room is at a 30 degree angle, another red velvet sheet stapled to the ceiling beams. Another cabinet sits at a 30 degree angle, with a Rock’em Sock’em Robots and the empty package for Rock Band perched atop. In front of the closet sits a Spyder amplifier, unused due to a broken input. Pushed against the wall are the Line Six half cabinet amplifier and head and sandwiched in the small corner are three guitars, two of which collect dust. One sees considerable usage, if not from me then my one brother who likes to visit from his room next door to see what I‘m up to.
The fan in that same corner rests partially on one of the guitar stands. It’s faint whirring helps drown out the odd creaks and groans from the outdated balloon structure house. In the corner sits a sword, awaiting an actual wall to be displayed on. Then the bed, a twin stretches from the guitars back to the computer desk.
There are walls, but I don’t consider them actual walls. Each beam is 16 on center, true 2x4’s. Chunks of plaster cling desperately to the wall, waiting for the opportunity to drop off and blast me in the head. What remains instead is just pieces of paneling nestled up haphazardly against the wall. They aren’t even nailed or fastened on, just simply sandwiched against the wall. Patchwork lattice stretches across the expanses between beams, where insulation should rest.
The ceiling, like the walls are bare. The only difference is that there is actually insulation; ancient, mangled insulation. The paper covering that once contained the itchy yellow stuff inside was cut and falling off. My mother gave me a plastic sheet that covered about a third of the ceiling to put up. That too was riddled with holes and gashes. Just enough for the chips of wood and chunks of insulation to fall through once they've lost their grip. My girlfriend always asks where the scratches on my back come from, as if I'd been having a rough romp with another. I steadfastly proclaim my innocence and promptly blame the shards of wood that have made it past my permeable ceiling falling onto my bed beneath. The bed of nails.
When people talk about their rooms or ask me about mine I quickly respond with "I have one. It‘s different, but its mine." I’ve settled into it comfortably. While I wish and want more, I’m content for now with what I have.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
The Falsity of Originality
It’s time to write. I’ve thought out the scheme of things but not the specifics. I sit in front of a 10,000 word document. I hate sections of it but I dredge on. iTunes spins up on random shuffle. But is it really? My library is heavily favored towards my favorite band, Mastodon. Their entire discography to just a few scattered songs from varying other artists. Mastodon’s 'Iron Tusk' starts up. The bleating drum blasts roar through the headset. Heavy, pounding guitars charge forward. I want that in my novel. I want to write something that mirrors the sound. Something dire, disparaging something heavy. I'm focused now. Someone’s got to die. I'm going to kill a kid.
The fact that Mouse’s father was willing to risk his sons’ life shocked and overwhelmed Greystone. The boy skittered across the market to supply the militiamen. Bullets rattled the cargo shops. In his limited view he watched Mouse run nearly out of sight. Pressing his face against the surprisingly warm steel, he tried to see as far as he could to see who opposed the militia and watch Mouse.
Mouse was now stopped at a man pinned down by gunfire. In haste he tried to remove the ammo sling from his shoulder. As he flung it off his shoulder it got snagged on a piece of rebar jutting out of the concrete barricade. Attempting to free it, he stood up. Within an instant Mouse’s head jerked back and his body went limp; slumping over the man he was rearming. Blood splattered a dark red sheen against the light gray concrete of a crumbled overpass support column.
As this section worked out in my head, Metallica's ‘The Day That Never Ends’ was playing. There is a lyric that inspired me. "I'll splatter color on this grey." It struck a chord with me and I tend to meld lyrics into my writing rather frequently. I wanted a name for the boy that conveyed a sense of innocence and frailty. As a huge fan of Mass Effect, there is an interaction in the second game in which a young boy named Mouse crawls through the vents to avoid pursuers. The name seemed to fit perfectly and fit well in the given scenario.
I need another character. I need a shop keep. The guy that came into work earlier was a perfect model for a character. His overweight, disheveled frame is perfect for implanting the personality of a vendor in a war-torn, overpopulated city.
Finally making his way to the grocer, Greystone was met by a man cradling a disheveled assault rifle. He looked alien. Gravity, it seemed, must have been stronger at the entrance to his shop. What he lacked in height, he made up for in width. Blonde hair furled out from beneath a trucker hat which read something Greystone could only assume was French. It was stained, likely picked it out of a local garbage dump. Also, likely where the gray V-neck undershirt laden with burn marks and holes came from.
Looking over the gun wielding vendor he peered into the store. Rope lighting was fed through the entrance of the dimly lit insides and connected to a laboring generator chugging just outside. Pretending not to care about the gun pointed at his chest, Greystone continued to look over the man’s shoulders. Though given the circumstances, holding back a laugh at the vendors light brown beard seemed like a good decision. Obviously he preferred not to keep his natural hair color.
The television pulled me away from my writing as usual. The San Francisco Giants closer Brian Wilson is doing an interview. His dark, dark black beard oddly complements his mismatched hair color, almost entirely covered by his hat. The interviewer asks him if he'll shave the beard, to which he replies with disgust and horror after a long pause and dirty looks, "I'm not shaving it." I laugh and attempt to delve back in to the writing in front of me. I want a piece of that eccentricity in the character I'm molding in my story. So he too, will have an off colored beard.
The main character flees his apartment after he is pursued by agents. He stops to reflect while taking a breath and so too do I. The future, in my eyes is bleak. The outlook of the novel will inherently reflect this. My disdain for humanity is reflected by the ignorance of the future, contradictory belief systems and a general negative outlook on life. The page is the perfect podium for beliefs and ideology to shine through and I ramble through imagery and character development.
Every shop owner stood guard at the only entrance in to their shops. Every vendor was heavily armed. Awaiting Death to show up for a gun fight. Possessions were all they had and they were more than happy to kill for them, even if merely for exemplary purposes.
The shells of the crates were scarred heavily; pocked with the failed attempts to break in to the rusted stores. A long running gash on the side of a literature store seemed to be an attempt to enter with what Greystone could only attribute to a chainsaw. Hardly stealthy in an always bustling crowd.
The news constantly followed stories of fugitive ‘experienced’ or mass suicides, and bombings. The world, it seemed, was very different then he envisioned it just a few decades ago. Humanity faced dark times. A bead of sweat ran down from his forehead and into his eyebrow. Wiping his brow he caught a reflection of himself in a small puddle and he couldn’t help but smile. His face was still half shaven.
I wrote this after watching a television show in which the characters had to hurry. Conveniently everything they needed was easily accessible and found in a second. That’s not real. I always feel like movies and television shows never truly capture the essence of the mundane or ‘inconvenience’ for that matter. ‘Haste’ never seems to be portrayed properly to me. If you’re being pursued by federal agents, it’s likely they’ll show up at the unlikeliest and most unfavorable times. I wanted to capture this truth of life and so I had them show up while my main character was in the middle of shaving.
I have an unhealthy devotion to realism. Despite the fact that this is Science Fiction I feel compelled to write real people into real situations. Without truth or realism it is hard to really convince a reader to believe in a fictitious place or character. I want a hero, but I want a hero that is realistic. I want a severely flawed hero. I want to put him scenarios where he has to make conscious decisions that will directly force the reader to ask themselves as they read “would I do something about it if I were in his shoes, given the top level priorities and information the main character has? Would I risk myself, and the future to help one individual struggling at that moment? Would that make sense? Could I do that?”
He had to make a decision and fast. Quietly he inched along the wall, watching the figures manhandle the passed out girl. They pulled down her dirtied khakis and then began to have their way with her. A rising sense of disgust arose in Greystone.
The man behind her grabbed her hair and slipped his other hand around her limp body, wrapping his free hand around her chest. He lifted her off the ground and dragged the girl over to a broken shopping cart. The other men stood up and watched as he pushed her down bending her over the chopped up shopping cart. The steel frame holding the wheels was removed making it a stable ‘platform.’
The cart sat among assorted trash bags and rubble. The girl’s body slumped over the front of the cart, her bare bottom dangling over the edge. Her waist inched just over the edge of the cart, as she was supported solely by her abdomen and the thin ¼ inch steel cutting into her mid-section. He dropped his underwear and they nestled over his pants, with a faint jingle of his belt buckle. His bare ass tightened as he forced himself inside her.
You’re really just going to let this happen right in front of you? Greystone felt like a snake, slithering along the wall, escaping Eden after tricking Adam and Eve into eating from the Tree of Knowledge.
I attended a poetry reading for one of my classes. The poet reads a poem about a Nazi soldier that forces his dog to rape a Jewish woman, before killing her. It is an extremely powerful image and concept, but my mind is elsewhere. My mind is with my novel. My hero needs a sidekick. I realize he hasn't talked much. He needs someone to talk to along the way. The poet gets down on all fours, as the Jewish women would have. I think a young girl living on the streets is perfect on a number of levels; mainly though as a means to produce a lasting morally questioning moment for the character. The theme of killing one to save a thousand has always been an intriguing one for me. Would I be able to do it, would anyone be able to do it? She reads more and I'm listening intently while my mind churns. Then it hits me. This is what I need. This is a perfect way to introduce both the character and a moral dilemma. The girl is going to get raped. My hero will be forced to make a decision. Does he save the girl being raped, putting himself and the future of humanity in danger or does he ignore it and use the distraction to escape without incident, having only the mental trauma of leaving a preteen to get raped?
I want the reader and the main character to question their ethics after words. I want to incite the thoughts that flood through your head after making such a decision. I struggle with words trying to find a way that makes that haunt him, for better or for worse. The ambitions of my character directly conflicts with my logic and defies my common sense. In the same given scenario, I would never risk my own life just to get the future back on course. So I’m left with a question. Would my reader feel the same way?
Just as Greystone took a deep breath to make his move and escape out into the streets, one of the men acting as spotters saw him and began shouting. Immediately they sprinted towards Greystone, but the third man didn’t even budge. Greystone reached down into his pants, fumbling to grab the handle of his pistol firmly backing up slowly. As the men reached striking distance, he managed to get a handle on the pistol, pulling it out and held it in front of him with both hands as if he were holding a glass ball at arm’s length. The men hit an invisible wall and their arms jutted up immediately.
“Back the fuck up” Greystone demanded. The third man was now standing with his back turned to them buckled his belt. Before turning he zipped up his pants now back at his waist.
“I should kill you where you stand!” Greystone said making eye contact with the rapist. You two should leave, now!” The two men jumped at their opportunity and sprited out of the alley without looking back. “You, put your hands up. You are despicable…”
“Spare me your fucking lecture.” The rapist said coyly. Greystone was taken aback at his hubris while staring at the end of a pistol. It was actually unnerving. This meant he‘d stared down the barrel of a gun before. “Pull her pants up” He watched the man as he slowly pulled her pants up to her waist, making a note to slap her bare ass before pulling the pants up and nestling them over her buttocks. He turned to face Greystone with a wry grin.
The man began to inch his way towards the alleyway, Greystone followed him with the gun. He backpedaled as he lifted his hand up. The man squeezed his middle finger, ring finger, and pinky into his palm mocking a gun. With his makeshift gun he aimed at Greystone and then fired twice jerking his hand back; the recoil of invisible fire.
“I knew you weren’t going to do it.” Spinning he walked away at a brisker pace. Greystone had the gun aimed at the man’s back.
The trigger resisted his pull, but his will over-powered it.
Click.
