The walls of the “kill room” are lined with transparent plastic tarps. Not just the walls, but the ceiling and floor too. It makes for easy clean-up, and not a shred of evidence to be found after the kill. A man or woman, made unconscious, is laid on a plastic covered table in the center of the room. Their body is saran wrapped to the hard surface, and held down tightly so that when they wake up, they have no possible way to get up. Photos and newspaper clippings of the victim’s victims are hung around on the walls and ceiling as reminders to the lifeless body of the evil deeds they have done. Knives, power tools, and other deadly weapons are spread out on another table in the room. The scene is like something out of a bad horror movie, and it is clear what is about to happen in this space. The lifeless body suddenly becomes alert, and their eyes open wide. They usually struggle and stifle a scream, and their eyes dart around the room trying to figure out what is happening to them. They notice the photos of their victims hanging around them, and the lethal hardware strategically placed in an order of some kind on another table, and the fear sets in.
Dexter walks in calmly, with a determined look on his face. A smile creeps across his chin as he reveres in the fact that his victim is awake. Gracefully and routinely he takes a small, short knife out of his pocket and walks towards the writhing body. He puts the blade on the face of the squirmer and drags it across their cheek. Using a dropper, he takes a sample of the blood that drips slowly down the victim’s cheek. Dexter places the blood on a slide, and adds it to his collection of dozens of others he keeps safely tucked away in a place that only he can find them. This is when the victim usually asks why they are there, and why this Dexter has put them in that place. What did they do to deserve this? This is when Dexter looks at the man or woman in the unfortunate position of being about to be killed, and tells them to look around at the people in the photos staring back at them. He mentions “the code” and begins his work on dismembering their bodies while they are still alive, using various tools to get the job done.
This is a common scene on the show “Dexter” which plays on the Showtime network. It is about serial killer, Dexter, whose victims are killers. As a young boy, his mother was murdered right before his eyes, and he was adopted by the police officer who found him a couple days later in a shipping container. Ever since then, he has felt compelled to kill. It started off with just urges, but then his stepfather, Harry, showed him how to satisfy those urges in a way that he wouldn’t be caught. He would kill animals once in awhile when he really couldn’t hold back, but as he grew older, his father taught him how to kill human’s quietly, efficiently, and secretively. It became a way of life for Dexter, and to commemorate each kill, he would keep a sample of each person’s blood. He turned his fascination with dead bodies and blood into a profession as a blood analyst, and was a member of Miami metro homicide in Florida. Throughout the series, Dexter learns through experience how to feign feelings and commonality as he begins a family. He tries to “blend in” as his stepfather Harry suggested to him, to keep his anonymity as a serial killer.
Dexter is charming, handsome, and mysterious. To women, he is irresistible. He has perfected the act of “normalcy”, so much so that even his own wife does not know his true identity. Viewers of the show are enthralled by his hunt to find a killer to kill, and we root for him the whole time. Yes, I said it. We are on the side of the serial killer. Before “Dexter”, killers were crude and cold-blooded. “Dexter” shows us another side of the serial killer. It shows us the human side; the side that needs to kill to survive. Ah, the irony. As we watch, we hope that he finds the victim he is hunting, because we are made to feel like that person deserves to die for what they did. As we start to get to know Dexter, we start to believe the same things he believes: that people who kill the innocent should die for what they did. But wait a second, does that make us believe that in the real world, all killers should be put on death row? After watching an episode of Dexter during which I am fascinated by his killing technique, watching his victim get his limbs sawed off by a chainsaw and dumped into the ocean, I question the appeal. I wonder, how can the Showtime network as us, the viewers, to identify with a serial killer? How can the general public possibly relate with a person who kills people for fun; who needs to kill?
This statement makes me nervous. As I watch the show, I feel satisfied. I feel intrigued. I feel interested. However what does that say about me as a person? I don’t identify my personality with anger, but looking more into the reasons why I watch it, maybe I should re-evaluate myself. I have one friend who watches Dexter who hates gore. He can’t watch horror movies because of the blood and guts, however is enthralled with Dexter. As I hounded him with questions such as “Do you support Dexter’s decision to kill killers?” and “Is it possible that you might secretly be a serial killer?” I became more and more intrigued by viewer interest. “No Chelsea, I’m not a serial killer and I don’t support murder, there is just something about this show that grabs my attention and won’t let go.” What is that something?
Maybe Dexter satisfies some kind of subliminal urge we have as humans, to get revenge on people who have done us wrong. Dexter only murders murderers, or people who “deserve” to die. He is a vigilante of sorts, clearing the streets of people who create crime, however along the way he creates a criminal of himself. Vigilantism, although not legal, is a common theme in movies, television, and comic books. The public will support and praise a hero for taking care of criminals, even if they are committing crimes themselves. We have become desensitized to the fact that these “heroes” like Dexter are breaking the law and hurting others. In the past, we viewed killers and psychopaths in a bad light. There was never any type of media showing serial killers in a positive light, because we couldn’t even fathom putting them there. However times have changed, and with the example of vigilantism and Dexter, one of the most popular shows on television, it seems that the public has started to change their opinion of murder.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Ecotone Publication
Ecotone: Reimagining Place
About
Ecotone was first started in 2005, and comes out of UNC Wilmington. It comes out twice a year. The purpose of Ecotone is to publish stories or art that re-imagine place.
Submissions
Ecotone accepts creative non-fiction, fiction, poems, and art focused on and reimagining place. The website defines “Ecotone” as a transition zone between two adjacent ecological communities, containing the characteristic species of each. It’s nature writing, but not cliché. It should break boundaries, and use vibrant descriptions.
• Reading dates: August 15-April 15
• One prose piece or 6 poems at a time (separate by genre)
• Prose - no longer than 30 pages, double spaced, one side of page
• Poems – single or double spaced, one side of page
• Only accepts snail mail, unless international
Description of Essays
Subject matter:
• Nature
• Animals
• Different places combined
• What is important?
• Natural world/human world
• Religion/Sexuality
Voice/Tone:
• Humor
• Informal
• First person
Form:
• Prose
• Double spaced
• Dialogue
Artistry:
• Literary
Length:
• Short stories
• Short Poems
Analysis
After reading a sample of entries in the Ecotone journals, I have found a broad variety of subject matter, purpose, and tone. The editors descriptions of the works that they publish say that the look for vibrant descriptions of breaking boundaries between nature and humans. From what I have read, the writers have really pushed those boundaries include almost any topic. They involve love, religion, and relationships. I think the audience this publication is aiming towards appreciates the simplicity of nature and our effect on it.
Links:
Ecotone: www.ecotonejournal.com
About
Ecotone was first started in 2005, and comes out of UNC Wilmington. It comes out twice a year. The purpose of Ecotone is to publish stories or art that re-imagine place.
Submissions
Ecotone accepts creative non-fiction, fiction, poems, and art focused on and reimagining place. The website defines “Ecotone” as a transition zone between two adjacent ecological communities, containing the characteristic species of each. It’s nature writing, but not cliché. It should break boundaries, and use vibrant descriptions.
• Reading dates: August 15-April 15
• One prose piece or 6 poems at a time (separate by genre)
• Prose - no longer than 30 pages, double spaced, one side of page
• Poems – single or double spaced, one side of page
• Only accepts snail mail, unless international
Description of Essays
Subject matter:
• Nature
• Animals
• Different places combined
• What is important?
• Natural world/human world
• Religion/Sexuality
Voice/Tone:
• Humor
• Informal
• First person
Form:
• Prose
• Double spaced
• Dialogue
Artistry:
• Literary
Length:
• Short stories
• Short Poems
Analysis
After reading a sample of entries in the Ecotone journals, I have found a broad variety of subject matter, purpose, and tone. The editors descriptions of the works that they publish say that the look for vibrant descriptions of breaking boundaries between nature and humans. From what I have read, the writers have really pushed those boundaries include almost any topic. They involve love, religion, and relationships. I think the audience this publication is aiming towards appreciates the simplicity of nature and our effect on it.
Links:
Ecotone: www.ecotonejournal.com
Monday, November 29, 2010
Revised Essay 1 (forgot to post)
A rusted school bus drove us down a winding dirt path into endless vegetation towards El Triunfo, Guatemala. The lush greenery was like a flood spilling over onto the road. Cows and pigs strolled alongside the bus as we passed through village after village of homes made out of scrap metal and old wood. A bus packed full of high school students, obliging adults, and endless luggage pulled up to a deteriorating building known as the town’s one schoolhouse. Dozens of children surrounded the bus making it difficult for the driver to pull up onto the oddly flourishing grass patches in front of the school. Guilt overwhelmed me as we piled off the bus in our traveling attire, our hands hauling suitcases and food. The children stared at us in wonder as we started to greet them. They formed a seal of bodies around the bus as we stood up to take in our first glances of the town where we would be staying for the next eight days. There were one hundred of us, and we had signed up for a mission trip to this tiny city in Guatemala to build homes for people whose own were destroyed by natural disasters, or could not afford to build one.
We piled off the bus and were immediately bombarded with hugs of gratitude from the many children that had come to greet us. One child’s grubby hands grabbed my cheeks and brought my face down to hers. Her eyes filled with tears as she cooed at me in Spanish in a dialect that I couldn’t really understand. I started to pull away but then it hit me that I wasn’t just there to build houses. Other children started to come over to me, pulling on my t-shirt and opening up their arms for an embrace. The love they poured out was overwhelming. It took us hours to move the ten yards from the bus to our sleeping quarters in the schoolhouse. They were honored to show us where we would be staying, and as guests we were put in the most impressive building in the town. Once we put down our luggage in the twenty by twenty feet cement classrooms, we set off on a tour of El Triunfo and to meet the rest of the residents of this uncharted community.
