Okay, so maybe Frank Sinatra isn’t so awful after all. If I’d had survive listening to a re-released CD of his greatest hits all the while eating—I don’t know—zeppolis, I might feel differently, but leafing through Gay Talese’s encyclopedia of a profile, I got the feeling that Frank, despite his evident shortcomings, is a guy I could have been inclined to visit at Jilly’s when he was in town.
Talese’s careful reporting and attention to detail creates Sinatra’s image in an unfiltered light; his unbridled generosity and personable character, thrown into the mix with an unpredictable temper and a demanding set of needs, piece together a transparent image—one of authenticity and believability.
The most structurally pleasing element of “Frank Sinatra Has a Cold,” occurs between the first mention of Sinatra’s attending “the fight,” at which point Talese launches into a digression so artful I felt only my being hand held and not the backwards motion of time nor difference in backdrop, until I was launched (landing gracefully of course, Talese himself directing me to a soft patch of earth), back into the present with the complete quickly accelerating sentence:
“In 1954, totally committed to his talent once more, Frank Sinatra was selected Metronome’s “Singer of the Year,” and later he won the U.P.I. disc jockey poll, unseating Eddie Fisher – who now, in Las Vegas, having sung “The Star-Spangled Banner,” climbed out of the ring, and the fight began.”
Four very distinct and equally accounted for developments occur in this congregation of descriptors, pacing words, and emotion. I felt tricked in the way people do when they’re told, “You’re on candid camera!” I was pleased, wallowed in my own smirk for a moment, and wondered: How can I do that? This guy is good.
Also beautiful are the paradoxes Sinatra embodies; Talese provides careful, vivid lists without offering up any more explanation than is necessary:
“He has everything, he cannot sleep, he gives nice gifts, he is not happy, but he would not trade, even for happiness, what he is…”
“He is a place of the past – but only we have aged, he hasn’t…we are dogged by domesticity, he isn’t…we have compunctions, he doesn’t…it is our fault, not his…”
It is effortless, it is perfect. And in reality, knowing the torture I put myself through just to churn out a single sentence of quasi-brilliance, I’m sure it wasn’t effortless…but one for two isn’t bad all the time.
Also, as one who struggles to capture extended dialogue sequences, I especially admired Talese’s sparse but meaningful employment of it as a means of storytelling. Directly feeling the effect of an expertly captured and crafted exchange—the one between Don Rickles, Dean Martin, and Sinatra—I made a personal promise to own, if not use, a successful dialogue.
If Frank Sinatra actually did have a cold he’s lucky, because Talese succeeded in selling me what I once thought was unsellable.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Light Reading and an Analogy. (For kicks).
Okay, okay so it's 4:30 in the morning and I'm reading the New York Times. Don't judge.
Anyway, I stumbled on this article about restructuring graduate (and undergraduate) curriculum and the educations they provide to better serve the student (and society, of course).
Tres interesante.
If the first sentence: "Graduate education is the Detroit of higher learning," doesn't get you, you might want to dig out your SAT book and review the art of analogies.
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/27/opinion/27taylor.html?pagewanted=2&_r=1&ref=opinion
Anyway, I stumbled on this article about restructuring graduate (and undergraduate) curriculum and the educations they provide to better serve the student (and society, of course).
Tres interesante.
If the first sentence: "Graduate education is the Detroit of higher learning," doesn't get you, you might want to dig out your SAT book and review the art of analogies.
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/27/opinion/27taylor.html?pagewanted=2&_r=1&ref=opinion
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Revision
Ditching Dependence
Long before the lawyers intervened and belongings were divided, the big black boat of a car was decidedly Dad’s; that and the corduroy chair, the stereo system, and the tools. Mom got the dishes, the coffee table, and us, the kids.
We, the kids, claimed the undecided stuff and each other.
But the car meant more to us all than any of the other belongings we wrapped in newspaper and packed away into boxes. I remember just how its leather seats singed the backs of my legs on hot summer days, the way it ran without a key in the ignition, and how, from the safety of its backseat, Dad taught me what it meant to “fishtail” the first time New York had enough snow for it.
Looking strictly at the numbers—monthly payments, insurance, tune-up fees—the car was Mom’s as much as it was Dad’s. Her refusal to drive tipped the scales.
At the time of her last attempt, we had been making our way down barren back roads near the state capital; the air was packed tightly, and humidity choked us. For miles now, a heavy breeze beat at my face, loosening my braids. When the thought dawned on our fearless leader, Mom, to open her own window, disaster was still well concealed from sight.