The magazine was empty. Greystone just stood and watched as the rapist made off into the bustling streets. A soft spoken voice interrupted Greystone’s thoughts.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Please don’t thank me.” Greystone replied quietly. He stared down the alleyway being careful so as not to make eye contact with the girl. Please don’t thank me.
I wrote this section shortly after the poetry reading upon arriving home. I felt that placing the reader in this scenario would entice the reader to question their own actions, and respond either way. I felt that in ending it with Greystone actually attempting to do the right thing, though unsuccessfully was rewarding enough for those who were angry at his lack of action earlier.
I write to be original. I want to write something that is different, something never done before. I stumble when I come across something in my story that I’ve heard before or seen before. It stops me dead in my tracks. I want to tread new ground, explore new scenarios. But I have to stop and ask is that even possible? Can I as a writer truly pull off an original concept? Could I make an idea that has never been thought of before? With all these people in the world it becomes clear that the answer is no. It’s impossible to remain truly original. Inspiration is pulled from everywhere, be in intentionally or subconsciously. Instead, it’s really about creating something that I am proud of; something I feel holds a level of truth and realism. The thought that I could produce something in writing that might inspire someone to make a change is enough for me to continue writing.
The fact that Mouse’s father was willing to risk his sons’ life shocked and overwhelmed Greystone. The boy skittered across the market to supply the militiamen. Bullets rattled the cargo shops. In his limited view he watched Mouse run nearly out of sight. Pressing his face against the surprisingly warm steel, he tried to see as far as he could to see who opposed the militia and watch Mouse.
Mouse was now stopped at a man pinned down by gunfire. In haste he tried to remove the ammo sling from his shoulder. As he flung it off his shoulder it got snagged on a piece of rebar jutting out of the concrete barricade. Attempting to free it, he stood up. Within an instant Mouse’s head jerked back and his body went limp; slumping over the man he was rearming. Blood splattered a dark red sheen against the light gray concrete of a crumbled overpass support column.
As this section worked out in my head, Metallica's ‘The Day That Never Ends’ was playing. There is a lyric that inspired me. "I'll splatter color on this grey." It struck a chord with me and I tend to meld lyrics into my writing rather frequently. I wanted a name for the boy that conveyed a sense of innocence and frailty. As a huge fan of Mass Effect, there is an interaction in the second game in which a young boy named Mouse crawls through the vents to avoid pursuers. The name seemed to fit perfectly and fit well in the given scenario.
I need another character. I need a shop keep. The guy that came into work earlier was a perfect model for a character. His overweight, disheveled frame is perfect for implanting the personality of a vendor in a war-torn, overpopulated city.
Finally making his way to the grocer, Greystone was met by a man cradling a disheveled assault rifle. He looked alien. Gravity, it seemed, must have been stronger at the entrance to his shop. What he lacked in height, he made up for in width. Blonde hair furled out from beneath a trucker hat which read something Greystone could only assume was French. It was stained, likely picked it out of a local garbage dump. Also, likely where the gray V-neck undershirt laden with burn marks and holes came from.
Looking over the gun wielding vendor he peered into the store. Rope lighting was fed through the entrance of the dimly lit insides and connected to a laboring generator chugging just outside. Pretending not to care about the gun pointed at his chest, Greystone continued to look over the man’s shoulders. Though given the circumstances, holding back a laugh at the vendors light brown beard seemed like a good decision. Obviously he preferred not to keep his natural hair color.
The television pulled me away from my writing as usual. The San Francisco Giants closer Brian Wilson is doing an interview. His dark, dark black beard oddly complements his mismatched hair color, almost entirely covered by his hat. The interviewer asks him if he'll shave the beard, to which he replies with disgust and horror after a long pause and dirty looks, "I'm not shaving it." I laugh and attempt to delve back in to the writing in front of me. I want a piece of that eccentricity in the character I'm molding in my story. So he too, will have an off colored beard.
The main character flees his apartment after he is pursued by agents. He stops to reflect while taking a breath and so too do I. The future, in my eyes is bleak. The outlook of the novel will inherently reflect this. My disdain for humanity is reflected by the ignorance of the future, contradictory belief systems and a general negative outlook on life. The page is the perfect podium for beliefs and ideology to shine through and I ramble through imagery and character development.
Every shop owner stood guard at the only entrance in to their shops. Every vendor was heavily armed. Awaiting Death to show up for a gun fight. Possessions were all they had and they were more than happy to kill for them, even if merely for exemplary purposes.
The shells of the crates were scarred heavily; pocked with the failed attempts to break in to the rusted stores. A long running gash on the side of a literature store seemed to be an attempt to enter with what Greystone could only attribute to a chainsaw. Hardly stealthy in an always bustling crowd.
The news constantly followed stories of fugitive ‘experienced’ or mass suicides, and bombings. The world, it seemed, was very different then he envisioned it just a few decades ago. Humanity faced dark times. A bead of sweat ran down from his forehead and into his eyebrow. Wiping his brow he caught a reflection of himself in a small puddle and he couldn’t help but smile. His face was still half shaven.
I wrote this after watching a television show in which the characters had to hurry. Conveniently everything they needed was easily accessible and found in a second. That’s not real. I always feel like movies and television shows never truly capture the essence of the mundane or ‘inconvenience’ for that matter. ‘Haste’ never seems to be portrayed properly to me. If you’re being pursued by federal agents, it’s likely they’ll show up at the unlikeliest and most unfavorable times. I wanted to capture this truth of life and so I had them show up while my main character was in the middle of shaving.
I have an unhealthy devotion to realism. Despite the fact that this is Science Fiction I feel compelled to write real people into real situations. Without truth or realism it is hard to really convince a reader to believe in a fictitious place or character. I want a hero, but I want a hero that is realistic. I want a severely flawed hero. I want to put him scenarios where he has to make conscious decisions that will directly force the reader to ask themselves as they read “would I do something about it if I were in his shoes, given the top level priorities and information the main character has? Would I risk myself, and the future to help one individual struggling at that moment? Would that make sense? Could I do that?”
He had to make a decision and fast. Quietly he inched along the wall, watching the figures manhandle the passed out girl. They pulled down her dirtied khakis and then began to have their way with her. A rising sense of disgust arose in Greystone.
The man behind her grabbed her hair and slipped his other hand around her limp body, wrapping his free hand around her chest. He lifted her off the ground and dragged the girl over to a broken shopping cart. The other men stood up and watched as he pushed her down bending her over the chopped up shopping cart. The steel frame holding the wheels was removed making it a stable ‘platform.’
The cart sat among assorted trash bags and rubble. The girl’s body slumped over the front of the cart, her bare bottom dangling over the edge. Her waist inched just over the edge of the cart, as she was supported solely by her abdomen and the thin ¼ inch steel cutting into her mid-section. He dropped his underwear and they nestled over his pants, with a faint jingle of his belt buckle. His bare ass tightened as he forced himself inside her.
You’re really just going to let this happen right in front of you? Greystone felt like a snake, slithering along the wall, escaping Eden after tricking Adam and Eve into eating from the Tree of Knowledge.
I attended a poetry reading for one of my classes. The poet reads a poem about a Nazi soldier that forces his dog to rape a Jewish woman, before killing her. It is an extremely powerful image and concept, but my mind is elsewhere. My mind is with my novel. My hero needs a sidekick. I realize he hasn't talked much. He needs someone to talk to along the way. The poet gets down on all fours, as the Jewish women would have. I think a young girl living on the streets is perfect on a number of levels; mainly though as a means to produce a lasting morally questioning moment for the character. The theme of killing one to save a thousand has always been an intriguing one for me. Would I be able to do it, would anyone be able to do it? She reads more and I'm listening intently while my mind churns. Then it hits me. This is what I need. This is a perfect way to introduce both the character and a moral dilemma. The girl is going to get raped. My hero will be forced to make a decision. Does he save the girl being raped, putting himself and the future of humanity in danger or does he ignore it and use the distraction to escape without incident, having only the mental trauma of leaving a preteen to get raped?
I want the reader and the main character to question their ethics after words. I want to incite the thoughts that flood through your head after making such a decision. I struggle with words trying to find a way that makes that haunt him, for better or for worse. The ambitions of my character directly conflicts with my logic and defies my common sense. In the same given scenario, I would never risk my own life just to get the future back on course. So I’m left with a question. Would my reader feel the same way?
Just as Greystone took a deep breath to make his move and escape out into the streets, one of the men acting as spotters saw him and began shouting. Immediately they sprinted towards Greystone, but the third man didn’t even budge. Greystone reached down into his pants, fumbling to grab the handle of his pistol firmly backing up slowly. As the men reached striking distance, he managed to get a handle on the pistol, pulling it out and held it in front of him with both hands as if he were holding a glass ball at arm’s length. The men hit an invisible wall and their arms jutted up immediately.
“Back the fuck up” Greystone demanded. The third man was now standing with his back turned to them buckled his belt. Before turning he zipped up his pants now back at his waist.
“I should kill you where you stand!” Greystone said making eye contact with the rapist. You two should leave, now!” The two men jumped at their opportunity and sprited out of the alley without looking back. “You, put your hands up. You are despicable…”
“Spare me your fucking lecture.” The rapist said coyly. Greystone was taken aback at his hubris while staring at the end of a pistol. It was actually unnerving. This meant he‘d stared down the barrel of a gun before. “Pull her pants up” He watched the man as he slowly pulled her pants up to her waist, making a note to slap her bare ass before pulling the pants up and nestling them over her buttocks. He turned to face Greystone with a wry grin.
The man began to inch his way towards the alleyway, Greystone followed him with the gun. He backpedaled as he lifted his hand up. The man squeezed his middle finger, ring finger, and pinky into his palm mocking a gun. With his makeshift gun he aimed at Greystone and then fired twice jerking his hand back; the recoil of invisible fire.
“I knew you weren’t going to do it.” Spinning he walked away at a brisker pace. Greystone had the gun aimed at the man’s back.
The trigger resisted his pull, but his will over-powered it.
Click.
The magazine was empty. Greystone just stood and watched as the rapist made off into the bustling streets. A soft spoken voice interrupted Greystone’s thoughts.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Please don’t thank me.” Greystone replied quietly. He stared down the alleyway being careful so as not to make eye contact with the girl. Please don’t thank me.
I wrote this section shortly after the poetry reading upon arriving home. I felt that placing the reader in this scenario would entice the reader to question their own actions, and respond either way. I felt that in ending it with Greystone actually attempting to do the right thing, though unsuccessfully was rewarding enough for those who were angry at his lack of action earlier.
I write to be original. I want to write something that is different, something never done before. I stumble when I come across something in my story that I’ve heard before or seen before. It stops me dead in my tracks. I want to tread new ground, explore new scenarios. But I have to stop and ask is that even possible? Can I as a writer truly pull off an original concept? Could I make an idea that has never been thought of before? With all these people in the world it becomes clear that the answer is no. It’s impossible to remain truly original. Inspiration is pulled from everywhere, be in intentionally or subconsciously. Instead, it’s really about creating something that I am proud of; something I feel holds a level of truth and realism. The thought that I could produce something in writing that might inspire someone to make a change is enough for me to continue writing.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
No Room for Comfort
I step through the tiny portal into my bedroom, pushing the red velvet drape over with my hand and ducking under it. The floorboards creak beneath me, shifting after years of burden. Recently I covered the mangled oak boards with a Christmas gift, a Dallas Cowboys rug. It doesn’t cover the entirety of the floor, but its enough to provide relief from splinters.