The next few days were a blur of sweat, tears, and overpowering fulfillment. The people in this community were unlike any I had ever seen. It looked like something out of National Geographic. The village was filled with thick jungle-like brush that was impossible to tear through without a machete. People bathed naked, unashamed, in the streets; in the tiny dribble of water they called their canal. Chickens, cows, roosters, and massive pigs walked freely around the dirt roads, only to be slaughtered later right in front of our eyes, and fed to us soon after. They even saved their fattest swine for our arrival. Families constantly came up to us, throwing their arms around us saying “Te amo, te amo!” and smothering us with kisses. We had worship every night in a building in the center of town, which everyone attended. We sang songs in Spanish and English, and the love and tenderness in that room was tangible every night.
On one of the hottest nights I can remember, a little girl who couldn’t have been any older than two or three was sitting on my lap during our worship time. Out of nowhere she started to weep uncontrollably and cry out “Mama! Mama!” I did not know who her mother was, but it was after ten o’clock in the evening, and I was sure that she was tired and needed her mother to take her home. I asked the little girl in my broken Spanish if she wanted me to take her home, and she responded with action. She got up and sprinted into the pitch black night alone, without warning. I was sure that she had walked home hundreds of times alone, but it was late and extremely dark so I was afraid to let her go. I knew she lived in the middle of the thick jungle, so I grabbed the machete which was leaning against the wall- I was petrified and I didn’t know what was living out in the brush this time of night. With no flashlight to my name I ran after her, saying “Niña, Niña!” at the top of my lungs. I caught up to her and she grabbed my hand leading the way into the woods.
She was barefoot, and even in my sneakers I was falling all over myself as she stayed steady, still gripping my hand like a vice, pulling me deeper and deeper into the tangle. The fear was palpable. I felt like insects were crawling all over me. As I used my machete to chop down the brush in our path I heard dogs, or what I hoped were dogs howling in the distance. I heard other noises that to this day I cannot identify. The young girls hand was gripping mine so tightly that it felt as if my fingers were swelling up. It was nighttime, but sweat was still dripping off my face rapidly as the fear ran all throughout my body. Every step we took brought us further and further into the brush. I started to panic; What if I couldn’t find this little girls home and we had to sleep in the jungle? If I did, how was I going to get back to the schoolhouse where I slept? My breath became shallow and short. We started to walk a little slower as the little girl started to call out for her mother; “Mama! Mama!”
Out of nowhere, a dim glow started to materialize in the distance. I could barely make out whether it was a light or a firefly. When the little girl noticed it, she let go of my pruned hand and sprinted towards it. I chased after her, anxious that she would get lost in the wilderness. I lost sight of her, but I heard a door slam ahead of me. I followed the sound until I saw a house with a hazily lit lamp hanging above the door. I thought that was the home of this young girl, but I wasn’t completely sure. I was alone now, and beyond horrified. The howling growls of unnamed animals were growing louder and more distinct. I ran back in the direction in which I came from, desperate to find a way out of the obscurity, using the machete to clear a path. When I emerged from the wooded area I found myself right behind the schoolhouse where my group of volunteers slept. I was out of breath, and tears were welling up in my eyes. I was relieved to be out of the woods, but still worried about that little girl finding her mother. I ran around to the front of the schoolhouse where some of the Guatemalan mothers were slapping tortillas in their hands back and forth for the next day of meals. Panting, I tried to tell them in my broken down Spanish what happened, and when they realized what I was trying to say, they started to giggle and extend their arms out to me. A flood of emotion washed over me as I started to cry. I kept saying over and over again, “Tengo miedo, lo siento,” because I didn’t know what else to say. Still hugging me, they looked me in the eye, and started to speak to me calmly and quietly in their native Spanish dialect. I didn’t know what they were telling me, but as they grinned and pulled me closer I knew they were comforting me; telling me that everything was okay, that she was okay, and that they were grateful for my compassion.
On the last night in Guatemala we were served the most remarkable and expensive feast that was ever served in El Triunfo. It was only ever made for weddings. It was pork cooked from the pig I had seen gutted earlier that day. As we sat down on painted picnic tables with the ones who had prepared it, and the rest of the neighborhood to enjoy this incomparable meal, I felt safe.
We piled off the bus and were immediately bombarded with hugs of gratitude from the many children that had come to greet us. One child’s grubby hands grabbed my cheeks and brought my face down to hers. Her eyes filled with tears as she cooed at me in Spanish in a dialect that I couldn’t really understand. I started to pull away but then it hit me that I wasn’t just there to build houses. Other children started to come over to me, pulling on my t-shirt and opening up their arms for an embrace. The love they poured out was overwhelming. It took us hours to move the ten yards from the bus to our sleeping quarters in the schoolhouse. They were honored to show us where we would be staying, and as guests we were put in the most impressive building in the town. Once we put down our luggage in the twenty by twenty feet cement classrooms, we set off on a tour of El Triunfo and to meet the rest of the residents of this uncharted community.
The next few days were a blur of sweat, tears, and overpowering fulfillment. The people in this community were unlike any I had ever seen. It looked like something out of National Geographic. The village was filled with thick jungle-like brush that was impossible to tear through without a machete. People bathed naked, unashamed, in the streets; in the tiny dribble of water they called their canal. Chickens, cows, roosters, and massive pigs walked freely around the dirt roads, only to be slaughtered later right in front of our eyes, and fed to us soon after. They even saved their fattest swine for our arrival. Families constantly came up to us, throwing their arms around us saying “Te amo, te amo!” and smothering us with kisses. We had worship every night in a building in the center of town, which everyone attended. We sang songs in Spanish and English, and the love and tenderness in that room was tangible every night.
On one of the hottest nights I can remember, a little girl who couldn’t have been any older than two or three was sitting on my lap during our worship time. Out of nowhere she started to weep uncontrollably and cry out “Mama! Mama!” I did not know who her mother was, but it was after ten o’clock in the evening, and I was sure that she was tired and needed her mother to take her home. I asked the little girl in my broken Spanish if she wanted me to take her home, and she responded with action. She got up and sprinted into the pitch black night alone, without warning. I was sure that she had walked home hundreds of times alone, but it was late and extremely dark so I was afraid to let her go. I knew she lived in the middle of the thick jungle, so I grabbed the machete which was leaning against the wall- I was petrified and I didn’t know what was living out in the brush this time of night. With no flashlight to my name I ran after her, saying “Niña, Niña!” at the top of my lungs. I caught up to her and she grabbed my hand leading the way into the woods.
She was barefoot, and even in my sneakers I was falling all over myself as she stayed steady, still gripping my hand like a vice, pulling me deeper and deeper into the tangle. The fear was palpable. I felt like insects were crawling all over me. As I used my machete to chop down the brush in our path I heard dogs, or what I hoped were dogs howling in the distance. I heard other noises that to this day I cannot identify. The young girls hand was gripping mine so tightly that it felt as if my fingers were swelling up. It was nighttime, but sweat was still dripping off my face rapidly as the fear ran all throughout my body. Every step we took brought us further and further into the brush. I started to panic; What if I couldn’t find this little girls home and we had to sleep in the jungle? If I did, how was I going to get back to the schoolhouse where I slept? My breath became shallow and short. We started to walk a little slower as the little girl started to call out for her mother; “Mama! Mama!”
Out of nowhere, a dim glow started to materialize in the distance. I could barely make out whether it was a light or a firefly. When the little girl noticed it, she let go of my pruned hand and sprinted towards it. I chased after her, anxious that she would get lost in the wilderness. I lost sight of her, but I heard a door slam ahead of me. I followed the sound until I saw a house with a hazily lit lamp hanging above the door. I thought that was the home of this young girl, but I wasn’t completely sure. I was alone now, and beyond horrified. The howling growls of unnamed animals were growing louder and more distinct. I ran back in the direction in which I came from, desperate to find a way out of the obscurity, using the machete to clear a path. When I emerged from the wooded area I found myself right behind the schoolhouse where my group of volunteers slept. I was out of breath, and tears were welling up in my eyes. I was relieved to be out of the woods, but still worried about that little girl finding her mother. I ran around to the front of the schoolhouse where some of the Guatemalan mothers were slapping tortillas in their hands back and forth for the next day of meals. Panting, I tried to tell them in my broken down Spanish what happened, and when they realized what I was trying to say, they started to giggle and extend their arms out to me. A flood of emotion washed over me as I started to cry. I kept saying over and over again, “Tengo miedo, lo siento,” because I didn’t know what else to say. Still hugging me, they looked me in the eye, and started to speak to me calmly and quietly in their native Spanish dialect. I didn’t know what they were telling me, but as they grinned and pulled me closer I knew they were comforting me; telling me that everything was okay, that she was okay, and that they were grateful for my compassion.
On the last night in Guatemala we were served the most remarkable and expensive feast that was ever served in El Triunfo. It was only ever made for weddings. It was pork cooked from the pig I had seen gutted earlier that day. As we sat down on painted picnic tables with the ones who had prepared it, and the rest of the neighborhood to enjoy this incomparable meal, I felt safe.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Draft for reflective analysis
Throughout my young adult life, my favorite and most elaborate type of writing came in the form of my personal diary writing. I could write for hours about myself and my experiences, perhaps because I lived the story, perhaps because I am just a straight up narcissist. As I would like to disband the second assumption, I must write it in case it’s true. I came into this class not knowing that I could use that type of writing in my work, and therefore was not expecting to throw myself into my writing as much as I did. I have discovered throughout the many different means of learning about creative non-fiction that we have embarked upon, that I am a creative non-fiction writer. I always have been, without knowing it.