Using her left hand to manually roll down the window, and relying on her right to brace the steering wheel, it seemed the delicate wires of her delicate brain got crossed, forcing both hands to fall into a loop of circular motion. From there it wasn’t long—perhaps only a single rotation—before we, and the car, were launched into a ditch on the side of the road—the left side, the side with the now open window.
Were it not for the split-second of greater circulation inside the car, this afternoon adventure would be ruled a total lost cause.
With this failure, Mom took an oath against driving. She sentenced herself to the passenger’s seat, the suicide seat, throwing on the shackles of dependence every time she climbed in.
I, on the other hand, first promised myself I would drive only cars with motorized window controls. Second, I devised a plan to get my independent booty out of the backseat.
Without the convenient freedom granted by Dad and his big black car, Mom and us kids found ourselves relying on third parties for transportation. Visit Grandma, call a car service. Get to school, take the subway.
Sure, the situation and the city had its perks. By twelve, I had the subway map imprinted in my brain and could tell you how to stand clear of the closing doors in three languages. Still, the vulnerability that accompanies reliance is one I was eager to shake.
And shake I did.
But if learning to drive was crossing the finish line, there were enough hurdles in the way to blind the average runner. So, with great challenges comes great inspiration—right?
Attaining capitol and accruing life experience, breaking free from the bonds of dysfunctional family life, finding and claiming my own identity in a sea of conformity, and finally becoming self-sufficient (obviously, duh) quickly became my 8th grade goals.
And finding a job seemed a logical place to start.
From there, one dog-walking client soon grew into two. Three into four, and so on. It wasn’t long before a milkbone empire amassed itself before my glistening eyes, each pooper-scooped doodoo cha-chinging all the way to my piggybank, and I came to be known as “that girl with the dogs.” A sure sign of success, I was certain.
But then summer rolled around and my standing position at the tennis courts’ as official ball picker-upper, bench-painter, errand-runner, and assistant-assistant tennis professional availed itself to me. Slight inner conflict, but ultimately a no-brainer: hand off the empire to an underling, charge a handling fee.
Brilliant.
I didn’t even have to look outside my immediate family for an obliging minion; the younger brother was a perfect target—naïve, innocent, eager. We were slatted for great success.
Between basking in the undeserved glory of being a middleman and roasting away at tennis courts reminiscent of Southern plantations, I found time to squeeze in babysitting—if that’s what you want to call it.
“Five kids?” Please, give me all you’ve got.
“Oh, and you want me to walk your dog?” A breeze.
“Cook dinner?” Easy Mac it is.
My responsibilities quickly mutated into something more like zoo keeping.
And like the wolf to my own house, I huffed and puffed until there was straw everywhere.
Boy, did it fall apart fast. With chew marks on my sneakers (the ones I bought by myself with my paycheck), tan lines reminiscent of a trucker’s (not that there’s anything wrong with that), and baby food in my hair (absolutely not okay, not under any circumstances), I found that independence isn’t money, just like it isn’t simply the right to drive yourself around.
It’s a lot bigger than some tangible greenery in your wallet, and it means more than running your own schedule, especially when your schedule is running you into the ground.
For an eighth grader it means feeling free, thinking and believing you can do it better.
For a nineteen-year-old it means making informed personal decisions, like driving, and helping to empower those around you to do their independence better.
Not by pawning off a dog walking empire, but by teaching your younger brother to drive when he’s old enough to get a permit. After all, some other big black boat of a car will be ours one day. (God help us if we have to share.)
Long before the lawyers intervened and belongings were divided, the big black boat of a car was decidedly Dad’s; that and the corduroy chair, the stereo system, and the tools. Mom got the dishes, the coffee table, and us, the kids.
We, the kids, claimed the undecided stuff and each other.
But the car meant more to us all than any of the other belongings we wrapped in newspaper and packed away into boxes. I remember just how its leather seats singed the backs of my legs on hot summer days, the way it ran without a key in the ignition, and how, from the safety of its backseat, Dad taught me what it meant to “fishtail” the first time New York had enough snow for it.
Looking strictly at the numbers—monthly payments, insurance, tune-up fees—the car was Mom’s as much as it was Dad’s. Her refusal to drive tipped the scales.