The bedroom is supposed to be a place of intimacy. Not always a place of that kind of intimacy, just a place of discretion. A place to get away; a place of relaxation and comfort. My bedroom is none of these things. It’s actually half of a room. Cordoned off by closets and dressers and a "door" stapled to the ceiling.
A two family house converted for one family use. My mother decided it was time to move and there is more value in a two family house. So began the construction to return it to its original state, seven years earlier. After closing some entry ways my room had to be abdicated to my father as he works shifts and often times is required to work overtime. He needs sleep and the thin walls provided little reprieve from the continuous barking of the dogs next door.
For a year and a half my room was under the bay window in the living room. A mattress on the floor. Out of my three brothers I was the only one with a girlfriend and I was living on the floor, in the living room. I didn't complain, but I felt the desire for privacy approach fast, and so I decided I'd take my fathers old room and make it my own. There was one problem however, that room had now become the default hallway. In order to provide the privacy I desired I used two closets and a dresser to create "walls" and provided just enough room for my younger brothers to get access into their full sized rooms.
I sit now staring at the computer screen. The computer desk at which I drone away is burdened with a layer of dust that isn’t worth cleaning. Within weeks it will be the same thickness; a result of a house that’s “a work in progress,” nearing its 8th year of work.
The top shelf holds a book of burned CD’s that I’ll never touch again. Sitting above that is a still packaged gift, a live scribe notebook. Sitting atop that is a makeshift folder containing all of my college paperwork. They lean against the printer, which hasn’t worked in years. A clear gameboy sits on the top shelf as the still packaged Master Chief stature is frozen mid stride; attempting to flee, but only to be destined to an unopened box sitting on the top shelf of some bum’s computer desk.
The middle shelf harbors my “dream catchers.” Watching me type away are an array of video game characters. Toys, statues, busts, dolls, whatever.
Commander Shepard, Grunt, Thane and Tali watch over me with a careful eye. That earthquake we had knocked Grunt off and one of his legs broke. I simply just propped it up, as earthquakes are a once in a lifetime occurrence in New Jersey; something I didn’t even feel. I was on the golf course that day, unbeknownst to my girlfriend.
Kratos scowls in Ares’ armor as I type something I know I’ll edit shortly. Samus Aran points her arm cannon to ward off any terrible ideas that approach. A Mr. Potato head version of Bumblebee from Transformers stares with bewilderment, seemingly out of place.
My computer, now well out of date, churns like a rusted Model T. It still runs though, somehow. The monitor has a few scratches in it. At least I think they’re scratches. My old license and two pairs of my glasses nestle among the dust at the base of the monitor. Nail clippers, tape and a sharpie round out the bottom shelf. Under the computer tower rests three birthday cards from my girlfriend. A floppy drive sits atop the tower along with an IPod box, various CD’s and cords. Two Mastodon stickers and a Killswitch Engage sticker barely remain on the side of the tower, which has been opened up only twice. The first time to jam a video card in that didn’t fit and the second to replace it when it popped out a year later.
On the table top are the Xbox controller charger sitting amongst coins, candy wrappers, a plate and coffee mug. Guitar picks, my wallet, television remote and phone sit like beacons of distraction. The right side of the table is a mess of receipts, writings, various other paperwork and my Creative Nonfiction book. At the end in the corner is a rotating picture holder containing a picture of me and my girlfriend.
The black keyboard rests on a precarious pull out shelf. The shelf is broken and I’ve bent the steel a few times to ensure it still somewhat retracts beneath the table. To my right is a red velvet curtain. Unfortunately its beauty is distorted by two heavy duty staples covering the window.
To my left is a book shelf I bought a while back. It holds everything that was never important. Only a few small items of importance rest on there, my contacts, DVD’s and video games. The other items, shot glasses, CD’s, toys and dust are worthless. The 37 inch television I bought sits at a forty five degree angle on a coffee table I smuggled from downstairs. REsting on the little space remaining are a few prominent video games currently in use and a pretty kick ass beat up “Reserved" sign. I can't remember exactly where or when I got it but I think I secretly managed to hijack from a restaurant. I always forget that’s there.
I don't get any channels in on my television. It did for a short period of time. I even went so far as to buy a cable and clumsily hang it on whatever I could. It ran haphazardly into my brothers room and into a decrepit three way that linked up outside.
Beneath that nicked, bemoaned coffee table though rests the brain and circulatory system of my room. It contains my Xbox 360 and two ancillary organs, the PS3 and Wii. I spend more time with my Xbox than I do with my girlfriend. We're more than friends.
I just did laundry yet the basket of dirty clothes has already breached above the brim. A pair of jeans I just took off as well as my dirtied softball uniform sit outside the basket, which hides the bookcase and dresser nearly entirely hidden behind the television. The bookcase used to brim with items. Due to recent budgetary concerns however many of the video games I’d been retaining for no apparent reason had to be sacrificed for newer, shinier video game cases. A facial foam, deodorant, powder and cologne poorly mask the void left by the video games. A Fallout 3 limited edition lunchbox separates the PS3 and Wii games from the Xbox games like the Mason Dixon line during the Civil War. A few books have the privilege of calling the bookshelf home. Mass Effect novels, A copy of Moby Dick A friend lent me for a while, which has slowly become eternity. Dan Browns Digital Fortress and a Star Wars novel finish it off. Then naturally a Mississippi Mud jug and “The Boot” divide that from a picture of my friends 21st birthday and me and my girlfriend dressing up as outlaws for a Seaside novelty photo. A Tickle-Me Cookie Monster stands untouched for ages another gag gift from my girlfriend.
All of my College books sit unmoved, forgotten like an elephant graveyard. Along with PC games that I’ve never played. I can’t access two of the drawers as the Television and coffee table impede its operation. One of the accessible drawers face fell off and more textbooks are shoved in there. The others are barricaded in by the laundry basket.
Papers are scattered about like the beer cans after a house party, along with change. I can’t remember where the fuck I put the container I used to put my coins in., instead they too are strewn about like forgotten Easter eggs. A closet sits nearly on top of the dresser. The door barely opens due to the curvature of the sagging floors. A piece of Sheetrock jammed underneath it gives it a slight tilt allowing the doors to move. Atop sits an unused Rock Band drum kit.
The entrance way into my room is at a 30 degree angle, another red velvet sheet stapled to the ceiling beams. Another cabinet sits at a 30 degree angle, with a Rock’em Sock’em Robots and the empty package for Rock Band perched atop. In front of the closet sits a Spyder amplifier, unused due to a broken input. Pushed against the wall are the Line Six half cabinet amplifier and head and sandwiched in the small corner are three guitars, two of which collect dust. One sees considerable usage, if not from me than my one brother who likes to visit from his room next door to see what I’m playing.
The fan in that same corner rests partially on one of the guitar stands. It’s faint whirring helps drown out the odd creaks and groans from the outdated balloon structure house. In the corner sit’s a sword, a gift awaiting an actual wall to be displayed on. Then the bed, a twin stretches from the guitars back to the computer desk.
There are walls, but I don’t consider them actual walls. Each beam is 16 on center, true 2x4’s. Chunks of plaster cling desperately to the wall, waiting for the opportunity to drop off and last me in the head. What remains instead is just pieces of paneling nestled up haphazardly against the wall. They aren’t even nailed or fastened on, just simply sandwiched against the wall. Patchwork lattice stretches across the expanses between beams, where insulation should rest.
The ceiling, like the walls are bare. The only difference is that there is actually insulation; ancient, mangled insulation. The paper covering that once contained the itchy yellow stuff inside was cut and falling off. My mother gave me a plastic sheet that covered about a third of the ceiling to put up. That too was riddled with holes and gashes. Just enough for the chips of wood and chunks of insulation to fall through once they've lost their grip. My girlfriend always asks where the scratches on my back come from, as if I'd been having a rough romp with another.I steadfastly proclaim my innocence and chalk it up to to the shards of wood that have made it past my permeable ceiling falling onto my bed beneath. The bed of nails.
When people talk about their rooms or ask me about mine I quickly retort with "I don't have a room, my house in construction. I have half a room."
The bedroom is supposed to be a place of intimacy. Not always a place of that kind of intimacy, just a place of discretion. A place to get away; a place of relaxation and comfort. My bedroom is none of these things. It’s actually half of a room. Cordoned off by closets and dressers and a "door" stapled to the ceiling.
A two family house converted for one family use. My mother decided it was time to move and there is more value in a two family house. So began the construction to return it to its original state, seven years earlier. After closing some entry ways my room had to be abdicated to my father as he works shifts and often times is required to work overtime. He needs sleep and the thin walls provided little reprieve from the continuous barking of the dogs next door.
For a year and a half my room was under the bay window in the living room. A mattress on the floor. Out of my three brothers I was the only one with a girlfriend and I was living on the floor, in the living room. I didn't complain, but I felt the desire for privacy approach fast, and so I decided I'd take my fathers old room and make it my own. There was one problem however, that room had now become the default hallway. In order to provide the privacy I desired I used two closets and a dresser to create "walls" and provided just enough room for my younger brothers to get access into their full sized rooms.
I sit now staring at the computer screen. The computer desk at which I drone away is burdened with a layer of dust that isn’t worth cleaning. Within weeks it will be the same thickness; a result of a house that’s “a work in progress,” nearing its 8th year of work.
The top shelf holds a book of burned CD’s that I’ll never touch again. Sitting above that is a still packaged gift, a live scribe notebook. Sitting atop that is a makeshift folder containing all of my college paperwork. They lean against the printer, which hasn’t worked in years. A clear gameboy sits on the top shelf as the still packaged Master Chief stature is frozen mid stride; attempting to flee, but only to be destined to an unopened box sitting on the top shelf of some bum’s computer desk.
The middle shelf harbors my “dream catchers.” Watching me type away are an array of video game characters. Toys, statues, busts, dolls, whatever.
Commander Shepard, Grunt, Thane and Tali watch over me with a careful eye. That earthquake we had knocked Grunt off and one of his legs broke. I simply just propped it up, as earthquakes are a once in a lifetime occurrence in New Jersey; something I didn’t even feel. I was on the golf course that day, unbeknownst to my girlfriend.
Kratos scowls in Ares’ armor as I type something I know I’ll edit shortly. Samus Aran points her arm cannon to ward off any terrible ideas that approach. A Mr. Potato head version of Bumblebee from Transformers stares with bewilderment, seemingly out of place.
My computer, now well out of date, churns like a rusted Model T. It still runs though, somehow. The monitor has a few scratches in it. At least I think they’re scratches. My old license and two pairs of my glasses nestle among the dust at the base of the monitor. Nail clippers, tape and a sharpie round out the bottom shelf. Under the computer tower rests three birthday cards from my girlfriend. A floppy drive sits atop the tower along with an IPod box, various CD’s and cords. Two Mastodon stickers and a Killswitch Engage sticker barely remain on the side of the tower, which has been opened up only twice. The first time to jam a video card in that didn’t fit and the second to replace it when it popped out a year later.
On the table top are the Xbox controller charger sitting amongst coins, candy wrappers, a plate and coffee mug. Guitar picks, my wallet, television remote and phone sit like beacons of distraction. The right side of the table is a mess of receipts, writings, various other paperwork and my Creative Nonfiction book. At the end in the corner is a rotating picture holder containing a picture of me and my girlfriend.