I first connected my diary writing to this course when we were to write journals, starting on the first day of class. I distinctly remember sharing with the class my story of my mother finding my diaries, and reading all of them behind my back. Although that was a tragic event in my life, the devastation I felt showed me even more how much I cared about writing about my day’s events, and experiences I have had. The journal writing in this class was not only helpful for thinking of things to write about, but was also therapeutic. Since I don’t feel comfortable keeping a diary at home anymore, it was nice to have prompts to write about in class that would let me write down my past experiences, while also giving me ideas for new essays to write. I wrote about things that were uncomfortable for me to write about, things or events that I haven’t thought about in years, and little anecdotes from my childhood. The journal writing paved the way for my first “I” essay about my trip to Guatemala, and the little girl I met there. I don’t think I would’ve written that story down unless I had the opportunity in this class. It is a story I always wanted to have in print, but never got around to, or never felt motivated to do. Learning that that specific story from my life was considered creative non-fiction was the motivation I needed to write it down.
As I grasped the concept of the “I” essay quite easily, the “eye” essay was not my strong point at all. I felt like whatever I would write about would turn into a story about myself, because in order to write about something I care about, it would probably surround a story about an experience I’ve had. When I wrote the “eye” essay’s, they came out really factual in some places, and story-oriented in others. It didn’t mesh well, or flow. Reading works by John McPhee helped me a little to realize that I could involve my story in an “eye” essay, especially his story “The Patch”. The way he intertwined his personal story with facts about pickerel sucked me in, even though I don’t give a damn about fish to be honest. I wanted to create a piece like that with my “eye” essays, which I tried especially hard to do with my essay about Dexter.
Conferences about my work were also a helpful way for me to learn more about my writing. After each conference I would come out knowing something about my piece that I did not know was there. These hidden messages also became apparent when I read my story aloud during our performances at liberty hall, and when other students in the class read my writing. Whether it was positive feedback about how the piece made a particular person feel, or whether it was advice on how I could improve my essay, it all led to my ultimate better understanding of creative non-fiction as a whole.
I first connected my diary writing to this course when we were to write journals, starting on the first day of class. I distinctly remember sharing with the class my story of my mother finding my diaries, and reading all of them behind my back. Although that was a tragic event in my life, the devastation I felt showed me even more how much I cared about writing about my day’s events, and experiences I have had. The journal writing in this class was not only helpful for thinking of things to write about, but was also therapeutic. Since I don’t feel comfortable keeping a diary at home anymore, it was nice to have prompts to write about in class that would let me write down my past experiences, while also giving me ideas for new essays to write. I wrote about things that were uncomfortable for me to write about, things or events that I haven’t thought about in years, and little anecdotes from my childhood. The journal writing paved the way for my first “I” essay about my trip to Guatemala, and the little girl I met there. I don’t think I would’ve written that story down unless I had the opportunity in this class. It is a story I always wanted to have in print, but never got around to, or never felt motivated to do. Learning that that specific story from my life was considered creative non-fiction was the motivation I needed to write it down.
As I grasped the concept of the “I” essay quite easily, the “eye” essay was not my strong point at all. I felt like whatever I would write about would turn into a story about myself, because in order to write about something I care about, it would probably surround a story about an experience I’ve had. When I wrote the “eye” essay’s, they came out really factual in some places, and story-oriented in others. It didn’t mesh well, or flow. Reading works by John McPhee helped me a little to realize that I could involve my story in an “eye” essay, especially his story “The Patch”. The way he intertwined his personal story with facts about pickerel sucked me in, even though I don’t give a damn about fish to be honest. I wanted to create a piece like that with my “eye” essays, which I tried especially hard to do with my essay about Dexter.
Conferences about my work were also a helpful way for me to learn more about my writing. After each conference I would come out knowing something about my piece that I did not know was there. These hidden messages also became apparent when I read my story aloud during our performances at liberty hall, and when other students in the class read my writing. Whether it was positive feedback about how the piece made a particular person feel, or whether it was advice on how I could improve my essay, it all led to my ultimate better understanding of creative non-fiction as a whole.
Audience/Journals for my work
I think the audience for my work will be someone who can appreciate humor and descriptive language. A lot of my writing relies on the reader being able to visualize in their head what is going on, in order to get a full appreciation for the writing. The reader should also like to read true stories about things that have actually happened, and maybe empathize with the impoverished. The story that I want to submit is the story about Guatemala and the little girl, so it will be easier to pinpoint which publication I should submit to. Maybe it would be a website that has stories about nature, because the descriptions in my writing is a lot about the nature and animals around me at the time.
http://fourthriver.chatham.edu/index.cfm
This literary journal would be a great one for me to send to. They tend to publish works about people writing about humans and thier environment. I don't know if my work would fit in perfectly because it says they like works that explore landscapes in new ways, however they may appreciate my story.
http://www.ecotonejournal.com/index.php/home/about/
I clicked on this link because of the word "eco" in it, which I thought might be about the environment. When I clicked on the "about" link it said that this literary journal likes works that are about "place". I like that it says a "vibrant literature of place."
http://fourthriver.chatham.edu/index.cfm
This literary journal would be a great one for me to send to. They tend to publish works about people writing about humans and thier environment. I don't know if my work would fit in perfectly because it says they like works that explore landscapes in new ways, however they may appreciate my story.
http://www.ecotonejournal.com/index.php/home/about/
I clicked on this link because of the word "eco" in it, which I thought might be about the environment. When I clicked on the "about" link it said that this literary journal likes works that are about "place". I like that it says a "vibrant literature of place."
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Eye Essay #2- New Topic- Caesar Salad
My family and I walked into the outdoor seating area of the restaurant we were going to in California that night. I was young, and I was so picky when it came to food that the only thing I could order off any menu was Caesar salad. I didn’t eat chicken fingers, steak, pasta, or even sandwiches at the time, so my Caesar salad obsession became a running joke in the family. As we approached our new table, the jokes began.
“So Chelsea, what are you going to order tonight, shrimp?” My mother chuckled.
“Let me guess, what are YOU going to order tonight?” My sister guffawed.
“Wouldn’t it be hilarious if our waiter was named Caesar?” My father questioned.
We sat down to open our menu’s, and of course, Caesar salad was on the menu. Our waiter came over to the table, looked me straight in the eye, and said,
“Hello and welcome! My name is Caesar and I’ll be your waiter this evening.”
My family and I burst into laughter so forcefully that we scared our waiter and he didn’t come back to our table that night. After we recovered, my father said
“Chelsea, you should write a book about your experiences with Caesar salad.”
This isn’t a book, but it’s a first step.
It took me awhile to realize that it was a little bizarre that the only thing I could order at a restaurant was Caesar salad. My mom would always have to check the menu before we went to make sure they had it, or else I would only eat from the bread basket or be cranky and whiny all night. I was clearly spoiled as a child. If we were going to an extended family members house for dinner, I would have to bring my own bottle of Caesar dressing to the event, just because I knew I wouldn’t like anything else. It wasn’t embarrassing at the time, but even typing it now is uncomfortable to me.
As I looked a little more into the Caesar salad phenomenon, I found out that it was actually originated by a man named Caesar Cardini. Italian born, he created the recipe by just throwing together ingredients he had lying around the house. A controversial ingredient in typical Caesar dressing is anchovies. It is a little known fact that when the dressing was first invented, it did not include anchovies at all. The anchovy flavor came from worcester sauce. Whenever I was served a Caesar salad with anchovies in it, I would send it back. Little slippery fish aren’t to my liking. Julia Child, the well known chef, even ate at Cardini’s restaurant where the Caesar dressing was first invented. Reportedly, fifty years after she first tasted it in the 1920’s, she called Cardini’s daughter for the recipe. The Cardini brand dressing was trademarked, and is still sold in supermarkets all around the world.
If we made Caesar salad at home, there was only one dressing I would eat, and that was Cardini’s original Caesar dressing. With 17 grams of fat, it was a significant contributor to my weight gain throughout my childhood. I ate it every day with some lettuce, some croutons, and sometimes some parmesan cheese. It became an obsession. As I started to gain weight through high school, I tried to switch over to light Caesar dressing, instead of the original kind. Bad move. It tasted like watered down parmesan cheese soup.
As I got older, my palette grew more sophisticated, and now I eat just about anything. But my taste and love for Caesar salad stays the same. Over the years I have even made some variations to my usual lettuce, croutons, and dressing combination. Sometimes I’ll add bacon, red onions, and the most recent addition, grilled chicken. But one thing I have never, and will never like in my Caesar salad, is light dressing, or anchovies.
“So Chelsea, what are you going to order tonight, shrimp?” My mother chuckled.
“Let me guess, what are YOU going to order tonight?” My sister guffawed.
“Wouldn’t it be hilarious if our waiter was named Caesar?” My father questioned.
We sat down to open our menu’s, and of course, Caesar salad was on the menu. Our waiter came over to the table, looked me straight in the eye, and said,
“Hello and welcome! My name is Caesar and I’ll be your waiter this evening.”
My family and I burst into laughter so forcefully that we scared our waiter and he didn’t come back to our table that night. After we recovered, my father said
“Chelsea, you should write a book about your experiences with Caesar salad.”
This isn’t a book, but it’s a first step.
It took me awhile to realize that it was a little bizarre that the only thing I could order at a restaurant was Caesar salad. My mom would always have to check the menu before we went to make sure they had it, or else I would only eat from the bread basket or be cranky and whiny all night. I was clearly spoiled as a child. If we were going to an extended family members house for dinner, I would have to bring my own bottle of Caesar dressing to the event, just because I knew I wouldn’t like anything else. It wasn’t embarrassing at the time, but even typing it now is uncomfortable to me.