At the time of her last attempt, we had been making our way down barren back roads near the state capital; the air was packed tightly, and humidity choked us. For miles now, a heavy breeze beat at my face, loosening my braids. When the thought dawned on our fearless leader, Mom, to open her own window, disaster was still well concealed from sight.
Using her left hand to manually roll down the window, and relying on her right to brace the steering wheel, it seemed the delicate wires of her delicate brain got crossed, forcing both hands to fall into a loop of circular motion. From there it wasn’t long—perhaps only a single rotation—before we, and the car, were launched into a ditch on the side of the road—the left side, the side with the now open window.
Were it not for the split-second of greater circulation inside the car, this afternoon adventure would be ruled a total lost cause.
With this failure, Mom took an oath against driving. She sentenced herself to the passenger’s seat, the suicide seat, throwing on the shackles of dependence every time she climbed in.
I, on the other hand, first promised myself I would drive only cars with motorized window controls. Second, I devised a plan to get my independent booty out of the backseat.
Without the convenient freedom granted by Dad and his big black car, Mom and us kids found ourselves relying on third parties for transportation. Visit Grandma, call a car service. Get to school, take the subway.
Sure, the situation and the city had its perks. By twelve, I had the subway map imprinted in my brain and could tell you how to stand clear of the closing doors in three languages. Still, the vulnerability that accompanies reliance is one I was eager to shake.
And shake I did.
But if learning to drive was crossing the finish line, there were enough hurdles in the way to blind the average runner. So, with great challenges comes great inspiration—right?
Attaining capitol and accruing life experience, breaking free from the bonds of dysfunctional family life, finding and claiming my own identity in a sea of conformity, and finally becoming self-sufficient (obviously, duh) quickly became my 8th grade goals.
And finding a job seemed a logical place to start.
From there, one dog-walking client soon grew into two. Three into four, and so on. It wasn’t long before a milkbone empire amassed itself before my glistening eyes, each pooper-scooped doodoo cha-chinging all the way to my piggybank, and I came to be known as “that girl with the dogs.” A sure sign of success, I was certain.
But then summer rolled around and my standing position at the tennis courts’ as official ball picker-upper, bench-painter, errand-runner, and assistant-assistant tennis professional availed itself to me. Slight inner conflict, but ultimately a no-brainer: hand off the empire to an underling, charge a handling fee.
Brilliant.
I didn’t even have to look outside my immediate family for an obliging minion; the younger brother was a perfect target—naïve, innocent, eager. We were slatted for great success.
Between basking in the undeserved glory of being a middleman and roasting away at tennis courts reminiscent of Southern plantations, I found time to squeeze in babysitting—if that’s what you want to call it.
“Five kids?” Please, give me all you’ve got.
“Oh, and you want me to walk your dog?” A breeze.
“Cook dinner?” Easy Mac it is.
My responsibilities quickly mutated into something more like zoo keeping.
And like the wolf to my own house, I huffed and puffed until there was straw everywhere.
Boy, did it fall apart fast. With chew marks on my sneakers (the ones I bought by myself with my paycheck), tan lines reminiscent of a trucker’s (not that there’s anything wrong with that), and baby food in my hair (absolutely not okay, not under any circumstances), I found that independence isn’t money, just like it isn’t simply the right to drive yourself around.
It’s a lot bigger than some tangible greenery in your wallet, and it means more than running your own schedule, especially when your schedule is running you into the ground.
For an eighth grader it means feeling free, thinking and believing you can do it better.
For a nineteen-year-old it means making informed personal decisions, like driving, and helping to empower those around you to do their independence better.
Not by pawning off a dog walking empire, but by teaching your younger brother to drive when he’s old enough to get a permit. After all, some other big black boat of a car will be ours one day. (God help us if we have to share.)
Monday, April 20, 2009
"Trina and Trina"
The profiles featured in Literary Journalism, “The American Man at Age Ten,” by Susan Orlean, and “Trina and Trina,” by Adrian Nicole LeBlanc, are strikingly different in terms of subject matter; their approaches, however, and the artful way in which each writer captures a greater cultural setting and a deeply personal, individualized story. The big picture and the small picture exist alongside each other, as expert storytelling and attention to detail intertwines, cooperatively playing the perspectives off of each other along the way.
Reading “Trina and Trina,” I was most impressed by the immediate surge of sympathy elicited by the description of Trina’s reality. That is, she was hooking herself, begging for money, going to cop crack, and living on the false logic that inducing her own vomiting would help keep her safe from AIDS. The poor girl was lost and her hopeless ignorance of the world was immediately heartbreaking and simultaneously endearing.