The black keyboard rests on a precarious pull out shelf. The shelf is broken and I’ve bent the steel a few times to ensure it still somewhat retracts beneath the table. To my right is a red velvet curtain. Unfortunately its beauty is distorted by two heavy duty staples covering the window.
To my left is a book shelf I bought a while back. It holds everything that was never important. Only a few small items of importance rest on there, my contacts, DVD’s and video games. The other items, shot glasses, CD’s, toys and dust are worthless. The 37 inch television I bought sits at a forty five degree angle on a coffee table I smuggled from downstairs. REsting on the little space remaining are a few prominent video games currently in use and a pretty kick ass beat up “Reserved" sign. I can't remember exactly where or when I got it but I think I secretly managed to hijack from a restaurant. I always forget that’s there.
I don't get any channels in on my television. It did for a short period of time. I even went so far as to buy a cable and clumsily hang it on whatever I could. It ran haphazardly into my brothers room and into a decrepit three way that linked up outside.
Beneath that nicked, bemoaned coffee table though rests the brain and circulatory system of my room. It contains my Xbox 360 and two ancillary organs, the PS3 and Wii. I spend more time with my Xbox than I do with my girlfriend. We're more than friends.
I just did laundry yet the basket of dirty clothes has already breached above the brim. A pair of jeans I just took off as well as my dirtied softball uniform sit outside the basket, which hides the bookcase and dresser nearly entirely hidden behind the television. The bookcase used to brim with items. Due to recent budgetary concerns however many of the video games I’d been retaining for no apparent reason had to be sacrificed for newer, shinier video game cases. A facial foam, deodorant, powder and cologne poorly mask the void left by the video games. A Fallout 3 limited edition lunchbox separates the PS3 and Wii games from the Xbox games like the Mason Dixon line during the Civil War. A few books have the privilege of calling the bookshelf home. Mass Effect novels, A copy of Moby Dick A friend lent me for a while, which has slowly become eternity. Dan Browns Digital Fortress and a Star Wars novel finish it off. Then naturally a Mississippi Mud jug and “The Boot” divide that from a picture of my friends 21st birthday and me and my girlfriend dressing up as outlaws for a Seaside novelty photo. A Tickle-Me Cookie Monster stands untouched for ages another gag gift from my girlfriend.
All of my College books sit unmoved, forgotten like an elephant graveyard. Along with PC games that I’ve never played. I can’t access two of the drawers as the Television and coffee table impede its operation. One of the accessible drawers face fell off and more textbooks are shoved in there. The others are barricaded in by the laundry basket.
Papers are scattered about like the beer cans after a house party, along with change. I can’t remember where the fuck I put the container I used to put my coins in., instead they too are strewn about like forgotten Easter eggs. A closet sits nearly on top of the dresser. The door barely opens due to the curvature of the sagging floors. A piece of Sheetrock jammed underneath it gives it a slight tilt allowing the doors to move. Atop sits an unused Rock Band drum kit.
The entrance way into my room is at a 30 degree angle, another red velvet sheet stapled to the ceiling beams. Another cabinet sits at a 30 degree angle, with a Rock’em Sock’em Robots and the empty package for Rock Band perched atop. In front of the closet sits a Spyder amplifier, unused due to a broken input. Pushed against the wall are the Line Six half cabinet amplifier and head and sandwiched in the small corner are three guitars, two of which collect dust. One sees considerable usage, if not from me than my one brother who likes to visit from his room next door to see what I’m playing.
The fan in that same corner rests partially on one of the guitar stands. It’s faint whirring helps drown out the odd creaks and groans from the outdated balloon structure house. In the corner sit’s a sword, a gift awaiting an actual wall to be displayed on. Then the bed, a twin stretches from the guitars back to the computer desk.
There are walls, but I don’t consider them actual walls. Each beam is 16 on center, true 2x4’s. Chunks of plaster cling desperately to the wall, waiting for the opportunity to drop off and last me in the head. What remains instead is just pieces of paneling nestled up haphazardly against the wall. They aren’t even nailed or fastened on, just simply sandwiched against the wall. Patchwork lattice stretches across the expanses between beams, where insulation should rest.
The ceiling, like the walls are bare. The only difference is that there is actually insulation; ancient, mangled insulation. The paper covering that once contained the itchy yellow stuff inside was cut and falling off. My mother gave me a plastic sheet that covered about a third of the ceiling to put up. That too was riddled with holes and gashes. Just enough for the chips of wood and chunks of insulation to fall through once they've lost their grip. My girlfriend always asks where the scratches on my back come from, as if I'd been having a rough romp with another.I steadfastly proclaim my innocence and chalk it up to to the shards of wood that have made it past my permeable ceiling falling onto my bed beneath. The bed of nails.
When people talk about their rooms or ask me about mine I quickly retort with "I don't have a room, my house in construction. I have half a room."
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Perfect Field
“There was a field there once.” I told my girlfriend as we drove past the three houses now encompassing my range of motion. “It went from Jim’s house to that house. We used to play wiffleball with the kids that live there.”
“Really,” she replied with feigning interest.
“Perfect Field we used to call it.” I left it at that.
Perfect Field was hardly perfect at all. The family that lived in the house to the right barely said hello to any of the neighbors. They always seemed so prissy and uptight. We never heard the son speak, so we just imagined he couldn’t until he was at least five. All the kids in the neighborhood played with us except for their two kids. They never came out. It was probably for the better, as we would’ve likely ran them off with insults. The white truck and white Volvo; they still have those cars nearly fifteen years later. The boy is in high school, and I’m sure he speaks now. The Perfects we called them.
I remember hitting a ball in-between the trees and hit the side of their house. The wife was out throwing the trash away and complained that we hit their siding. It’s a fucking wiffle ball lady! Mr. Rappleyea apologized vehemently anyway before commenting aside.
Mr. Rappleyea would usually pitch unless he was off working. He still is an editor for a Chicago paper I believe. We played wiffleball so much that the bases and home plate were worn to dirt. We used to have the bush as third, until it was worn in. If you hit it into the road it was a home run. Perfect for lefties but those trees dead center were a more likely spot for a homer for a righty like me.
The backstop was a line of trees. If you hit it into there you’d have to trek in and find it, eventually. We had enough wiffle balls to last us a week or two before having to hack into the wilderness and recover them.
The trees and brush were thick during the spring and summer. So thick that it made the lot seem that much bigger or maybe just because we were simply barely in our teens. We used to try sleigh riding in the winter down the slope from the Perfects’ backyard. They needless to say weren’t pleased with us running through their backyard.
I used to run through the trees for fun. The “forest” as we used to call it stretched upwards toward the fenced in backyards of the houses behind. It was a pretty good drop off running about 20 feet down from the fences into the field. Mr. Rappleyea used to mow it for us, since the owner rarely had someone come to mow it. When someone did show up though, for some reason we were sheepish to even approach the field, for fear that there might be retaliation in the form of “No Trespassing signs“ or fences. Fortunately though, there never were.
Then the first house was built next to Jim’s. The field was shortened but it still worked. We had to shift to accommodate it. They fenced in the backyard, so every foul ball lofted over the fence. We had to keep an arsenal of wiffle balls on hand due to the shear annoyance of walking around into the backyard and retrieving the balls. That family was weird too.
They had triplet girls and an older boy, Matthew. Matthew would play with us occasionally but he was a bit socially awkward. After about two or three years the parents divorced and they moved away. About seven years later we’d find out that Matthew passed away from a heart problem.
In that seven year span, we began to play less and less. Perfect Field began to deteriorate back to its natural appearance. The dirt patch bases became covered again with grass and the brush grew out wildly into the field of play. Then, shortly after they began building another house. Perfect Field was no more.
Out of shock mostly, we moved up the street and began to attempt to play wiffleball at another. Bif Park. Aptly named after the box truck’s insignia “B.I.F” that sat untouched in the outfield. It wasn’t the same. It was rocky, there was little grass and the infield was littered with broken glass from the older kids drinking there. Plus it was a longer walk for everyone and was substantially smaller compared to even the second iteration of Perfect Field. We were a bit older now and we routinely hit the ball over the truck and into the street and neighboring yard. It became a hassle to play.
Bif Park still remains, out of spite I believe. A field still so shitty not even today’s neighborhood youth will play there. Instead they ride their bikes and talk about how they scratched up the black car in the street with their handle bars, giggling away before shortly retreating into the house to play video games.
I walk out to my car before heading to work. I need gas, my headlights out and it needs a wash. I sigh and run my hand over the scratch on the quarter panel of my car. Now I need to find the touch up paint to get this scratch out too.
“Really,” she replied with feigning interest.
“Perfect Field we used to call it.” I left it at that.
Perfect Field was hardly perfect at all. The family that lived in the house to the right barely said hello to any of the neighbors. They always seemed so prissy and uptight. We never heard the son speak, so we just imagined he couldn’t until he was at least five. All the kids in the neighborhood played with us except for their two kids. They never came out. It was probably for the better, as we would’ve likely ran them off with insults. The white truck and white Volvo; they still have those cars nearly fifteen years later. The boy is in high school, and I’m sure he speaks now. The Perfects we called them.
I remember hitting a ball in-between the trees and hit the side of their house. The wife was out throwing the trash away and complained that we hit their siding. It’s a fucking wiffle ball lady! Mr. Rappleyea apologized vehemently anyway before commenting aside.
Mr. Rappleyea would usually pitch unless he was off working. He still is an editor for a Chicago paper I believe. We played wiffleball so much that the bases and home plate were worn to dirt. We used to have the bush as third, until it was worn in. If you hit it into the road it was a home run. Perfect for lefties but those trees dead center were a more likely spot for a homer for a righty like me.
The backstop was a line of trees. If you hit it into there you’d have to trek in and find it, eventually. We had enough wiffle balls to last us a week or two before having to hack into the wilderness and recover them.
The trees and brush were thick during the spring and summer. So thick that it made the lot seem that much bigger or maybe just because we were simply barely in our teens. We used to try sleigh riding in the winter down the slope from the Perfects’ backyard. They needless to say weren’t pleased with us running through their backyard.
I used to run through the trees for fun. The “forest” as we used to call it stretched upwards toward the fenced in backyards of the houses behind. It was a pretty good drop off running about 20 feet down from the fences into the field. Mr. Rappleyea used to mow it for us, since the owner rarely had someone come to mow it. When someone did show up though, for some reason we were sheepish to even approach the field, for fear that there might be retaliation in the form of “No Trespassing signs“ or fences. Fortunately though, there never were.
Then the first house was built next to Jim’s. The field was shortened but it still worked. We had to shift to accommodate it. They fenced in the backyard, so every foul ball lofted over the fence. We had to keep an arsenal of wiffle balls on hand due to the shear annoyance of walking around into the backyard and retrieving the balls. That family was weird too.
They had triplet girls and an older boy, Matthew. Matthew would play with us occasionally but he was a bit socially awkward. After about two or three years the parents divorced and they moved away. About seven years later we’d find out that Matthew passed away from a heart problem.
In that seven year span, we began to play less and less. Perfect Field began to deteriorate back to its natural appearance. The dirt patch bases became covered again with grass and the brush grew out wildly into the field of play. Then, shortly after they began building another house. Perfect Field was no more.
Out of shock mostly, we moved up the street and began to attempt to play wiffleball at another. Bif Park. Aptly named after the box truck’s insignia “B.I.F” that sat untouched in the outfield. It wasn’t the same. It was rocky, there was little grass and the infield was littered with broken glass from the older kids drinking there. Plus it was a longer walk for everyone and was substantially smaller compared to even the second iteration of Perfect Field. We were a bit older now and we routinely hit the ball over the truck and into the street and neighboring yard. It became a hassle to play.