As I looked a little more into the Caesar salad phenomenon, I found out that it was actually originated by a man named Caesar Cardini. Italian born, he created the recipe by just throwing together ingredients he had lying around the house. A controversial ingredient in typical Caesar dressing is anchovies. It is a little known fact that when the dressing was first invented, it did not include anchovies at all. The anchovy flavor came from worcester sauce. Whenever I was served a Caesar salad with anchovies in it, I would send it back. Little slippery fish aren’t to my liking. Julia Child, the well known chef, even ate at Cardini’s restaurant where the Caesar dressing was first invented. Reportedly, fifty years after she first tasted it in the 1920’s, she called Cardini’s daughter for the recipe. The Cardini brand dressing was trademarked, and is still sold in supermarkets all around the world.
If we made Caesar salad at home, there was only one dressing I would eat, and that was Cardini’s original Caesar dressing. With 17 grams of fat, it was a significant contributor to my weight gain throughout my childhood. I ate it every day with some lettuce, some croutons, and sometimes some parmesan cheese. It became an obsession. As I started to gain weight through high school, I tried to switch over to light Caesar dressing, instead of the original kind. Bad move. It tasted like watered down parmesan cheese soup.
As I got older, my palette grew more sophisticated, and now I eat just about anything. But my taste and love for Caesar salad stays the same. Over the years I have even made some variations to my usual lettuce, croutons, and dressing combination. Sometimes I’ll add bacon, red onions, and the most recent addition, grilled chicken. But one thing I have never, and will never like in my Caesar salad, is light dressing, or anchovies.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Eye Essay #2
Wine.
This isn't a draft yet. It's just a couple of ideas I will embellish on during my essay.
~ To me, wine is just something that tastes good. Sometimes it's fruity, sometimes it tastes like grass, or dirt, and sometimes bread. I don't drink it the proper way, however I have been taught endless times how to. I don't drink white wine with chicken and fish, and red wine with steak and pizza. I don't really follow any rules when it comes to wine ettiquette, and I think it's made my love of wine even more prevalent.
~ I have taken countless adventures to vineyards on the east coast, and some on the west coast but that was before I was of age. I love the smell of the barrels, the grapes, and the cold basements where they do the bottling. My family is really into wine, and my mother used to work in a wine shop. I've learned a lot from her about different kinds of wine, however the one thing I have learned is that my mother has almost turned into a bit of a wine snob, which makes me and my father laugh. I won't bother buying a wine unless it's under 10 bucks, regardless of the type. However my mother has many different qualms about the way I deal with wine, because of her "experience" in the business.
~A lot of my family parties revolve around wine. People will bring different kinds, and there will maybe be 10-15 bottles at the bar, opened, even if there is only 10 people at the party. Now there are no alcohol abusers in the family, however it is not uncommon to see someone guzzle at least four glasses of wine in a night.
~ I would like to explore different critics of wine and how they describe it. I have no idea what people are saying when they say a wine tastes "fleshy" or "oaky". What does that even mean? Have these people tasted oak or flesh?
This isn't a draft yet. It's just a couple of ideas I will embellish on during my essay.
~ To me, wine is just something that tastes good. Sometimes it's fruity, sometimes it tastes like grass, or dirt, and sometimes bread. I don't drink it the proper way, however I have been taught endless times how to. I don't drink white wine with chicken and fish, and red wine with steak and pizza. I don't really follow any rules when it comes to wine ettiquette, and I think it's made my love of wine even more prevalent.
~ I have taken countless adventures to vineyards on the east coast, and some on the west coast but that was before I was of age. I love the smell of the barrels, the grapes, and the cold basements where they do the bottling. My family is really into wine, and my mother used to work in a wine shop. I've learned a lot from her about different kinds of wine, however the one thing I have learned is that my mother has almost turned into a bit of a wine snob, which makes me and my father laugh. I won't bother buying a wine unless it's under 10 bucks, regardless of the type. However my mother has many different qualms about the way I deal with wine, because of her "experience" in the business.
~A lot of my family parties revolve around wine. People will bring different kinds, and there will maybe be 10-15 bottles at the bar, opened, even if there is only 10 people at the party. Now there are no alcohol abusers in the family, however it is not uncommon to see someone guzzle at least four glasses of wine in a night.
~ I would like to explore different critics of wine and how they describe it. I have no idea what people are saying when they say a wine tastes "fleshy" or "oaky". What does that even mean? Have these people tasted oak or flesh?
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Workshop for Eye essay #1
Okay so today I really need to work on what this essay is actually about. I like the two first paragraphs, but it's really just a description of the show. The third paragraph is leaning into what I want to write about, being why the viewer is on the side of serial killers, and how we can relate to dexter. The last paragraph where I write all those questions is just me taking notes on what I might want to talk about, which I didn't really mean to add in my essay. It makes it confusing.
I hope today to figure out exactly what I want to say about Dexter and it's viewers. Hopefully go into the fact that we all have secret little lives and that seeing someone worse makes us feel better.
Or maybe................
I hope today to figure out exactly what I want to say about Dexter and it's viewers. Hopefully go into the fact that we all have secret little lives and that seeing someone worse makes us feel better.
Or maybe................
Monday, November 8, 2010
Eye Essay #1
NOTE: To me, this comes off as really journalismy. I really struggled with this essay so this is beyond a draft.
The walls of the “kill room” are lined with transparent plastic tarps. Not just the walls, but the ceiling and floor too. It makes for easy clean-up, and not a shred of evidence to be found after the kill. A man or woman, made unconscious, is laid on a plastic covered table in the center of the room. Their body is saran wrapped to the hard surface, and held down tightly so that when they wake up, they have no possible way to get up. Photos and newspaper clippings of the victim’s victims are hung around on the walls and ceiling as reminders to the lifeless body of the evil deeds they have done. Knives, power tools, and other deadly weapons are spread out on another table in the room. The scene is like something out of a bad horror movie, and it is clear what is about to happen in this space. The lifeless body suddenly becomes alert, and their eyes open wide. They usually struggle and stifle a scream, and their eyes dart around the room trying to figure out what is happening to them. They notice the photos of their victims hanging around them, and the lethal hardware strategically placed in an order of some kind on another table, and the fear sets in.
Dexter walks in calmly, with a determined look on his face. A smile creeps across his chin as he reveres in the fact that his victim is awake. Gracefully and routinely he takes a small, short knife out of his pocket and walks towards the writhing body. He puts the blade on the face of the squirmer and drags it across their cheek. Using a dropper, he takes a sample of the blood that drips slowly down the victim’s cheek. Dexter places the blood on a slide, and adds it to his collection of dozens of others he keeps safely tucked away in a place that only he can find them. This is when the victim usually asks why they are there, and why this Dexter has put them in that place. What did they do to deserve this? This is when Dexter looks at the man or woman in the unfortunate position of being about to be killed, and tells them to look around at the people in the photos staring back at them. He mentions “the code” and begins his work on dismembering their bodies while they are still alive, using various tools to get the job done.
This is a common scene on the show “Dexter” which plays on the Showtime network. It is about serial killer, Dexter, whose victims are killers. As a young boy, his mother was murdered right before his eyes, and he was adopted by the police officer who found him a couple days later in a shipping container. Ever since then, he has felt compelled to kill. It started off with just urges, but then his stepfather, Harry, showed him how to satisfy those urges in a way that he wouldn’t be caught. He would kill animals once in awhile when he really couldn’t hold back, but as he grew older, his father taught him how to kill human’s quietly, efficiently, and secretively. It became a way of life for Dexter, and to commemorate each kill, he would keep a sample of each person’s blood. He turned his fascination with dead bodies and blood into a profession as a blood analyst, and was a member of Miami metro homicide in Florida. Throughout the series, Dexter learns through experience how to feign feelings and commonality as he begins a family. He tries to “blend in” as his stepfather Harry suggested to him, to keep his anonymity as a serial killer.
Dexter is charming, handsome, and mysterious. To women, he is the picture of perfection. He has perfected the act of “normalcy”, so much so that even his own wife does not know his true identity. Viewers of the show are enthralled by his hunt to find a killer to kill, and we root for him the whole time. Yes, I said it. We are on the side of the serial killer. Before “Dexter”, killers were crude and cold-blooded. “Dexter” shows us another side of the serial killer. It shows us the human side; the side that needs to kill to survive. Ah, the irony. As we watch, we hope that he finds the victim he is hunting, because we are made to feel like that person deserves to die for what they did. As we start to get to know Dexter, we start to believe the same things he believes: that people who kill the innocent should die for what they did. But wait a second, does that make us believe that in the real world, all killers should be put on death row? After watching an episode of Dexter during which I am fascinated by his killing technique, watching his victim get his limbs sawed off by a chainsaw and dumped into the ocean, I question the appeal. I wonder, how can the Showtime network as us, the viewers, to identify with a serial killer? How can the general public possibly relate with a person who kills people for fun; who needs to kill?
We all have something we do in private that we don’t want anyone to know about. We all have secrets and we all tell lies. It feels good to watch someone on television with worse secrets and worse lies then our own. Since killing may be considered the "ultimate sin", maybe turning the killer into a hero of sorts, killing those who have already killed, makes it okay. But since when is killing humans okay, even if they are guilty?