I tend to question the role of the narrator in pieces such as this. That being said, LeBlanc’s unapologetic justification for placing herself as a character within “Trina and Trina” was very much appreciated. She writes:
“Bolstered by our companionable road trips, I took a shortcut in trying to make sense out of her crazy life and mistook her traits for mine…The most important difference between us was that I’d been tracked for luck: I stayed dutiful and took the fight to my writing, while Trina, more feisty, less well-loved, and less well-equipped, took it to the street (212).”
Such a candid explanation of her own role in Trina’s repeated intervention and mentorship, in addition to her willingness to appear vulnerable by explaining her shortcomings in rationale, provide a certain credibility to the narrator, perhaps compensating for her relative lack of street-smarts. A hard life is all the story’s subject ever knew.
The idea that Trina just never had a chance is made repeatedly, but still the hope that she will continue the fight is one that invests the reader in the narrative. The words uttered by Trina’s social worker—“she can’t get beyond that point and relate. There is an empty spot in that child that you can’t fill. You can’t move past that spot.”—are heart wrenching I found myself wishing against their truth and hoping for an alternative.
The quotes Orlean uses are powerful in their authenticity, and her decision to write the dialogue in such a way that Trina’s accent shines through further develops Trina’s character and depth of personality. After reading “Trina and Trina,” I will look to select quotes more carefully, placing them strategically in places where the story seems to be losing steam.
Reading “Trina and Trina,” I was most impressed by the immediate surge of sympathy elicited by the description of Trina’s reality. That is, she was hooking herself, begging for money, going to cop crack, and living on the false logic that inducing her own vomiting would help keep her safe from AIDS. The poor girl was lost and her hopeless ignorance of the world was immediately heartbreaking and simultaneously endearing.
I tend to question the role of the narrator in pieces such as this. That being said, LeBlanc’s unapologetic justification for placing herself as a character within “Trina and Trina” was very much appreciated. She writes:
“Bolstered by our companionable road trips, I took a shortcut in trying to make sense out of her crazy life and mistook her traits for mine…The most important difference between us was that I’d been tracked for luck: I stayed dutiful and took the fight to my writing, while Trina, more feisty, less well-loved, and less well-equipped, took it to the street (212).”
Such a candid explanation of her own role in Trina’s repeated intervention and mentorship, in addition to her willingness to appear vulnerable by explaining her shortcomings in rationale, provide a certain credibility to the narrator, perhaps compensating for her relative lack of street-smarts. A hard life is all the story’s subject ever knew.
The idea that Trina just never had a chance is made repeatedly, but still the hope that she will continue the fight is one that invests the reader in the narrative. The words uttered by Trina’s social worker—“she can’t get beyond that point and relate. There is an empty spot in that child that you can’t fill. You can’t move past that spot.”—are heart wrenching I found myself wishing against their truth and hoping for an alternative.
The quotes Orlean uses are powerful in their authenticity, and her decision to write the dialogue in such a way that Trina’s accent shines through further develops Trina’s character and depth of personality. After reading “Trina and Trina,” I will look to select quotes more carefully, placing them strategically in places where the story seems to be losing steam.
Profile Pitch: Midnight Coffee Drinkers
Complication: Sipping Versus Sleeping
Development:
1. Coffee at Midnight
2. Varied Clientele Profile
3. Routine or Choice?
Resolution: Understanding Night Owls
As a practiced and avid people-watcher, staking out Biggby’s coffee shop between midnight and 2 A.M. is not only a great excuse to sip on much-needed caffeine, but also a prime opportunity to spy on the patrons—some zombie-like and others all riled up. Why are they perusing the library and café area at a time when most people opt to be snuggled between their sheets? Is it a choice? Do some prefer the late night and early morning hours, or is it a matter of necessity?
Preferences aside, I plan to analyze the flow of traffic in and out of Biggby’s, the ways in which patrons interact with one another, the ways they interact with Biggby’s employees, and the presence of study groups (both organized and informal). Additionally, I will take note of how these night owls are dispersed throughout the grades and whether the meetings seem more social or work-related in nature.
If there is not enough of a sketch, I plan to observe Biggby’s during the hours of noon and 2 P.M., as something of a counterpoint. Are there any glaring differences? Similarities?