Bif Park still remains, out of spite I believe. A field still so shitty not even today’s neighborhood youth will play there. Instead they ride their bikes and talk about how they scratched up the black car in the street with their handle bars, giggling away before shortly retreating into the house to play video games.
I walk out to my car before heading to work. I need gas, my headlights out and it needs a wash. I sigh and run my hand over the scratch on the quarter panel of my car. Now I need to find the touch up paint to get this scratch out too.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
The White Rectangle
The white rectangle whirrs to life. The fan spins louder as the screen comes to life. The green ring dances around a simple symbol. A quarter arc and in the center and straight line. The controller in my hand, my portal into a virtual world. The center button too comes alive with a green ring prancing around it. So Inviting.
School work sits on the computer desk. Boring, stale and wholly uninviting. My untouched novel sits bare on the computer screen like a muse of production. The rectangular box is all the more enticing, a devilish fetish that at times is crippling. If I level this class up though I'll get the mortar. The mortar looks bad ass. One more game.
That game ends and I shuffle through the paperwork on the desk, as though searching for anything that can pull me away before the match starts, but I can't find it and so I retreat back into the game.
The keyboard is bulky. Too many buttons. Stained with coffee, the "N" key sticks every time I hit it.
There has to be something under there, but for now I'll let it stick. I'll get it later.
The desk is littered with papers. Scribblings and writings of the piece which sits tauntingly on the computer screen. I look at it some more looking over it between the few seconds between matches, before again receding back into the virtual world.
The controller however, that's a thing of beauty and efficiency. Lightweight, it fits in your hand perfectly. Never mind the cramp I get from holding the triggers down too long. Carpel Tunnel is in the future, I'm in the now. A symmetrical body with asymmetrical features. Only a few buttons and white. Much more inviting and appealing than that damn keyboard.
I'm achieving little in reality but achieving so much more online.
I can separate my virtual life from reality but how much is it impeding on?
Is this a problem?
I'm doing fine in school and that's with little effort.
But I can do better.
Better? You've made the Dean's List every semester at Kean.
Yeah, but remember we had a goal to publish this book everyone seems to love?
I will, I will, in due time. But first the jet's available lets do some work.
School work sits on the computer desk. Boring, stale and wholly uninviting. My untouched novel sits bare on the computer screen like a muse of production. The rectangular box is all the more enticing, a devilish fetish that at times is crippling. If I level this class up though I'll get the mortar. The mortar looks bad ass. One more game.
That game ends and I shuffle through the paperwork on the desk, as though searching for anything that can pull me away before the match starts, but I can't find it and so I retreat back into the game.
The keyboard is bulky. Too many buttons. Stained with coffee, the "N" key sticks every time I hit it.
There has to be something under there, but for now I'll let it stick. I'll get it later.
The desk is littered with papers. Scribblings and writings of the piece which sits tauntingly on the computer screen. I look at it some more looking over it between the few seconds between matches, before again receding back into the virtual world.
The controller however, that's a thing of beauty and efficiency. Lightweight, it fits in your hand perfectly. Never mind the cramp I get from holding the triggers down too long. Carpel Tunnel is in the future, I'm in the now. A symmetrical body with asymmetrical features. Only a few buttons and white. Much more inviting and appealing than that damn keyboard.
I'm achieving little in reality but achieving so much more online.
I can separate my virtual life from reality but how much is it impeding on?
Is this a problem?
I'm doing fine in school and that's with little effort.
But I can do better.
Better? You've made the Dean's List every semester at Kean.
Yeah, but remember we had a goal to publish this book everyone seems to love?
I will, I will, in due time. But first the jet's available lets do some work.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Blog 12/13 Project 3 ideas
I think I can work with the seemingly hundreds of subtopics I discussed in the previous two assignments. I can possibly do the concept of a sense of belonging or community within the work environment and the dynamics involved with such.
I think I can also use the topic discussed and work the ideas of using the myself as a model of a main character in my writing, pulling my own ideologies into the main character. I think however what I want to do is use the idea I presented in the last essay in which I take sections of my novel and analyze where the concepts and ideas presented came from, I think I would really enjoy that the most.
What I can do is discuss the one character - Troy and how I used The SF Giants pitcher Brian Wilson as a partial inspiration for his appearance. I can also take his son Quinn and evaluate the inspiration for his appearance and motives in the story.
I think this would likely be one of the assignments that I would really get into. Unfortunately I haven't had too much time to think about it yet, but now that the idea is planted, I'm already churning up a framework and exemplory passages that can be used for this assignemnt.
I think I can also use the topic discussed and work the ideas of using the myself as a model of a main character in my writing, pulling my own ideologies into the main character. I think however what I want to do is use the idea I presented in the last essay in which I take sections of my novel and analyze where the concepts and ideas presented came from, I think I would really enjoy that the most.
What I can do is discuss the one character - Troy and how I used The SF Giants pitcher Brian Wilson as a partial inspiration for his appearance. I can also take his son Quinn and evaluate the inspiration for his appearance and motives in the story.
I think this would likely be one of the assignments that I would really get into. Unfortunately I haven't had too much time to think about it yet, but now that the idea is planted, I'm already churning up a framework and exemplory passages that can be used for this assignemnt.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Talk About It
Hey, Hi. Did you read the whole thing first of all? If not go back and read it, damnit. What did you see as being the central idea of the essay? What was interesting, what worked or didn't work? Is it cohesive and easy to follow? (probably not)
Essay 2
Writers block, cliché, I know but it’s the elephant in the room, another cliché, I know. I'm bored with the novel I'm working on. It's missing something. It's missing my interest. That's the bane of any piece of writing and the single most disastrous thought. "Just write" I tell myself, "edit later" It's impossible to adhere to when you edit as you go. "Write something that interests me, fuck the audience," easier said than done. I reassure myself, "You have to write for yourself first, asshole."
iTunes spins up on random shuffle. But is it really? My library is heavily favored towards my favorite band, Mastodon. Their entire discography to just a few scattered songs from varying other artists. Mastodon’s 'Iron Tusk' starts up. The bleating drum blasts roar through the headset. Heavy, pounding guitars charge forward. I want that in my novel. I want to write something that mirrors the sound. Something dire, disparaging something heavy. I'm focused now. Someone’s got to die and it won't be someone you expect or want to die. I'm going to kill a kid.
Metallica's ‘The Day That Never Ends’ has a line in it that inspires me. "I'll splatter color on this grey." The line is thought provoking, yet so basic. This kid's blood will be splattered on a concrete median, crumbling as bullets embed in it as he gets shot in the head, right in front of his father. Oh, shit, now we're talking.
I need another character first. The guy that came into work earlier was a perfect model for a character. His overweight, disheveled frame is perfect for implanting the personality of a shop keep in a war-torn, overpopulated city. The television pulls me away from my writing. The San Francisco Giants closer Brian Wilson is doing an interview. His dark, dark black beard oddly complements his mismatched hair color, almost entirely covered by his hat. The interviewer asks him if he'll shave the beard, to which he replies with disgust and horror after a long pause and dirty looks, "I'm not shaving it." I want a piece of that eccentricity in the man I'm molding in my story, so he too, will have an off colored beard.
The future in my eyes is bleak. The outlook of the novel inherently, will reflect this. My disdain for humanity is reflected in the level of neglect the buildings of the cities; the ignorance of the future, contradictory belief systems and a general negative outlook on life. A blank page is the perfect podium for beliefs and ideology to shine through and I ramble through imagery and character development.
I write as though I am the main character. The main character is alone, strong willed and ambivalent but with a touch of benevolence. The main difference between us, however is that the character in my story has a goal. He is determined to complete his task; a task that will turn humanity back in the right direction. He is determined to disclose the truth to the masses, even if he is martyred in the process. This ambition and drive directly conflicts with my logic and defies common sense. In the same given scenario, I would never risk my own life just to get the future back on course. So I’m left with a question. Is this character stronger than I? Or am I stronger for realizing my flaws and writing this?
I want to fill this created world with a future that reflects everything that is going on today, all the problems and issues played out down the line. It's a bleak future but let’s face it our existence is just that, bleak. Can one person truly alter the future? I say no, yet I write about a person that will. Is this hope shining through? I'd better kill another character off.
I'm devoted to realism; writing real people into real situations. Without truth or realism it is hard to really compel a reader to believe in a fictitious place or character. I want a hero, but I want a hero that is realistic. I want a severely flawed hero. I want to put him scenarios where he has to make conscious decisions that will directly force the reader to ask themselves as they read, would I do something about it if I were in his shoes, given the top level priorities and information the main character has? Would I risk myself, and the future to help one individual struggling at that moment? Would that make sense? Could I do that? I want him to question his ethics after words, I want him to feel like shit after making a decision, and I want that decision to play out in a way that each choice haunts him, for better or for worse.
I have to attend a poetry reading for one of my classes. The poet is a teacher of ours. She reads a poem about a Nazi soldier that forces his dog to rape a Jewish woman, before killing her. It is an extremely powerful image and concept but my mind is elsewhere. My hero needs a sidekick. I realize he hasn't talked much. He needs someone to talk to along the way. The poet gets down on all fours, as the Jewish women would have. I think a young girl living on the streets is perfect on a number of levels; mainly though as a means to produce a lasting morally questioning moment for the character. The theme of killing one to save a thousand has always been an intriguing one for me. Would I be able to do it, would anyone be able to do it? She reads more and I'm listening intently while my mind churns. Then it hits me. This is what I need. This is a perfect way to introduce both the character and a moral dilemma. The girl is going to get raped. My hero will be forced to make a decision. Does he save the girl being raped, putting himself and the future of humanity in danger or does he ignore it and use the distraction to escape without incident, having only the mental trauma of leaving a preteen to get raped?
I write to be original. I want to write something that is different, something never done before. I stumble when I come across something in my story that I’ve heard before or seen before. It stops me dead in my tracks. I want to tread new ground, explore new scenarios. Is that even possible? Can we I as a writer truly pull off an original concept? Could I make an idea that has never been thought of before? With all these people in the world it becomes clear that the answer is no. Everything must have been thought of before, be it dismissed or faded into the unconscious, but in the end it’s not about being new or innovative. It’s really about creating something that I am proud of something I feel holds a level of truth and realism that might in fact be a deciding factor for someone who is questioning an idea or concept. The thought that I could produce something in writing that might inspire someone to make a change is enough for me to continue writing. Is that me, or my main character talking?
iTunes spins up on random shuffle. But is it really? My library is heavily favored towards my favorite band, Mastodon. Their entire discography to just a few scattered songs from varying other artists. Mastodon’s 'Iron Tusk' starts up. The bleating drum blasts roar through the headset. Heavy, pounding guitars charge forward. I want that in my novel. I want to write something that mirrors the sound. Something dire, disparaging something heavy. I'm focused now. Someone’s got to die and it won't be someone you expect or want to die. I'm going to kill a kid.
Metallica's ‘The Day That Never Ends’ has a line in it that inspires me. "I'll splatter color on this grey." The line is thought provoking, yet so basic. This kid's blood will be splattered on a concrete median, crumbling as bullets embed in it as he gets shot in the head, right in front of his father. Oh, shit, now we're talking.