The walls of the “kill room” are lined with transparent plastic tarps. Not just the walls, but the ceiling and floor too. It makes for easy clean-up, and not a shred of evidence to be found after the kill. A man or woman, made unconscious, is laid on a plastic covered table in the center of the room. Their body is saran wrapped to the hard surface, and held down tightly so that when they wake up, they have no possible way to get up. Photos and newspaper clippings of the victim’s victims are hung around on the walls and ceiling as reminders to the lifeless body of the evil deeds they have done. Knives, power tools, and other deadly weapons are spread out on another table in the room. The scene is like something out of a bad horror movie, and it is clear what is about to happen in this space. The lifeless body suddenly becomes alert, and their eyes open wide. They usually struggle and stifle a scream, and their eyes dart around the room trying to figure out what is happening to them. They notice the photos of their victims hanging around them, and the lethal hardware strategically placed in an order of some kind on another table, and the fear sets in.
Dexter walks in calmly, with a determined look on his face. A smile creeps across his chin as he reveres in the fact that his victim is awake. Gracefully and routinely he takes a small, short knife out of his pocket and walks towards the writhing body. He puts the blade on the face of the squirmer and drags it across their cheek. Using a dropper, he takes a sample of the blood that drips slowly down the victim’s cheek. Dexter places the blood on a slide, and adds it to his collection of dozens of others he keeps safely tucked away in a place that only he can find them. This is when the victim usually asks why they are there, and why this Dexter has put them in that place. What did they do to deserve this? This is when Dexter looks at the man or woman in the unfortunate position of being about to be killed, and tells them to look around at the people in the photos staring back at them. He mentions “the code” and begins his work on dismembering their bodies while they are still alive, using various tools to get the job done.
This is a common scene on the show “Dexter” which plays on the Showtime network. It is about serial killer, Dexter, whose victims are killers. As a young boy, his mother was murdered right before his eyes, and he was adopted by the police officer who found him a couple days later in a shipping container. Ever since then, he has felt compelled to kill. It started off with just urges, but then his stepfather, Harry, showed him how to satisfy those urges in a way that he wouldn’t be caught. He would kill animals once in awhile when he really couldn’t hold back, but as he grew older, his father taught him how to kill human’s quietly, efficiently, and secretively. It became a way of life for Dexter, and to commemorate each kill, he would keep a sample of each person’s blood. He turned his fascination with dead bodies and blood into a profession as a blood analyst, and was a member of Miami metro homicide in Florida. Throughout the series, Dexter learns through experience how to feign feelings and commonality as he begins a family. He tries to “blend in” as his stepfather Harry suggested to him, to keep his anonymity as a serial killer.
Dexter is charming, handsome, and mysterious. To women, he is the picture of perfection. He has perfected the act of “normalcy”, so much so that even his own wife does not know his true identity. Viewers of the show are enthralled by his hunt to find a killer to kill, and we root for him the whole time. Yes, I said it. We are on the side of the serial killer. Before “Dexter”, killers were crude and cold-blooded. “Dexter” shows us another side of the serial killer. It shows us the human side; the side that needs to kill to survive. Ah, the irony. As we watch, we hope that he finds the victim he is hunting, because we are made to feel like that person deserves to die for what they did. As we start to get to know Dexter, we start to believe the same things he believes: that people who kill the innocent should die for what they did. But wait a second, does that make us believe that in the real world, all killers should be put on death row? After watching an episode of Dexter during which I am fascinated by his killing technique, watching his victim get his limbs sawed off by a chainsaw and dumped into the ocean, I question the appeal. I wonder, how can the Showtime network as us, the viewers, to identify with a serial killer? How can the general public possibly relate with a person who kills people for fun; who needs to kill?
We all have something we do in private that we don’t want anyone to know about. We all have secrets and we all tell lies. It feels good to watch someone on television with worse secrets and worse lies then our own. Since killing may be considered the "ultimate sin", maybe turning the killer into a hero of sorts, killing those who have already killed, makes it okay. But since when is killing humans okay, even if they are guilty?
Monday, November 1, 2010
Blurbs for Eye Essay
I had some more ideas of what I could possibly write about for my eye essay including...
~ Wine
~ John Cena (Wouldn't say I'm an expert, but i'm almost fascinated by wrestling and am strangely attracted to him)
~ Country music (I have just recently become enamored with the genre)
~ Movies (There Will Be Blood, Goodfellas, Mean Girls, Zombieland)
~ TV Series (How I Met Your Mother, King of Queens, Lost, DEXTER)
Now that I'm writing it out, I think I could write quite a bit about the show Dexter, however I have no idea how I could make it interesting, and not just my opinion about the show. The show is about a serial killer who only kills "bad guys". In the beginning of the series he doesn't think he is capable of "normal" feelings, however throughout the series he starts to develop them slowly but surely. He has a family, and hides his deep dark secret behind lies and his charm. He also works as a blood analyst in the homicide department of the Miami metro police department. I love this show because the premise is very original, and Michael C. Hall who plays Dexter is endearing, and even though you know watching it that he kills people maliciously, you can't help but love him. That is fascinating to me.
I could also write a bit about celebrity gossip. I wrote about that in my previous blog entry, or just a little snippet about that I could almost consider myself an expert on it. I read a LOT of blogs, and most of them are healthy living blogs, and gossip blogs, which is ironic because i'm not sure healthy living involves being obsessed with celebrities. ANYWAY, usually when people try to tell me something they heard about a celebrity, I have already heard it. It's kind of embarassing to admit, and I have no idea why I care about these people I don't know. However I have tried to turn my obsession into something productive by finding specific gossip blogs that also have current events and post about other things besides celebrities, such as my favorite blog: www.jezebel.com
~ Wine
~ John Cena (Wouldn't say I'm an expert, but i'm almost fascinated by wrestling and am strangely attracted to him)
~ Country music (I have just recently become enamored with the genre)
~ Movies (There Will Be Blood, Goodfellas, Mean Girls, Zombieland)
~ TV Series (How I Met Your Mother, King of Queens, Lost, DEXTER)
Now that I'm writing it out, I think I could write quite a bit about the show Dexter, however I have no idea how I could make it interesting, and not just my opinion about the show. The show is about a serial killer who only kills "bad guys". In the beginning of the series he doesn't think he is capable of "normal" feelings, however throughout the series he starts to develop them slowly but surely. He has a family, and hides his deep dark secret behind lies and his charm. He also works as a blood analyst in the homicide department of the Miami metro police department. I love this show because the premise is very original, and Michael C. Hall who plays Dexter is endearing, and even though you know watching it that he kills people maliciously, you can't help but love him. That is fascinating to me.
I could also write a bit about celebrity gossip. I wrote about that in my previous blog entry, or just a little snippet about that I could almost consider myself an expert on it. I read a LOT of blogs, and most of them are healthy living blogs, and gossip blogs, which is ironic because i'm not sure healthy living involves being obsessed with celebrities. ANYWAY, usually when people try to tell me something they heard about a celebrity, I have already heard it. It's kind of embarassing to admit, and I have no idea why I care about these people I don't know. However I have tried to turn my obsession into something productive by finding specific gossip blogs that also have current events and post about other things besides celebrities, such as my favorite blog: www.jezebel.com
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Brainstorming for "eye" essay...
I don't really consider myself an "expert" on anything. There are a lot of things that I know a lot about, but nothing I consider myself an expert on. I am finding this essay extremely challenging. I love to write stories about myself and my experience, (how modest am I), however to write about something else, seems pretty journalisty, and I don't want it to come off as me writng an article about something. Well, here are some things I could consider writing about, and clearly, I am a tomboy.
~ Babysitting
~ Rugby
~ Nintendo 64
~ Yankees
~ Alexander McQueen
~ Celebrities
~ Technology
~ Health food/blogs
I'm sure my story will differ completely from these ideas, however this is all I could muster up without my notebook next to me. I will probably add to this list as I think of more ideas.
~ Babysitting
~ Rugby
~ Nintendo 64
~ Yankees
~ Alexander McQueen
~ Celebrities
~ Technology
~ Health food/blogs
I'm sure my story will differ completely from these ideas, however this is all I could muster up without my notebook next to me. I will probably add to this list as I think of more ideas.
Monday, October 25, 2010
I Essay #2 Draft----NOT FINISHED AT ALLLLL
It smelled like moth balls and old people. Some people may say those smells are one in the same, but my experience had lead me to be able to distinguish between the two. It was white, or it used to be, and there was a screen porch hanging by a thread off the front steps. We ate macaroni and cheese, hot dogs, and iced tea mixed with orange juice off of paper plates on the patio furniture encrusted with dirt in all the cracks. That iced tea was legendary. I still believe to this day my Grandma invented mixing iced tea and orange juice. The tangy citrus of the orange meshed perfectly with the strong mellowness of the teabags. Some summers I would come here with my sister and my cousin with the see through skin. My parents would shake us awake really early in the morning to roll out of bed and into the Pontiac for the drive to the trailer park. I would usually fall asleep in the car, but from the times my eyes wouldn’t shut I remember the drive. We drove down long stretches of highway where the mile markers crept along in a pattern. Deer occasionally leaped alongside the road, and I always caught my breath when they came too close. My sister Taylor snored, and my cousin Mary drooled. My parents listened to hair bands and sang in harmony for the entire two hour drive, (they still do that).
As we approached the entrance to the trailer park, it reeked of cliché. We pulled in and the pavement turned to gravel. There was an eerie playground to the left that looked haunted, surrounded by a wooden fence with only two rungs. Tents were scattered around the perimeter of the vicinity, and the smell of burning firewood filled my lungs. We made the first right after the ice cream store and the bingo hall. Taylor would stretch her arms in the air, moaning loudly to emphasize how tired she was. Mary never made a sound.