Development:
1. Coffee at Midnight
2. Varied Clientele Profile
3. Routine or Choice?
Resolution: Understanding Night Owls
As a practiced and avid people-watcher, staking out Biggby’s coffee shop between midnight and 2 A.M. is not only a great excuse to sip on much-needed caffeine, but also a prime opportunity to spy on the patrons—some zombie-like and others all riled up. Why are they perusing the library and café area at a time when most people opt to be snuggled between their sheets? Is it a choice? Do some prefer the late night and early morning hours, or is it a matter of necessity?
Preferences aside, I plan to analyze the flow of traffic in and out of Biggby’s, the ways in which patrons interact with one another, the ways they interact with Biggby’s employees, and the presence of study groups (both organized and informal). Additionally, I will take note of how these night owls are dispersed throughout the grades and whether the meetings seem more social or work-related in nature.
If there is not enough of a sketch, I plan to observe Biggby’s during the hours of noon and 2 P.M., as something of a counterpoint. Are there any glaring differences? Similarities?
Monday, April 13, 2009
Writing For Story: Writing By Formula?
Surely Jon Franklin is not the first person to describe an ultimately fatal illness as a “monster.” He accurately characterizes the beast, drawing in the reader by creating a clearly defined struggle between the forces of good and evil. The pleasure gained from reading his high-tension, dramatic true story was eerie in that it is a topic much more comfortably explored in the realm of fiction. Further, several of the storytelling techniques he employs are close, if not identical to those taught for short-story writing. Particularly reminiscent is the final line in “Mrs. Kelly’s Monster;” “The monster won,” grimly mimics the emotional exhaustion and shortness that so often accompanies death.
Reading and enjoying the two pieces of narrative journalism diffused throughout Writing For Story made it difficult to doubt Franklin’s highly formulaic approach to writing. However, I felt the most charming details of his work were those that pulled on personal identification and experience. Franklin’s wordplay is wise and carefully avoids cliché; “It wasn’t an M.D. that his father had really wanted for him, it was knowledge. And what was a librarian after all but a custodian of knowledge?” is a prime example of creative diction. The word “custodian” carries all sorts of connotations and is relevant specifically to Wilk’s journey as a man working odd jobs, including that of custodian, en route to achieving a higher education. This moment in the narrative also functions a distinct turning point in that Wilk realizes he can follow his passion and achieve his father’s dream simultaneously, without having to become a doctor. Wilk takes charge of his own future and reclaims his life while the truths of his revelations begin to emerge.
Franklin’s approach to writing the perfect narrative redeems itself in the tenth chapter, “The Nature of Art and Artists,” in which he draws attention to the magic of the artist, the “magic that occurs behind the smoke and mirrors.” The writer who breathes his soul into words and anecdotes brings writing of all types to life; to deny the personal is to deny the storyteller quality deep within all journalists.
Reading and enjoying the two pieces of narrative journalism diffused throughout Writing For Story made it difficult to doubt Franklin’s highly formulaic approach to writing. However, I felt the most charming details of his work were those that pulled on personal identification and experience. Franklin’s wordplay is wise and carefully avoids cliché; “It wasn’t an M.D. that his father had really wanted for him, it was knowledge. And what was a librarian after all but a custodian of knowledge?” is a prime example of creative diction. The word “custodian” carries all sorts of connotations and is relevant specifically to Wilk’s journey as a man working odd jobs, including that of custodian, en route to achieving a higher education. This moment in the narrative also functions a distinct turning point in that Wilk realizes he can follow his passion and achieve his father’s dream simultaneously, without having to become a doctor. Wilk takes charge of his own future and reclaims his life while the truths of his revelations begin to emerge.
Franklin’s approach to writing the perfect narrative redeems itself in the tenth chapter, “The Nature of Art and Artists,” in which he draws attention to the magic of the artist, the “magic that occurs behind the smoke and mirrors.” The writer who breathes his soul into words and anecdotes brings writing of all types to life; to deny the personal is to deny the storyteller quality deep within all journalists.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Digestion
Camilo:
Camilo, I enjoyed how certain phrases and sentences have such a distinct tone and very identifiable connotations. Describing some of Canada’s “cool frozen cities” was particularly amusing. I also liked your explanation of taking the “shortest way—not the fastest, in order to save some gas;” it allowed more of you to get into the piece and it was cool to glimpse your personality. The line about “homeland security” reads innocently, but by your choosing to use comedically such an overused phrase I felt well-developed tension.