I need another character first. The guy that came into work earlier was a perfect model for a character. His overweight, disheveled frame is perfect for implanting the personality of a shop keep in a war-torn, overpopulated city. The television pulls me away from my writing. The San Francisco Giants closer Brian Wilson is doing an interview. His dark, dark black beard oddly complements his mismatched hair color, almost entirely covered by his hat. The interviewer asks him if he'll shave the beard, to which he replies with disgust and horror after a long pause and dirty looks, "I'm not shaving it." I want a piece of that eccentricity in the man I'm molding in my story, so he too, will have an off colored beard.
The future in my eyes is bleak. The outlook of the novel inherently, will reflect this. My disdain for humanity is reflected in the level of neglect the buildings of the cities; the ignorance of the future, contradictory belief systems and a general negative outlook on life. A blank page is the perfect podium for beliefs and ideology to shine through and I ramble through imagery and character development.
I write as though I am the main character. The main character is alone, strong willed and ambivalent but with a touch of benevolence. The main difference between us, however is that the character in my story has a goal. He is determined to complete his task; a task that will turn humanity back in the right direction. He is determined to disclose the truth to the masses, even if he is martyred in the process. This ambition and drive directly conflicts with my logic and defies common sense. In the same given scenario, I would never risk my own life just to get the future back on course. So I’m left with a question. Is this character stronger than I? Or am I stronger for realizing my flaws and writing this?
I want to fill this created world with a future that reflects everything that is going on today, all the problems and issues played out down the line. It's a bleak future but let’s face it our existence is just that, bleak. Can one person truly alter the future? I say no, yet I write about a person that will. Is this hope shining through? I'd better kill another character off.
I'm devoted to realism; writing real people into real situations. Without truth or realism it is hard to really compel a reader to believe in a fictitious place or character. I want a hero, but I want a hero that is realistic. I want a severely flawed hero. I want to put him scenarios where he has to make conscious decisions that will directly force the reader to ask themselves as they read, would I do something about it if I were in his shoes, given the top level priorities and information the main character has? Would I risk myself, and the future to help one individual struggling at that moment? Would that make sense? Could I do that? I want him to question his ethics after words, I want him to feel like shit after making a decision, and I want that decision to play out in a way that each choice haunts him, for better or for worse.
I have to attend a poetry reading for one of my classes. The poet is a teacher of ours. She reads a poem about a Nazi soldier that forces his dog to rape a Jewish woman, before killing her. It is an extremely powerful image and concept but my mind is elsewhere. My hero needs a sidekick. I realize he hasn't talked much. He needs someone to talk to along the way. The poet gets down on all fours, as the Jewish women would have. I think a young girl living on the streets is perfect on a number of levels; mainly though as a means to produce a lasting morally questioning moment for the character. The theme of killing one to save a thousand has always been an intriguing one for me. Would I be able to do it, would anyone be able to do it? She reads more and I'm listening intently while my mind churns. Then it hits me. This is what I need. This is a perfect way to introduce both the character and a moral dilemma. The girl is going to get raped. My hero will be forced to make a decision. Does he save the girl being raped, putting himself and the future of humanity in danger or does he ignore it and use the distraction to escape without incident, having only the mental trauma of leaving a preteen to get raped?
I write to be original. I want to write something that is different, something never done before. I stumble when I come across something in my story that I’ve heard before or seen before. It stops me dead in my tracks. I want to tread new ground, explore new scenarios. Is that even possible? Can we I as a writer truly pull off an original concept? Could I make an idea that has never been thought of before? With all these people in the world it becomes clear that the answer is no. Everything must have been thought of before, be it dismissed or faded into the unconscious, but in the end it’s not about being new or innovative. It’s really about creating something that I am proud of something I feel holds a level of truth and realism that might in fact be a deciding factor for someone who is questioning an idea or concept. The thought that I could produce something in writing that might inspire someone to make a change is enough for me to continue writing. Is that me, or my main character talking?
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Blog 9
I put a serious of short stories that I felt were impactful, however not exactly relavant to the overall theme of the piece. I have a great start I feel and a great ending which are very relavent to the topoic however i do veer off on a tangent mid way through the story. I can split the essays up and have already thought about what stories I want to add to the first one to better push my topic.
For my next essay I think what I want to do is explore how, as a writer, influence comes from everywhere. It's omnipresent and always there whether you know it or not and I'd like to delve into how it subliminally or consiously influences your work. I thought of using my novel and the external and internal influences in crafting the world, situations and characters. I think it would be very interesting to do a self evaluation of my writings and explore how I came up with the scenarios and some of the characters and inspect on how my personal beliefs and ideoliogies have come out through this fiction piece.
For my next essay I think what I want to do is explore how, as a writer, influence comes from everywhere. It's omnipresent and always there whether you know it or not and I'd like to delve into how it subliminally or consiously influences your work. I thought of using my novel and the external and internal influences in crafting the world, situations and characters. I think it would be very interesting to do a self evaluation of my writings and explore how I came up with the scenarios and some of the characters and inspect on how my personal beliefs and ideoliogies have come out through this fiction piece.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Rough Draft 1
Dad shut the truck door and headed for church. The cracked beige leather seats of the white suburban gave very little. As I watched him walk down the street, I turned the radio on. Naturally, being the oldest I always sat in the front seat while my three brothers sat in the back. I manned the radio. Every Sunday this was the routine. K-Rock constantly played the rock songs we all listened to. On occasion however we snuck CD's in and played it while the crowds of people passed the rumbling truck playing rock while on their way to church. Dad was in the choir and it made it a hell of a lot easier to get out of church. We had to go early with him but he trustingly left us the keys to play music while we waited for mass to start. We never went in though. Instead we sat in the truck for an hour and a half and listened to music. When mass finally ended he took us to get bagels on the way back home. It was routine. This was our church.
Something was wrong. I never let a ground ball go through my legs. I made the all-star team every year as shortstop. This is becoming as routine as a fly ball. They put me in the outfield. The yellow FoodTown jersey annoyed me now. I was in right field, and still was having trouble with coordination. My mother kept insisting that I was ‘jerky.’ I never believed her until while at my grandmothers I grabbed for a cup of milk, and spilled it on the ground. Every time my mother insisted we see a doctor though, the twitching stopped. My mother, grandmother and my family were distraught. My Dad told me he was praying for me. That was the only year in Little League that I didn’t make the All-Star team.
The new MTV show, The Osborne’s was on. My mother and I loved that show. We sat watching Ozzy curse and bumble his way through the episode. My father sat in the living room with his head down, pretending not to hear the bleeps every two seconds. Finally he had enough, during a commercial break he came into the living room. "What the hell do you have them watching this shit for? Why the fuck do you have this on? It's trash all they do is curse and I don't want my kids watching this filth." My mother replied fervently "I'll watch what I want in my house. At least they bleep out the curses on TV!"
It was dark. All I can remember is my mothers hands on my chest pinning me to the floor of the Ford Aerostar. My father was driving. They were taking me to the hospital, and I had refused to go willingly. My mother was crying over me, and I was shouting every vile thing I could think of. “I fucking hate you! I’ll never love you again. I’ll never talk to you ever again. I hate you!” Repeated over and over as my mother cried. All she could say was “I know, I know”
I can't remember much about what was actually taught in CCD. I can’t even remember what CCD stood for anymore. All I know was that it was where we went to learn about Jesus and the Bible after school. We just called it the Central City Dump. The excitement of seeing Courtney there every week kept me from feigning sick. Every week I would wait for her parents green cavalier to drive up and to see her get out and walk up to the door of St. Mary's where I would attempt what little I knew about flirting. One day I even worked up the courage to ask her for her AIM screen name. She wrote in a pink glitter pen on a small piece of paper. Later that night I'd add her and awaited her sign on every night.
They had a diagnosis. Sydenham's chorea. The doctors and nurses openly admitted they had never even heard of it. They would have likely never even found out about it if it wasn't for my mothers persistence. In the early days of Google and Yahoo, she searched and searched for answers pin pointing one solution and inquiring about it. Mom had to take my brothers to baseball and basketball practices. Dad came in. He had 5 books of word searches and puzzle books, and he brought a movie, a trilogy actually, one I'd heard of but never seen before; Star Wars. I watched it repeatedly. I finished one of the puzzle books while waiting for him to return back from grabbing a bite to eat in cafeteria downstairs. He couldn't believe it. Every day he brought more puzzle books for me to work on, and then he began bringing actual books for me to read along with a bunch of snacks, kit-kats and twizzlers.
“You know, you guys should at least get to mass for Christmas and Easter. This is your faith.” My Dad said in that tone that was filled with perpetual disappointment. “Yeah, of course.” We brushed the comment off like a gnat as we watched the Dallas Cowboys game at my Uncle’s house on Thanksgiving. “What days you have work this week Dad?”
Steven was the name of the boy in the "room" next to me. A room divided by a thin curtain. Steven was my age, 12. He was struck by a drunk driver shattering his leg. His knee and leg had pins straight through to hold everything together. I remember watching TV with him and walking down to the game center and playing Mario, Mario kart and other video games, despite the wishes of nurses not wanting to continue moving Steven's bed and monitoring me as I walk, so they allowed us to bring the NES into our room along with a few games. One day Steven was just gone. He hadn't healed yet. He was moved to another room and that was the last I heard of Steven.
After fully recovering I remember my father attributing my recovery to God. It was a miracle. That never felt right to me. The fact that my entire struggles, everything I've been through, everything I dealt with credited not to me or the nurses or doctors or medicine, but simply, God; God did it. That was unsettling. It was upsetting. The months after were filled with my Mother and Grandmother arguing about the past. My Aunt got involved and it was ugly. I was trying to recover, and was doing remarkably well. They were all yelling in the kitchen as me and my three brothers watched TV in the living room, easily within earshot of the shouting. I had an idea. In the movies and on TV when family is shouting a kid runs in, crying and says stop fighting and shouting. I tried it, but it ended with my mother telling them to leave and to never come back; resulting in a 12 year lapse in the relationship with my mothers entire side of the family.
I was never fully comfortable with the Roman catholic version of life. An early fascination with dinosaurs as a child deeply rooted dates in my subconscious. The Cretaceous period was 64 million years ago, the Jurassic before that was 200 million and before that the Triassic was 250 million. There is carbon dating proof, yet I’m told to believe the Bible. 6,000 years ago? Seriously? A book, scribed by mankind, as spoken through God. What about the dinosaurs?
College level Biology. Much more exciting than high school biology. The fact that I paid for my education seemed to make every subject exciting. Evolution. The professor made it a point to continually say he wasn’t trying to question anyone’s faith, but continued to teach evolution also mentioning that there isn’t complete proof that even science is accurate. I didn’t care. It is obvious that we came from apes. We share a common genetic code of 95% to 98%. Why do we have tailbones? Why is our brain wired backwards? Why do we have a pinky? Why do we have an appendix? If we were made in God’s image, then he too must have these things, right? Can God get appendicitis?
“You know I love you guys. It’s good getting out with you’s.” My Dad said with a smile, grabbing my shoulder and patting my brothers on the back. After every round of golf he says the same thing. It’s surer than the sun rising. “I mean I played like crap. It’s not even fun anymore for me. I don‘t even want to play anymore.” He always says it sincerely, but we all know he’ll be asking us in a few days when we are all available for another round of golf.