Our bright red Pontiac pulled in right behind my Papa’s picture perfect white ford. My family and I poured out of the car sleepily like syrup. Papa was sleeping on the porch in a recliner clearly made for indoors. My grandma was inside straightening her narrow bed and placing her Yankees teddy bear on her pillow. I ran inside in front of everyone eager to give my grandma a hug, well, and also claim my spot on the pull-out couch us three kids would be sharing. Grandma always had a pitcher of her famous and my favorite iced tea sitting on the counter when she knew we were coming. My parents helped us get settled in, and then they left.
Papa woke up after hearing all the commotion that three children under the age of twelve make. His knowing eyes smiled at us and hugged us, saying, “good girl”, in our ears as he always did. Dinner that night was grilled cheese and tomato soup, and of course, iced tea filled to the brim of our flowered glasses that Grandma knew we loved. We didn’t talk much. Grandma asked us how school was, and what sports we played. Papa never said much, he just smiled and nodded, listening intently while scooping that tomato soup in his wrinkly mouth. I told Grandma that I loved swimming but I didn’t make the blue team that year. Taylor said the same, and Mary wasn’t allowed to play sports, I think. After dinner which Papa cleaned up, we clamored into the squeaky pull-out couch turned bed for three. We barely fit. Only if we laid head to toe could we squish and not fall off in the middle of the night; which often happened anyway. Taylor, Mary and I giggled all night long as Grandma and Papa snored in their separate beds across the tiny hallway from each other.
We always played “house”. Grandma and Papa would sit on the front porch reading the newspaper, and us kids pretended the trailer was a mansion, and that it was ours. I always wanted to be Grandma. I tried to replicate the iced tea to put on the counter for my favorite grandchildren but I always either put too much tea or too much orange juice. Mary and Taylor were my grandchildren and they sat patiently for their pretend eggs and bacon every morning.
When I was twelve I was allowed to walk with Mary and Taylor down to the playground by ourselves. It was a big deal because it was down the road and to the left, and by the entrance to the trailer park. We flirted with boys and pretended we were runaways from home. We tried to swing all the way over the metal bar on top of the swing set, but never did. We pretended to have English accents, and sometimes the other kids even believed us. One time we spun around so much we threw up, but I didn’t tell Grandma.
One night when we came home from the playground, there was a Yankee game playing on the eight by eight inch television. Grandma and Papa never missed a game, no matter who was visiting. Taylor, Mary and I found spots on the floor at their feet to cheer for our beloved Yankees. Everytime Derek Jeter came up to bat, Grandma would reach her arms towards the television, wiggling her fingers saying, “I’m giving him the heebie jeebies for good luck!” We drank iced tea pitcher after pitcher and wiggled our fingers at the television whenever Jeter was up.
As we approached the entrance to the trailer park, it reeked of cliché. We pulled in and the pavement turned to gravel. There was an eerie playground to the left that looked haunted, surrounded by a wooden fence with only two rungs. Tents were scattered around the perimeter of the vicinity, and the smell of burning firewood filled my lungs. We made the first right after the ice cream store and the bingo hall. Taylor would stretch her arms in the air, moaning loudly to emphasize how tired she was. Mary never made a sound.
Our bright red Pontiac pulled in right behind my Papa’s picture perfect white ford. My family and I poured out of the car sleepily like syrup. Papa was sleeping on the porch in a recliner clearly made for indoors. My grandma was inside straightening her narrow bed and placing her Yankees teddy bear on her pillow. I ran inside in front of everyone eager to give my grandma a hug, well, and also claim my spot on the pull-out couch us three kids would be sharing. Grandma always had a pitcher of her famous and my favorite iced tea sitting on the counter when she knew we were coming. My parents helped us get settled in, and then they left.
Papa woke up after hearing all the commotion that three children under the age of twelve make. His knowing eyes smiled at us and hugged us, saying, “good girl”, in our ears as he always did. Dinner that night was grilled cheese and tomato soup, and of course, iced tea filled to the brim of our flowered glasses that Grandma knew we loved. We didn’t talk much. Grandma asked us how school was, and what sports we played. Papa never said much, he just smiled and nodded, listening intently while scooping that tomato soup in his wrinkly mouth. I told Grandma that I loved swimming but I didn’t make the blue team that year. Taylor said the same, and Mary wasn’t allowed to play sports, I think. After dinner which Papa cleaned up, we clamored into the squeaky pull-out couch turned bed for three. We barely fit. Only if we laid head to toe could we squish and not fall off in the middle of the night; which often happened anyway. Taylor, Mary and I giggled all night long as Grandma and Papa snored in their separate beds across the tiny hallway from each other.
We always played “house”. Grandma and Papa would sit on the front porch reading the newspaper, and us kids pretended the trailer was a mansion, and that it was ours. I always wanted to be Grandma. I tried to replicate the iced tea to put on the counter for my favorite grandchildren but I always either put too much tea or too much orange juice. Mary and Taylor were my grandchildren and they sat patiently for their pretend eggs and bacon every morning.
When I was twelve I was allowed to walk with Mary and Taylor down to the playground by ourselves. It was a big deal because it was down the road and to the left, and by the entrance to the trailer park. We flirted with boys and pretended we were runaways from home. We tried to swing all the way over the metal bar on top of the swing set, but never did. We pretended to have English accents, and sometimes the other kids even believed us. One time we spun around so much we threw up, but I didn’t tell Grandma.
One night when we came home from the playground, there was a Yankee game playing on the eight by eight inch television. Grandma and Papa never missed a game, no matter who was visiting. Taylor, Mary and I found spots on the floor at their feet to cheer for our beloved Yankees. Everytime Derek Jeter came up to bat, Grandma would reach her arms towards the television, wiggling her fingers saying, “I’m giving him the heebie jeebies for good luck!” We drank iced tea pitcher after pitcher and wiggled our fingers at the television whenever Jeter was up.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Brainstorming for I essay #2
Brainstorming for I essay #2? I loved my first essay. I am not one to say that I love essays, but this is the first time in awhile that I actually enjoyed without too much criticism something that I wrote. Anyway..............
~ Again, My Aunt Mimi's house could be a topic. It is something I want to write about, however I don't remember much about staying there. I wish I remembered more, and I bet talking about it with my Grammy or my mom would help, however they are way too sensitive about it to talk to them about it right now.
~ Going to my grandma's trailer. This would be a great topic to write about. I think its a pretty unique place and not a lot of people spent their summer weeks holed up in a trailer park with their cousins. However, my grandma just died last December, and the pain of her death still really hurts me. I don't now how hard it would be to write about my visits with her, and to be honest, I don't really feel like crying while I write.
~ Musicfest? My heart felt so happy this year. My lovely boyfriend was BEYOND happy, even though he doesn't like crowds, and thats what made me elated the entire time. I don't know. Maybe.
~ Again, My Aunt Mimi's house could be a topic. It is something I want to write about, however I don't remember much about staying there. I wish I remembered more, and I bet talking about it with my Grammy or my mom would help, however they are way too sensitive about it to talk to them about it right now.
~ Going to my grandma's trailer. This would be a great topic to write about. I think its a pretty unique place and not a lot of people spent their summer weeks holed up in a trailer park with their cousins. However, my grandma just died last December, and the pain of her death still really hurts me. I don't now how hard it would be to write about my visits with her, and to be honest, I don't really feel like crying while I write.
~ Musicfest? My heart felt so happy this year. My lovely boyfriend was BEYOND happy, even though he doesn't like crowds, and thats what made me elated the entire time. I don't know. Maybe.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Essay #1 Draft
A bus packed full of high school students, obliging adults, and endless luggage pulled up to a deteriorating building known as the town’s one schoolhouse. It had been a five hour drive from the airport in Guatemala City, and we were surviving on our last few moments of sanity. Dozens of children surrounded the bus making it difficult for the driver to pull up onto the oddly flourishing grass patches in front of the school. They formed a seal of bodies around the bus as we stood up to take in our first glances of the town, El Triunfo, where we would be staying for the next eight days. There were one hundred of us, and we had signed up for a mission trip to this tiny city in Guatemala to build homes for people whose own were destroyed by natural disasters, or could not afford to build one.
We piled off the bus and were immediately bombarded with hugs of gratitude from the many children that had come to greet us. One child’s grubby hands grabbed my cheeks and brought my face down to hers. Her eyes filled with tears as she cooed at me in Spanish in a dialect that I couldn’t really understand. I started to pull away but I then realized that I wasn’t just there to build houses. I was there to make a difference in these families lives and one way I could do it was through giving them all the love and support I could muster up in this 110 degree heat. Other children started to come over to me, pulling on my t-shirt and opening up their arms for an embrace. The love they poured out was all consuming. It took us hours to move the ten yards from the bus to our sleeping quarters in the schoolhouse. Once we put down our luggage in the twenty feet by twenty feet cement classrooms, we set off on a tour of El Triunfo and to meet the rest of the residents of this uncharted settlement.
The next few days were a blur of sweat, tears, and overwhelming fulfillment. The people in this community were unlike any I had ever seen. It looked like something out of National Geographic. It was filled with thick jungle-like brush that was impossible to tear through without a machete. People bathed naked, unashamed, in the streets; in the tiny dribble of water they called their canal. Chickens, cows, roosters, and massive pigs walked freely around the dirt roads, only to be slaughtered later right in front of our eyes, and fed to us soon after. They even saved their fattest swine for our arrival. Families constantly came up to us, throwing their arms around us saying “Te amo, te amo, te amo!” and smothering us with kisses. We had worship every night in a building in the center of town, which everyone attended. We sang songs in Spanish and English, and the love and tenderness in that room was tangible every night.