Structurally, I enjoyed how the piece began; I felt like I was thrust into an interrogation myself—the questioning was very well portrayed. The third, sixth, and second to last paragraphs seemed a little summary heavy. I was more interested by your personal commentary and experience with the Canadian police officers, who clearly did not know what was up.
The end of the piece left me a little confused. I didn’t totally understand why you weren’t upset or exactly what that had to do with the injustices you encountered—it didn’t follow in that I felt you were very aware of the fact you were mistreated and then all of a sudden you were at peace with it and just happy to be allowed back in to the United States.
Maureen:
Your piece is so familiar! I really enjoyed reading about your experience going from tomboy to high maintenance “popular girl,” not that the two are necessarily mutually exclusive. Your storytelling was engaging and the images of your transformation came across very clearly. Particularly fun to read was the bit about how your classmates received your new look and the overall message that even after you’d had a taste of a different identity, one you weren’t naturally inclined to identify with, you were able to return to yourself and take the feeling of confidence with you.
The phrase, “want to be straight,” in reference to your hair made me laugh! I totally understand that feeling and the fact that you put it in quotations made me wonder who had said it to you in the first place, further adding depth to you as a character in your own piece. The characterizations of your Aunt Oneida and Gladys worked really well to paint the scene; I think you balanced their details with your main focus in a very effective way.
At times, I was confused by changes in tense. It wasn’t frequent and occurred more often at the beginning that anywhere else; it just slowed my reading and stalled the action temporarily.
Marni:
Marni, this was such a treat to read. I didn't know you went to Thailand! It sounds like you probably had your share of adventures. This is a gorgeous story, and you do a great job capturing so many events and emotions so succinctly and simultaneously in such great detail.
I particularly liked your explanation of the buses; the bar details--"the red truck" and the "blue truck station"--are such innocent details and work really well to convey how lost you were in trying to find your way "home" to Lamphun. The story comes full circle in a pure, not cheesy way, and there is serious feeling evoked by your host mother's declaration that the flower is "very beautiful."
The fact that the flowers were bruised only makes the metaphor of your journey that much stronger. I admire how well crafted this piece is and I look forward to reading more of your writing! The only part that I was a little slowed down by was your description of being inside the truck. The image just wasn’t completely clear to me and I was more focused on the orchid.
Emily:
Emily, this was such a fun piece to read! Your prose is so clean and clear; I didn’t get hung up on any details (except in a positive way), and just moved through the story like it was being read to me. It really felt like a story. The last sentence in your first paragraph, “Food and worship, for Jews from a variety of backgrounds in the U.S. and around the world, are inseparable,” was one of my favorites because it read almost like a thesis statement in the way it very effectively explains the point of the piece.
There were also very many endearing details—the worksheets covered in “crayon scribbles and sticky apple juice spills,” capture beautifully your relationship to religious education as a child. I also love the picture you paint of your dad—his loud and off key singing is charming and the Americanized chants of ‘Let my people go!’ made me chuckle. The character sketch is seriously awesome. The line about “ravenous carnivores” was great too because it was clear that you are not one of them and clearly have an opinion on the whole meat-eating deal.
I wanted to know more from the beginning about the irony of your mother, a Catholic woman, making the best matzo balls you’ve ever had—at first I thought the point you were going to make was about how the food your loved ones make always seems to taste better.
Lindsey:
Lindsey, I really like reading your piece, especially the beginning, which I found I could identify with very clearly. The look mothers have when they first identify the “bitch” that lives deep—or sometimes not so deep—within their darling baby girls is definitely one worth fearing. I enjoyed the dialogue you wrote and the way you captured your childhood ferocity. In the same vein, I felt sympathy for your being forced to play these awful instruments you clearly didn’t have any interest in, and a somewhat ironic compassion in that you had the experiences as a young child to identify your mother as a “wicked bitch.”
At one point I was confused though about the timeline—were you seven or in seventh grade? Or has time elapsed? That was really the only place I got hung up on. The details of your misery are (awful and something no child should be subjected to), but also amusing in retrospect—I respect how you’re able to turn such an awful experience into a story that can be told relatively lightheartedly. The line “sobbing myself into delirium” is so wise; I really liked it.
Colin,
Colin King, this girl with the mean mug and curly hair thoroughly enjoyed your LandSea throwback. You did kind of look like the most expensive homeless person ever.