Something was wrong. I never let a ground ball go through my legs. I made the all-star team every year as shortstop. This is becoming as routine as a fly ball. They put me in the outfield. The yellow FoodTown jersey annoyed me now. I was in right field, and still was having trouble with coordination. My mother kept insisting that I was ‘jerky.’ I never believed her until while at my grandmothers I grabbed for a cup of milk, and spilled it on the ground. Every time my mother insisted we see a doctor though, the twitching stopped. My mother, grandmother and my family were distraught. My Dad told me he was praying for me. That was the only year in Little League that I didn’t make the All-Star team.
The new MTV show, The Osborne’s was on. My mother and I loved that show. We sat watching Ozzy curse and bumble his way through the episode. My father sat in the living room with his head down, pretending not to hear the bleeps every two seconds. Finally he had enough, during a commercial break he came into the living room. "What the hell do you have them watching this shit for? Why the fuck do you have this on? It's trash all they do is curse and I don't want my kids watching this filth." My mother replied fervently "I'll watch what I want in my house. At least they bleep out the curses on TV!"
It was dark. All I can remember is my mothers hands on my chest pinning me to the floor of the Ford Aerostar. My father was driving. They were taking me to the hospital, and I had refused to go willingly. My mother was crying over me, and I was shouting every vile thing I could think of. “I fucking hate you! I’ll never love you again. I’ll never talk to you ever again. I hate you!” Repeated over and over as my mother cried. All she could say was “I know, I know”
I can't remember much about what was actually taught in CCD. I can’t even remember what CCD stood for anymore. All I know was that it was where we went to learn about Jesus and the Bible after school. We just called it the Central City Dump. The excitement of seeing Courtney there every week kept me from feigning sick. Every week I would wait for her parents green cavalier to drive up and to see her get out and walk up to the door of St. Mary's where I would attempt what little I knew about flirting. One day I even worked up the courage to ask her for her AIM screen name. She wrote in a pink glitter pen on a small piece of paper. Later that night I'd add her and awaited her sign on every night.
They had a diagnosis. Sydenham's chorea. The doctors and nurses openly admitted they had never even heard of it. They would have likely never even found out about it if it wasn't for my mothers persistence. In the early days of Google and Yahoo, she searched and searched for answers pin pointing one solution and inquiring about it. Mom had to take my brothers to baseball and basketball practices. Dad came in. He had 5 books of word searches and puzzle books, and he brought a movie, a trilogy actually, one I'd heard of but never seen before; Star Wars. I watched it repeatedly. I finished one of the puzzle books while waiting for him to return back from grabbing a bite to eat in cafeteria downstairs. He couldn't believe it. Every day he brought more puzzle books for me to work on, and then he began bringing actual books for me to read along with a bunch of snacks, kit-kats and twizzlers.
“You know, you guys should at least get to mass for Christmas and Easter. This is your faith.” My Dad said in that tone that was filled with perpetual disappointment. “Yeah, of course.” We brushed the comment off like a gnat as we watched the Dallas Cowboys game at my Uncle’s house on Thanksgiving. “What days you have work this week Dad?”
Steven was the name of the boy in the "room" next to me. A room divided by a thin curtain. Steven was my age, 12. He was struck by a drunk driver shattering his leg. His knee and leg had pins straight through to hold everything together. I remember watching TV with him and walking down to the game center and playing Mario, Mario kart and other video games, despite the wishes of nurses not wanting to continue moving Steven's bed and monitoring me as I walk, so they allowed us to bring the NES into our room along with a few games. One day Steven was just gone. He hadn't healed yet. He was moved to another room and that was the last I heard of Steven.
After fully recovering I remember my father attributing my recovery to God. It was a miracle. That never felt right to me. The fact that my entire struggles, everything I've been through, everything I dealt with credited not to me or the nurses or doctors or medicine, but simply, God; God did it. That was unsettling. It was upsetting. The months after were filled with my Mother and Grandmother arguing about the past. My Aunt got involved and it was ugly. I was trying to recover, and was doing remarkably well. They were all yelling in the kitchen as me and my three brothers watched TV in the living room, easily within earshot of the shouting. I had an idea. In the movies and on TV when family is shouting a kid runs in, crying and says stop fighting and shouting. I tried it, but it ended with my mother telling them to leave and to never come back; resulting in a 12 year lapse in the relationship with my mothers entire side of the family.
I was never fully comfortable with the Roman catholic version of life. An early fascination with dinosaurs as a child deeply rooted dates in my subconscious. The Cretaceous period was 64 million years ago, the Jurassic before that was 200 million and before that the Triassic was 250 million. There is carbon dating proof, yet I’m told to believe the Bible. 6,000 years ago? Seriously? A book, scribed by mankind, as spoken through God. What about the dinosaurs?
College level Biology. Much more exciting than high school biology. The fact that I paid for my education seemed to make every subject exciting. Evolution. The professor made it a point to continually say he wasn’t trying to question anyone’s faith, but continued to teach evolution also mentioning that there isn’t complete proof that even science is accurate. I didn’t care. It is obvious that we came from apes. We share a common genetic code of 95% to 98%. Why do we have tailbones? Why is our brain wired backwards? Why do we have a pinky? Why do we have an appendix? If we were made in God’s image, then he too must have these things, right? Can God get appendicitis?
“You know I love you guys. It’s good getting out with you’s.” My Dad said with a smile, grabbing my shoulder and patting my brothers on the back. After every round of golf he says the same thing. It’s surer than the sun rising. “I mean I played like crap. It’s not even fun anymore for me. I don‘t even want to play anymore.” He always says it sincerely, but we all know he’ll be asking us in a few days when we are all available for another round of golf.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Blog 6
I think for now I would much rather prefer to write about my father, and his I feel like I have more interesting stories that I can weave together to find a focus.
Dad shut the truck door and headed for church. The cracked beige leather seats of the white suburban gave little. The radio blared. Naturally being the oldest I always sat in the front seat, my three brothers always sat in the back. I manned the radio. K-Rock constantly played the rock songs we all listened to. On occasion however we snuck Cd's in and played it while the crowds of people passed the rumbling truck on their way to church. Dad was in the choir and it made it a hell of a lot easier to get out of church. He always made us go with him on Sundays and because he had to be there earlier he left us the keys to play music while we waited for mass to start. We never went in though. Not once. We sat in the truck for an hour and a half and listened to music, then he took us to get bagels on the way back home. It was routine. This was our church.
The new MTV show, The Osbournes was on. My mother and I loved that show. We sat watching Ozzy curse and bumble his way through the episode. My father sat in the living room with his head down, pretending not to hear the bleeps every two seconds. Finally he had enough, during a commercial break he came into the living room. "What the hell do you have them watching this shit for? Why the fuck do you have this on? It's trash all they do is curse and I don't want my kids watching this filth." "I'll watch what I want in my house. At least they bleep out the curses on TV!"
I can't remember much about what was taught in CCD. All I could remember was the excitement of seeing Courtney there every week. I remember every week I would wait for her parents green cavalier to drive up, and to see her get out and walk up to the door of St. Mary's where I would attempt what little I knew about flirting. One day I even worked up the courage to ask her for her AIM screenname. She wrote in pink glitter pen on a small piece of paper. Later that night I'd add her and await her sign on every night.
They had a diagnosis. Sydenham's chorea. The doctors and nurses openly admitted they had never even heard of it. They would have likely never even found out about it if it wasn't for my mothers persistence. In the early days of google and yahoo she searched and searched for answers pin pointing one solution and inquiring about it. Mom had to take my brothers to baseball and basketball practices. Dad came in. He had 5 books of word searches and puzzle books, and he brought a movie, a trilogy actually, one I'd heard of but never seen before; Star Wars. I watched it repeatedly. I finished one of the puzzle books while waiting for him to return back from grabbing a bite to eat in cafeteria downstairs. He couldn't believe it. Every day he brought more puzzle books for me to work on, and then he began bringing actual books for me to read along with a bunch of snacks, kit kats and twizzlers.
Steven was the name of the boy in the "room" next to me. A room divided by a thin curtain. Steven was my age, 12. He was struck by a drunk driver shattering his leg. His knee and leg had pins straight through to hold everything together. I remember watching TV with him and walking down to the game center and playing Mario, Mario kart and other video games, despite the wishes of nurses not wanting to continue moving Steven's bed and monitoring me as I walk, so they allowed us to bring the NES into our room along with a few games. One day Steven was just gone. He hadn't healed yet. He was moved to another room and that was the last I heard of Steven.
After fully recovering I remember my father attributing my recovery to God. It was a miracle. That never felt right to me. The fact that my entire struggles, everything I've been through, everything I dealt with credited not to me or the nurses or doctors or medicine, but simply, God; God did it. That was unsettling. It was upsetting to me.
Dad shut the truck door and headed for church. The cracked beige leather seats of the white suburban gave little. The radio blared. Naturally being the oldest I always sat in the front seat, my three brothers always sat in the back. I manned the radio. K-Rock constantly played the rock songs we all listened to. On occasion however we snuck Cd's in and played it while the crowds of people passed the rumbling truck on their way to church. Dad was in the choir and it made it a hell of a lot easier to get out of church. He always made us go with him on Sundays and because he had to be there earlier he left us the keys to play music while we waited for mass to start. We never went in though. Not once. We sat in the truck for an hour and a half and listened to music, then he took us to get bagels on the way back home. It was routine. This was our church.
The new MTV show, The Osbournes was on. My mother and I loved that show. We sat watching Ozzy curse and bumble his way through the episode. My father sat in the living room with his head down, pretending not to hear the bleeps every two seconds. Finally he had enough, during a commercial break he came into the living room. "What the hell do you have them watching this shit for? Why the fuck do you have this on? It's trash all they do is curse and I don't want my kids watching this filth." "I'll watch what I want in my house. At least they bleep out the curses on TV!"
I can't remember much about what was taught in CCD. All I could remember was the excitement of seeing Courtney there every week. I remember every week I would wait for her parents green cavalier to drive up, and to see her get out and walk up to the door of St. Mary's where I would attempt what little I knew about flirting. One day I even worked up the courage to ask her for her AIM screenname. She wrote in pink glitter pen on a small piece of paper. Later that night I'd add her and await her sign on every night.
They had a diagnosis. Sydenham's chorea. The doctors and nurses openly admitted they had never even heard of it. They would have likely never even found out about it if it wasn't for my mothers persistence. In the early days of google and yahoo she searched and searched for answers pin pointing one solution and inquiring about it. Mom had to take my brothers to baseball and basketball practices. Dad came in. He had 5 books of word searches and puzzle books, and he brought a movie, a trilogy actually, one I'd heard of but never seen before; Star Wars. I watched it repeatedly. I finished one of the puzzle books while waiting for him to return back from grabbing a bite to eat in cafeteria downstairs. He couldn't believe it. Every day he brought more puzzle books for me to work on, and then he began bringing actual books for me to read along with a bunch of snacks, kit kats and twizzlers.
Steven was the name of the boy in the "room" next to me. A room divided by a thin curtain. Steven was my age, 12. He was struck by a drunk driver shattering his leg. His knee and leg had pins straight through to hold everything together. I remember watching TV with him and walking down to the game center and playing Mario, Mario kart and other video games, despite the wishes of nurses not wanting to continue moving Steven's bed and monitoring me as I walk, so they allowed us to bring the NES into our room along with a few games. One day Steven was just gone. He hadn't healed yet. He was moved to another room and that was the last I heard of Steven.