On one of the hottest nights I can remember, a little girl who couldn’t have been any older than two or three was sitting on my lap during our worship time. Out of nowhere she started to weep uncontrollably and cry out “Mama! Mama! Mama!” I did not know who her mother was, but it was after ten o’clock in the evening, and I was sure that she was tired and needed her mother to take her home. I asked the little girl in my broken Spanish if she wanted me to take her home, and she responded with action. She got up and sprinted into the pitch black darkness alone, without warning. I was sure that she had walked home hundreds of times alone, but it was late and pitch black so I was afraid to let her go. I knew she lived in the middle of the thick jungle, so I grabbed the machete which was leaning against the wall- I was petrified and I didn’t know what was living out in the brush this time of night. With no flashlight to my name I ran after her, saying “Niña, Niña!” at the top of my lungs. I caught up to her and she grabbed my hand leading the way into the thick woods.
She was barefoot, and even in my sneakers I was falling all over myself as she stayed steady, still gripping my hand like a vice, pulling me deeper and deeper in the tangle. The fear was palpable. I felt like insects were crawling all over me. As I used my machete to chop down the brush in our path I heard dogs, or what I hoped were dogs howling in the distance. I heard other noises that to this day I cannot identify. The young girls hand was gripping mine so tightly that it felt as if my fingers were swelling up. It was nighttime, but sweat was still dripping off my face rapidly as the fear ran all throughout my body. Every step we took brought us further and further into the brush. I started to panic; how was I going to get back to the schoolhouse where I slept? What if I couldn’t find this little girls home and we had to sleep in the jungle? My breathe became shallow and short. We started to walk a little slower as the little girl started to call out for her mother; “Mama! Mama!”
Out of nowhere, a dim glow started to materialize in the distance. I could barely make out whether it was a light or a firefly. When the little girl noticed it, she let go of my pruned hand and sprinted towards it. I chased after her, anxious that she would get lost in the wilderness. I lost sight of her, but I heard a door slam ahead of me. I followed the sound until I saw a house with a hazily lit lamp hanging above the door. I thought that was the home of this young girl, but I wasn’t completely sure. I was alone now, and beyond horrified. The howling growls of unnamed animals were growing louder and more distinct. I ran back in the direction in which I came from, desperate to find a way out of the obscurity, using the machete to clear a path. When I emerged from the wooded area I found myself right behind the schoolhouse where my group of volunteers slept. I was out of breath, and tears were welling up in my eyes. I was relieved to be out of the woods, but still troubled about that little girl finding her mother. I ran around to the front of the schoolhouse where some of the Guatemalan mothers were slapping tortillas in their hands back and forth for the next day of meals. Panting, I tried to tell them in my broken down Spanish what happened, and when they realized what I was trying to say, they started to giggle and extend their arms out to me. A flood of emotion washed over me as I started to cry. I kept saying over and over again, “Tengo miedo, tengo miedo, lo siento, lo siento,” because I didn’t know what else to say. Still hugging me, they looked me in the eye, and started to speak to me calmly and quietly in their native Spanish dialect. I didn’t know what they were telling me, but as they grinned and embraced me I knew they were comforting me; telling that it was okay, that she was okay, and that they were grateful for my compassion.
We piled off the bus and were immediately bombarded with hugs of gratitude from the many children that had come to greet us. One child’s grubby hands grabbed my cheeks and brought my face down to hers. Her eyes filled with tears as she cooed at me in Spanish in a dialect that I couldn’t really understand. I started to pull away but I then realized that I wasn’t just there to build houses. I was there to make a difference in these families lives and one way I could do it was through giving them all the love and support I could muster up in this 110 degree heat. Other children started to come over to me, pulling on my t-shirt and opening up their arms for an embrace. The love they poured out was all consuming. It took us hours to move the ten yards from the bus to our sleeping quarters in the schoolhouse. Once we put down our luggage in the twenty feet by twenty feet cement classrooms, we set off on a tour of El Triunfo and to meet the rest of the residents of this uncharted settlement.
The next few days were a blur of sweat, tears, and overwhelming fulfillment. The people in this community were unlike any I had ever seen. It looked like something out of National Geographic. It was filled with thick jungle-like brush that was impossible to tear through without a machete. People bathed naked, unashamed, in the streets; in the tiny dribble of water they called their canal. Chickens, cows, roosters, and massive pigs walked freely around the dirt roads, only to be slaughtered later right in front of our eyes, and fed to us soon after. They even saved their fattest swine for our arrival. Families constantly came up to us, throwing their arms around us saying “Te amo, te amo, te amo!” and smothering us with kisses. We had worship every night in a building in the center of town, which everyone attended. We sang songs in Spanish and English, and the love and tenderness in that room was tangible every night.
On one of the hottest nights I can remember, a little girl who couldn’t have been any older than two or three was sitting on my lap during our worship time. Out of nowhere she started to weep uncontrollably and cry out “Mama! Mama! Mama!” I did not know who her mother was, but it was after ten o’clock in the evening, and I was sure that she was tired and needed her mother to take her home. I asked the little girl in my broken Spanish if she wanted me to take her home, and she responded with action. She got up and sprinted into the pitch black darkness alone, without warning. I was sure that she had walked home hundreds of times alone, but it was late and pitch black so I was afraid to let her go. I knew she lived in the middle of the thick jungle, so I grabbed the machete which was leaning against the wall- I was petrified and I didn’t know what was living out in the brush this time of night. With no flashlight to my name I ran after her, saying “Niña, Niña!” at the top of my lungs. I caught up to her and she grabbed my hand leading the way into the thick woods.
She was barefoot, and even in my sneakers I was falling all over myself as she stayed steady, still gripping my hand like a vice, pulling me deeper and deeper in the tangle. The fear was palpable. I felt like insects were crawling all over me. As I used my machete to chop down the brush in our path I heard dogs, or what I hoped were dogs howling in the distance. I heard other noises that to this day I cannot identify. The young girls hand was gripping mine so tightly that it felt as if my fingers were swelling up. It was nighttime, but sweat was still dripping off my face rapidly as the fear ran all throughout my body. Every step we took brought us further and further into the brush. I started to panic; how was I going to get back to the schoolhouse where I slept? What if I couldn’t find this little girls home and we had to sleep in the jungle? My breathe became shallow and short. We started to walk a little slower as the little girl started to call out for her mother; “Mama! Mama!”
Out of nowhere, a dim glow started to materialize in the distance. I could barely make out whether it was a light or a firefly. When the little girl noticed it, she let go of my pruned hand and sprinted towards it. I chased after her, anxious that she would get lost in the wilderness. I lost sight of her, but I heard a door slam ahead of me. I followed the sound until I saw a house with a hazily lit lamp hanging above the door. I thought that was the home of this young girl, but I wasn’t completely sure. I was alone now, and beyond horrified. The howling growls of unnamed animals were growing louder and more distinct. I ran back in the direction in which I came from, desperate to find a way out of the obscurity, using the machete to clear a path. When I emerged from the wooded area I found myself right behind the schoolhouse where my group of volunteers slept. I was out of breath, and tears were welling up in my eyes. I was relieved to be out of the woods, but still troubled about that little girl finding her mother. I ran around to the front of the schoolhouse where some of the Guatemalan mothers were slapping tortillas in their hands back and forth for the next day of meals. Panting, I tried to tell them in my broken down Spanish what happened, and when they realized what I was trying to say, they started to giggle and extend their arms out to me. A flood of emotion washed over me as I started to cry. I kept saying over and over again, “Tengo miedo, tengo miedo, lo siento, lo siento,” because I didn’t know what else to say. Still hugging me, they looked me in the eye, and started to speak to me calmly and quietly in their native Spanish dialect. I didn’t know what they were telling me, but as they grinned and embraced me I knew they were comforting me; telling that it was okay, that she was okay, and that they were grateful for my compassion.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Ideas for Essay #1
Since I was not in class last thursday, I am still kind of hazy about what our first essay needs to be about. I know it should be an "I" essay, but when it comes to concept, I am fuzzy. When I think of an "I" essay I think of a personal story told from my perspective, and there are many I could write about. While looking through my journal, there are a couple ideas or stories that stood out to me as an "I" essay.
- My experience staying at my Aunt Mimi's house as a child: I have very strong feelings when it comes to my Aunt Mimi and her home. Her son lived above her, and as I said in class, I was terrified of him. As a child, I did not realize why she lived among hundreds of boxes, horrific odors and no bed that I could see. Now, I know lots of things about her that I did not know before. It all makes sense to me now! She doesn't even let anyone inside her house. I'm pretty sure that my sister and I were the last people to see it, and that was maybe 10 years ago. It has to be worse now. I still remember what it looked like and the feelings I had while staying there.
- My visit to Guatemala: A couple years ago, I went on a mission trip for 8 days to El Triunfo, Guatemala. I have so many stories that I could tell from this trip. I learned so much, and met so many interesting people there. One specific incident that I've always wanted to write about was about bringing a little girl back to her home in the jungle in the middle of the night. It is something that I never want to forget, and the fear it brought of me is something I still think about often.
- My relationship with my boyfriend Frank: I would love to write about love. Cliche as it is, it is something that consumes me on a daily basis, and to not write about it seems ridiculous. I feel like I need to write down how I feel about this specific relationship because it is the most important and all consuming one I have ever been in. We have been together for 3 years now, and I have changed as a person because of it. I don't really know what I would write about though, so this is just a very vague concept.
What is the point?
I think the main idea in a lot of the "I" essays I have read in this book, and even on my own have been for the writer to express something about themselves, or find something out about themselves by writing something. Maybe a writer will write a story about their personal experience to re-live it, if it was something good, or to work through it, if it was something they haven't come to terms with yet. The "point" of a lot of "I" essays to me is to convey something to the reader about themselves or the writer that they did not already know.