There are so many things about this article that I just adored. You captured Connecticut’s pompous attitude with grace (as much as is possible from a Connecticutian, that is) and accuracy, your snub at all the K kids who identify with Detroit when what they really mean is lilly-white suburbville, and your pacing kept me in it the whole time. As I was reading, I kept noticing the really strong structure—varied sentence length and pseudo-profound commentary like “Lunatics and jocks, it was just like high school,” “Eventually I fell asleep,” and “My heart sank,” made me think, “Yea, that’s Colin!” The piece is so authentically you and the bit about your experience with summer camp depicts you so well for the reader who doesn’t know you, the entire tale benefits.
The only criticism I have (and please be assured I am not attacking Granby specifically, or you and your chickens), is that before you introduce Ryan Douglass and the huge detail that you had geographic ally, it might be clearer if you say that you are from Connecticut. It just makes the news all the more exciting and would make more sense to me as the reader. I wish I could have observed that initial exchange; sounds like you were both clearly on your snarky games. Oh and also, watch the cursing. No one likes a potty mouth.
And sheesh, be nice to our Kentuckian hippie! I think you might also want to consider naming everyone or not naming anyone at all, just for consistency’s sake
Schafer:
Schafer, I wondered where your article was going the whole time and it worked to keep me interested and engaged throughout. I enjoyed your piece; it was fun and I could see you skeptically hitting the show, observing, and then dipping. The inner dialogue did a lot for your article and I just simply enjoyed that you let so much of yourself get into the story.
I love the image of you paying your way out of the law and paying your way into access—it is very New York and I think it is also an image of New York with which almost anyone could identify. I was a bit confused about what you mean by a “wasted opportunity”—in what sense, and what decision had you reached at this point? I think I may have an idea, but nothing I would bet on.
Your “Welcome to New York City” line is so jaded, I just adore it. Also, the image of you traversing the city under the superficial glow of neon, which is what you ultimately wake up to, or have shed light on the “reality” of your situation is a really complicated, cool, place to be.
Camilo, I enjoyed how certain phrases and sentences have such a distinct tone and very identifiable connotations. Describing some of Canada’s “cool frozen cities” was particularly amusing. I also liked your explanation of taking the “shortest way—not the fastest, in order to save some gas;” it allowed more of you to get into the piece and it was cool to glimpse your personality. The line about “homeland security” reads innocently, but by your choosing to use comedically such an overused phrase I felt well-developed tension.
Structurally, I enjoyed how the piece began; I felt like I was thrust into an interrogation myself—the questioning was very well portrayed. The third, sixth, and second to last paragraphs seemed a little summary heavy. I was more interested by your personal commentary and experience with the Canadian police officers, who clearly did not know what was up.
The end of the piece left me a little confused. I didn’t totally understand why you weren’t upset or exactly what that had to do with the injustices you encountered—it didn’t follow in that I felt you were very aware of the fact you were mistreated and then all of a sudden you were at peace with it and just happy to be allowed back in to the United States.
Maureen:
Your piece is so familiar! I really enjoyed reading about your experience going from tomboy to high maintenance “popular girl,” not that the two are necessarily mutually exclusive. Your storytelling was engaging and the images of your transformation came across very clearly. Particularly fun to read was the bit about how your classmates received your new look and the overall message that even after you’d had a taste of a different identity, one you weren’t naturally inclined to identify with, you were able to return to yourself and take the feeling of confidence with you.
The phrase, “want to be straight,” in reference to your hair made me laugh! I totally understand that feeling and the fact that you put it in quotations made me wonder who had said it to you in the first place, further adding depth to you as a character in your own piece. The characterizations of your Aunt Oneida and Gladys worked really well to paint the scene; I think you balanced their details with your main focus in a very effective way.
At times, I was confused by changes in tense. It wasn’t frequent and occurred more often at the beginning that anywhere else; it just slowed my reading and stalled the action temporarily.
Marni:
Marni, this was such a treat to read. I didn't know you went to Thailand! It sounds like you probably had your share of adventures. This is a gorgeous story, and you do a great job capturing so many events and emotions so succinctly and simultaneously in such great detail.
I particularly liked your explanation of the buses; the bar details--"the red truck" and the "blue truck station"--are such innocent details and work really well to convey how lost you were in trying to find your way "home" to Lamphun. The story comes full circle in a pure, not cheesy way, and there is serious feeling evoked by your host mother's declaration that the flower is "very beautiful."