After fully recovering I remember my father attributing my recovery to God. It was a miracle. That never felt right to me. The fact that my entire struggles, everything I've been through, everything I dealt with credited not to me or the nurses or doctors or medicine, but simply, God; God did it. That was unsettling. It was upsetting to me.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Blog 5
A group of 3 employees talking about work. A customer sheepishly asks for help, we help but fuck with him as a group.
A family of middleeastern descent ask an associate a question. he answers, but the man does not respond and instead turns to his family and they begin speaking arabic to one another huddled in a circle. After this occurs a few times the associate begins to interject, and from outside the circles begins to nod and say "Yup, it will do that," and "uh huh" as though he can understand.
A mexican man walks past me three times looking at the ceiling as though it porovides an answer to one of lifes puzzling questions. He moves at a feverish pace and passes by a fourth time. he stops and stares at me finally asking "Choo peak-e pani?" I shake my head and say "No" and he moves on continuing his search.
While talking with a friend about work, he confesses to me that he once had to take a shit while traveling on route 9. He asked another one of our friends where the cleanest bathrooms were that he could stop and use the restroom. My friend tells him that Lowe's has the cleanest bathrooms. After he stops in to use the bathroom, he sits down in a stall and begins to describe in vivid detail; the number of murals and writings in sharpie on the bathroom stall. He describes a series of pictures that he doesnt understand, while I remember them vividly and laugh at each one, and then have to explain to him their meaning.
150 foot rolls of 15 foot carpeting are extremely heavy. The forklift has a special tool that is used to move the heavy roll and move it into the top stock, while watching an associate try to manuever it, I tell him to tilt the forks down to straighten the "carpet dick" and he begins laughing and explaining how he's never heard it called that before. "Really?" I ask "Every Flooring associate calls it that. "You've got to be rough with it while still retaining a bit of gentleness"
A family of middleeastern descent ask an associate a question. he answers, but the man does not respond and instead turns to his family and they begin speaking arabic to one another huddled in a circle. After this occurs a few times the associate begins to interject, and from outside the circles begins to nod and say "Yup, it will do that," and "uh huh" as though he can understand.
A mexican man walks past me three times looking at the ceiling as though it porovides an answer to one of lifes puzzling questions. He moves at a feverish pace and passes by a fourth time. he stops and stares at me finally asking "Choo peak-e pani?" I shake my head and say "No" and he moves on continuing his search.
While talking with a friend about work, he confesses to me that he once had to take a shit while traveling on route 9. He asked another one of our friends where the cleanest bathrooms were that he could stop and use the restroom. My friend tells him that Lowe's has the cleanest bathrooms. After he stops in to use the bathroom, he sits down in a stall and begins to describe in vivid detail; the number of murals and writings in sharpie on the bathroom stall. He describes a series of pictures that he doesnt understand, while I remember them vividly and laugh at each one, and then have to explain to him their meaning.
150 foot rolls of 15 foot carpeting are extremely heavy. The forklift has a special tool that is used to move the heavy roll and move it into the top stock, while watching an associate try to manuever it, I tell him to tilt the forks down to straighten the "carpet dick" and he begins laughing and explaining how he's never heard it called that before. "Really?" I ask "Every Flooring associate calls it that. "You've got to be rough with it while still retaining a bit of gentleness"
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Blog 4
I think I can use the segmented style of writing CNF in my story to juxtapose the dynamics of religion and science and its relationship with my father and my illness. I had gotten very ill when I was 12 and my parents were right by my side through all of it. As I struggled to get better my father prayed for me daily. Once I fully recovered he attributed my recovery to God. I felt it was misdirected. I felt like medication and scientific know how were the root of my recovery of the rare illness, Sydenham's chorea; a disease 40 years prior left the patient in a mental ward for the rest of their life.
Where was God then?
That really I think started my separation from the belief of God. College, moreover Biology furthered the distance in faith. My father still tries to push me to attending mass and tries to make me feel guilty about not practicing. We (my brothers and I) cater to his conscience and nod aggreeably.
A few notable short stories for possible segmentation:
The Suburban and not going into church
Biology and evolution in college
Genesis
CCD and Courtney
3am wake up to doctors, feeling like a test monkey
the only allstar team I wasn't on in little league due to illness
"You know you should at least attend Easter and Christmas mass."
The Osbournes
Where was God then?
That really I think started my separation from the belief of God. College, moreover Biology furthered the distance in faith. My father still tries to push me to attending mass and tries to make me feel guilty about not practicing. We (my brothers and I) cater to his conscience and nod aggreeably.
A few notable short stories for possible segmentation:
The Suburban and not going into church
Biology and evolution in college
Genesis
CCD and Courtney
3am wake up to doctors, feeling like a test monkey
the only allstar team I wasn't on in little league due to illness
"You know you should at least attend Easter and Christmas mass."
The Osbournes
Monday, September 19, 2011
Post 3
What I took from these readings was a strong importance and focus on minute details. These details, though mundane can bring about a number of different emotional responses and aid the author in creating a desired emotion for the reader. Lott's definition of CNF allows for flexibility in form while addressing the needs to write CNF. The three assigned readings address a need for the author to express childhood memories of important events through a narrowed perspective.
Simic's read was especially interesting. It appeared to be a bunch of random memories in succession that tracked his life. Each short spurt of story-telling reveals a hint of his personality and gives us a unique perspective on events that occur ed in Nazi era Europe. Cofer's piece follows her coming of age story and her family history fleeing Cuba for the Brooklyn during the Cold War, while Atwoods' creative nonfiction piece follows her thoughts and short stories about the female body and womanhood. Each story has a unique tale to tell and each story uses and offers up different techniques.
These readings have helped open my eyes to a few more possibilities within creating my definition of CNF, and have allowed me to get a broader scope on what can be CNF. CNF for all of these authors is very personal. It is a personal journey that helps them to a broader understanding and gives us insight into their thoughts and personalities while also incorporating a much broader scheme of things with historical events.
Simic's read was especially interesting. It appeared to be a bunch of random memories in succession that tracked his life. Each short spurt of story-telling reveals a hint of his personality and gives us a unique perspective on events that occur ed in Nazi era Europe. Cofer's piece follows her coming of age story and her family history fleeing Cuba for the Brooklyn during the Cold War, while Atwoods' creative nonfiction piece follows her thoughts and short stories about the female body and womanhood. Each story has a unique tale to tell and each story uses and offers up different techniques.
These readings have helped open my eyes to a few more possibilities within creating my definition of CNF, and have allowed me to get a broader scope on what can be CNF. CNF for all of these authors is very personal. It is a personal journey that helps them to a broader understanding and gives us insight into their thoughts and personalities while also incorporating a much broader scheme of things with historical events.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Blog Post 2
I must admit, being a fan of fiction, I had an initial curiosity and misnomer as to what Nonfiction is, and how it could possibly be creative; for obviously, (I thought) if it isn't truth it cannot possibly be nonfiction. The assigned readings have at least given me a bit of understanding and insight as to what creative nonfiction really is and to why it is still considered nonfiction.
Initially I thought it was embellished truth. With a bit of truth and a lot of imagination an author could easily pen a creative nonfiction piece, or in essence, a fiction piece with s factual or historical event inserted in.
I, as Lott has also admitted, cannot clearly identify what creative nonfiction is. Instead I can only grasp some core elements as to what can make nonfiction creative. What I've taken to be the most important and prevalent idea with creative nonfiction is not so much the truthiness (as Stephen Colbert would say) of the story but the personal dialogue and resulting understanding and realization that comes with evaluating underlying aspects of events and their impacts on our lives.
One big thing I've taken from attempting to create a definition of creative nonfiction is the importance of owning "I." In creating nonfiction you own the ideas, you own concepts, that might otherwise be inserted as a characters belief systems. This I found as intriguing as in fiction, you can insert your beliefs and use a medium character as modes of transmittal. Creative nonfiction allows the empowerment of owning the words and owning ideas.
It is a bit different for me to to be writing nonfiction as I cherish the ability to create fictitious environments, worlds, and scenarios. However it doesn't actually seem too far off, as many of my personality traits and ideas come through in science fiction and character traits as well.
Initially I thought it was embellished truth. With a bit of truth and a lot of imagination an author could easily pen a creative nonfiction piece, or in essence, a fiction piece with s factual or historical event inserted in.
I, as Lott has also admitted, cannot clearly identify what creative nonfiction is. Instead I can only grasp some core elements as to what can make nonfiction creative. What I've taken to be the most important and prevalent idea with creative nonfiction is not so much the truthiness (as Stephen Colbert would say) of the story but the personal dialogue and resulting understanding and realization that comes with evaluating underlying aspects of events and their impacts on our lives.
One big thing I've taken from attempting to create a definition of creative nonfiction is the importance of owning "I." In creating nonfiction you own the ideas, you own concepts, that might otherwise be inserted as a characters belief systems. This I found as intriguing as in fiction, you can insert your beliefs and use a medium character as modes of transmittal. Creative nonfiction allows the empowerment of owning the words and owning ideas.
It is a bit different for me to to be writing nonfiction as I cherish the ability to create fictitious environments, worlds, and scenarios. However it doesn't actually seem too far off, as many of my personality traits and ideas come through in science fiction and character traits as well.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Blog Post 1
Grealy's essay is a heartbreaking story. The main point of her essay, in my opinion is the connection between self-image and self-respect.
What I've noticed with this and a few other essays we've read so far is that it is not ordered chronologically. It's ordered , as you've indicated to read as an essay with paragraphs used as arguements to emphasize her points. She transitions between the past and present continually in the essay, by not indenting paragraphs in the past followed by an indentation with her thoughts and analysis in the following paragraph. This is a technique that has also been used with a few other readings we've read, and seems to be a common technique.
Grealy uses the story of her struggles with her self image as an example to emphasize the main arguements for her main idea. She talks about at first how society feeds us a perceived image of what we are supposed to look like, and when we do not look like this there is often hurtful backlash.
Interestingly enough after scanning the story after the initial reading I gathered a much different understanding on the main point of her essay. After reading it seemed like an evaluation of the writing process. As a writer we sift through muddled ideas and often at first it is horrifying to look at at, but over time we nurture the idea and take steps to polish it and make it "look" better. In the end we never fully accomplish the perfect "image" or perfect essay, instead we work it into something that we feel comfortable with and in the end accept the result. Even after the final product we are still not happy, much like Grealy doesn't completely accept her image, but comes to terms with it and eventually
What I've noticed with this and a few other essays we've read so far is that it is not ordered chronologically. It's ordered , as you've indicated to read as an essay with paragraphs used as arguements to emphasize her points. She transitions between the past and present continually in the essay, by not indenting paragraphs in the past followed by an indentation with her thoughts and analysis in the following paragraph. This is a technique that has also been used with a few other readings we've read, and seems to be a common technique.
Grealy uses the story of her struggles with her self image as an example to emphasize the main arguements for her main idea. She talks about at first how society feeds us a perceived image of what we are supposed to look like, and when we do not look like this there is often hurtful backlash.
Interestingly enough after scanning the story after the initial reading I gathered a much different understanding on the main point of her essay. After reading it seemed like an evaluation of the writing process. As a writer we sift through muddled ideas and often at first it is horrifying to look at at, but over time we nurture the idea and take steps to polish it and make it "look" better. In the end we never fully accomplish the perfect "image" or perfect essay, instead we work it into something that we feel comfortable with and in the end accept the result. Even after the final product we are still not happy, much like Grealy doesn't completely accept her image, but comes to terms with it and eventually
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