The fact that the flowers were bruised only makes the metaphor of your journey that much stronger. I admire how well crafted this piece is and I look forward to reading more of your writing! The only part that I was a little slowed down by was your description of being inside the truck. The image just wasn’t completely clear to me and I was more focused on the orchid.
Emily:
Emily, this was such a fun piece to read! Your prose is so clean and clear; I didn’t get hung up on any details (except in a positive way), and just moved through the story like it was being read to me. It really felt like a story. The last sentence in your first paragraph, “Food and worship, for Jews from a variety of backgrounds in the U.S. and around the world, are inseparable,” was one of my favorites because it read almost like a thesis statement in the way it very effectively explains the point of the piece.
There were also very many endearing details—the worksheets covered in “crayon scribbles and sticky apple juice spills,” capture beautifully your relationship to religious education as a child. I also love the picture you paint of your dad—his loud and off key singing is charming and the Americanized chants of ‘Let my people go!’ made me chuckle. The character sketch is seriously awesome. The line about “ravenous carnivores” was great too because it was clear that you are not one of them and clearly have an opinion on the whole meat-eating deal.
I wanted to know more from the beginning about the irony of your mother, a Catholic woman, making the best matzo balls you’ve ever had—at first I thought the point you were going to make was about how the food your loved ones make always seems to taste better.
Lindsey:
Lindsey, I really like reading your piece, especially the beginning, which I found I could identify with very clearly. The look mothers have when they first identify the “bitch” that lives deep—or sometimes not so deep—within their darling baby girls is definitely one worth fearing. I enjoyed the dialogue you wrote and the way you captured your childhood ferocity. In the same vein, I felt sympathy for your being forced to play these awful instruments you clearly didn’t have any interest in, and a somewhat ironic compassion in that you had the experiences as a young child to identify your mother as a “wicked bitch.”
At one point I was confused though about the timeline—were you seven or in seventh grade? Or has time elapsed? That was really the only place I got hung up on. The details of your misery are (awful and something no child should be subjected to), but also amusing in retrospect—I respect how you’re able to turn such an awful experience into a story that can be told relatively lightheartedly. The line “sobbing myself into delirium” is so wise; I really liked it.
Colin,
Colin King, this girl with the mean mug and curly hair thoroughly enjoyed your LandSea throwback. You did kind of look like the most expensive homeless person ever.
There are so many things about this article that I just adored. You captured Connecticut’s pompous attitude with grace (as much as is possible from a Connecticutian, that is) and accuracy, your snub at all the K kids who identify with Detroit when what they really mean is lilly-white suburbville, and your pacing kept me in it the whole time. As I was reading, I kept noticing the really strong structure—varied sentence length and pseudo-profound commentary like “Lunatics and jocks, it was just like high school,” “Eventually I fell asleep,” and “My heart sank,” made me think, “Yea, that’s Colin!” The piece is so authentically you and the bit about your experience with summer camp depicts you so well for the reader who doesn’t know you, the entire tale benefits.
The only criticism I have (and please be assured I am not attacking Granby specifically, or you and your chickens), is that before you introduce Ryan Douglass and the huge detail that you had geographic ally, it might be clearer if you say that you are from Connecticut. It just makes the news all the more exciting and would make more sense to me as the reader. I wish I could have observed that initial exchange; sounds like you were both clearly on your snarky games. Oh and also, watch the cursing. No one likes a potty mouth.
And sheesh, be nice to our Kentuckian hippie! I think you might also want to consider naming everyone or not naming anyone at all, just for consistency’s sake
Schafer:
Schafer, I wondered where your article was going the whole time and it worked to keep me interested and engaged throughout. I enjoyed your piece; it was fun and I could see you skeptically hitting the show, observing, and then dipping. The inner dialogue did a lot for your article and I just simply enjoyed that you let so much of yourself get into the story.
I love the image of you paying your way out of the law and paying your way into access—it is very New York and I think it is also an image of New York with which almost anyone could identify. I was a bit confused about what you mean by a “wasted opportunity”—in what sense, and what decision had you reached at this point? I think I may have an idea, but nothing I would bet on.
Your “Welcome to New York City” line is so jaded, I just adore it. Also, the image of you traversing the city under the superficial glow of neon, which is what you ultimately wake up to, or have shed light on the “reality” of your situation is a really complicated, cool, place to be.
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