Authors develop their ideas in many different ways. Everyone has their own style of developing ideas or themes in a story, essay, novel, etc. I think some authors develop their ideas by developing a character, or maybe making an outline of a plot. Maybe some authors embellish their stories to make them more interesting, or maybe they talk it out with colleauges. When I write, I like to develop my ideas by writing out everything that comes to my mind about that said idea, no matter how ridiculous. I also like to look at my story from different perspectives, especially if it is about me. If I am writing a story about myself, it is hard to look at the story from the perspective of someone outside my body. However when I do this, it helps me to find out what parts of the story are most interesting to the reader, not just what I think is the most interesting.
Structures that authors may use to make their stories more dramatic would be to seperate the stories into chapter or vignettes, with each one ending in cliff hanger. This would lead the reader to keep reading because they want to know what happens to the characters.
Authors develop their ideas in many different ways. Everyone has their own style of developing ideas or themes in a story, essay, novel, etc. I think some authors develop their ideas by developing a character, or maybe making an outline of a plot. Maybe some authors embellish their stories to make them more interesting, or maybe they talk it out with colleauges. When I write, I like to develop my ideas by writing out everything that comes to my mind about that said idea, no matter how ridiculous. I also like to look at my story from different perspectives, especially if it is about me. If I am writing a story about myself, it is hard to look at the story from the perspective of someone outside my body. However when I do this, it helps me to find out what parts of the story are most interesting to the reader, not just what I think is the most interesting.
Structures that authors may use to make their stories more dramatic would be to seperate the stories into chapter or vignettes, with each one ending in cliff hanger. This would lead the reader to keep reading because they want to know what happens to the characters.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Essay in Segments
Using segments in an essay is something that would take me awhile to get comfortable with. I have never written in segments before, because I have never written anything that it would be helpful to use. However, if I were to write an essay in segments, there are two techniques that I would probably touch upon.
The first one that looks like I could use it easily was journaling. Since I have kept a journal from a very early age, it would be easy for me to adapt that journal writing into an essay form. I could even turn one of my journals into a creative non-fiction story, by changing the names and maybe not telling anyone that it was my journal. Also, I enjoy writing drafts of my work, and taking little notes about what I think about to write. Sometimes i'll even jot notes down in my everyday life when I am not thinking about my piece, because something will come to me. Compiling all these notes will help me write in segmented form.
The second technique that I would use to write in segments would be accumulation. This seems like a very difficult way to write in segments, but very interesting. As was written in Dr. Chandler's blog, it is to write in sections, but each new section adds to the previous one, and may even make the reader re-think what they previously thought. Confusing, right? Yes, but also very thought provoking. I could write like this because sometimes in life, an event may happen but then right after something ELSE happens that changes the previous event. That is real life- and when transcribed on the page would come out in segments.
The first one that looks like I could use it easily was journaling. Since I have kept a journal from a very early age, it would be easy for me to adapt that journal writing into an essay form. I could even turn one of my journals into a creative non-fiction story, by changing the names and maybe not telling anyone that it was my journal. Also, I enjoy writing drafts of my work, and taking little notes about what I think about to write. Sometimes i'll even jot notes down in my everyday life when I am not thinking about my piece, because something will come to me. Compiling all these notes will help me write in segmented form.
The second technique that I would use to write in segments would be accumulation. This seems like a very difficult way to write in segments, but very interesting. As was written in Dr. Chandler's blog, it is to write in sections, but each new section adds to the previous one, and may even make the reader re-think what they previously thought. Confusing, right? Yes, but also very thought provoking. I could write like this because sometimes in life, an event may happen but then right after something ELSE happens that changes the previous event. That is real life- and when transcribed on the page would come out in segments.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Writer's Relationship to CNF
What do Kidder and Lopate suggest about the writer's relationship to creative non-fiction? How does Lott define creative non-fiction? How are their definitions similar or different from your own?
Kidder's text is mostly discussing point of view, and also making writing personal and interesting. According to Kidder, point of view "is a matter of finding the best place to stand, from which to tell a story". He says that making the choice of which point of view to use is important because it affects everything else in the story. Anoter important thing that Kidder writes about is that creative non-fiction writing needs to be believable. Although a writer may be telling us a story that is true and actually happened in the writers life, the reader may not believe what is happening. The writer needs to be aware of this as they are writing a story.
Lopate suggests that the writer needs to turn oneself into a character, and gives us ideas on how to do it. In order to make yourself, the writer, into a character, Lopate says that you need to have distance from yourself. You need to see yourself as someone else would see you. We did an exercise in class that helped us develop a character profile of ourselves. We had to write about all the important things about us involving our religion, gender, attitudes, quirks, and many other categories. The part in Lopate's essay that I found most significant was when he talked about how some writers may think that they have nothing to write about because their life is boring, and how some writers may think they have nothing to write about because their life is too weird. However, anything can be turned into a story. Creative non-fiction is called as such because the writer can add things to make it more interesting. Also, if a writer thinks their life is too weird to write about, it would probably make a really good story. Sometimes when people think something about them is "weird", it may be something that a lot of other people are going through.
Lott define's creative non-fiction by saying that creative non-fiction is "a desire to not let slip altogether away our life as we have known it; to put an order, for better and worse, to our days; this is only a test; the self as continent, you its first explorer; is this wisdom, or is this folly?; no self-righteousness, though it is always the first person talking; circle the subject to see it most whole." Those are a bunch of different concepts that Lott goes into detail talking about in his essay. My favorite part of that definition is when Lott talks about how the writer has a need to not let his/her life slip away as they are living it. It is so important to write things down as they happen, so you don't forget how you felt during the event, or how it happened. Everything that happens in a writers life can be turned into a story, and many writers use events from their own life to write about, which is called creative non-fiction.
Kidder's text is mostly discussing point of view, and also making writing personal and interesting. According to Kidder, point of view "is a matter of finding the best place to stand, from which to tell a story". He says that making the choice of which point of view to use is important because it affects everything else in the story. Anoter important thing that Kidder writes about is that creative non-fiction writing needs to be believable. Although a writer may be telling us a story that is true and actually happened in the writers life, the reader may not believe what is happening. The writer needs to be aware of this as they are writing a story.
Lopate suggests that the writer needs to turn oneself into a character, and gives us ideas on how to do it. In order to make yourself, the writer, into a character, Lopate says that you need to have distance from yourself. You need to see yourself as someone else would see you. We did an exercise in class that helped us develop a character profile of ourselves. We had to write about all the important things about us involving our religion, gender, attitudes, quirks, and many other categories. The part in Lopate's essay that I found most significant was when he talked about how some writers may think that they have nothing to write about because their life is boring, and how some writers may think they have nothing to write about because their life is too weird. However, anything can be turned into a story. Creative non-fiction is called as such because the writer can add things to make it more interesting. Also, if a writer thinks their life is too weird to write about, it would probably make a really good story. Sometimes when people think something about them is "weird", it may be something that a lot of other people are going through.
Lott define's creative non-fiction by saying that creative non-fiction is "a desire to not let slip altogether away our life as we have known it; to put an order, for better and worse, to our days; this is only a test; the self as continent, you its first explorer; is this wisdom, or is this folly?; no self-righteousness, though it is always the first person talking; circle the subject to see it most whole." Those are a bunch of different concepts that Lott goes into detail talking about in his essay. My favorite part of that definition is when Lott talks about how the writer has a need to not let his/her life slip away as they are living it. It is so important to write things down as they happen, so you don't forget how you felt during the event, or how it happened. Everything that happens in a writers life can be turned into a story, and many writers use events from their own life to write about, which is called creative non-fiction.
As I have been developing my own definition of creative non-fiction, I would say that I agree most with Lopate. I agree that if we are writing from an "I" perspective, we need to turn ourselves into a character. Sometimes it is difficult for us to see ourselves in a light that isn't so great, and that is hard to write about. However, it is important to see ourselves from an outsiders opinion, even if it is negative, because it makes the story more believable to the reader. That the character of ourselves is not perfect.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
"I" and "Eye" Essays
In the last class, we discussed the three essays we read the previous week, and the three essays we read for yesterday. The first three essays were considered "I" essays, and the last three were considered "Eye" essays. In literal terms, "I" essays are written from the authors memory and their experiences personally, and "Eye" essays are written about someone else's experience, story, or point of view. However simple that may seem, there is much more to that explanation of those two types of creative non-fiction. I and Eye essays can intermingle with each other. For example, a writer could be talking about someone else's story, but putting themselves in the story as well.
One of the texts that spoke to me the most was "Secret Ceremonies of Love and Death" by Beverly Lowry. It drew me in right away because the story was not just intriguing but also left the reader to really think at the end. Something that really irked me about the reading was in the end of the story, we did not know the author's opinion on whether or not Karla should be on death row. I knew that while I was reading the story I was to form my own opinion on whether or not people can change after committing a horrible crime such as murder, however I was very interested in the author's opinion as well. Another thing about this essay, was that it is considered an "Eye" essay, and is the first example in the textbook of what an "Eye" essay is. However, I felt that this was not just a story about another person, but a personal story from the author. Yes, it was about Karla Faye and her tragic story, but it was also about Beverly Lowry and her story as well. We don't know much about the author except that she felt drawn to Karla Faye, and that she had a son that died in a hit and run accident. That background information immediately puts Lowry right into the story, because we as the readers are interested why she put that into the story, and how it will effect the story as well.
One of the texts that spoke to me the most was "Secret Ceremonies of Love and Death" by Beverly Lowry. It drew me in right away because the story was not just intriguing but also left the reader to really think at the end. Something that really irked me about the reading was in the end of the story, we did not know the author's opinion on whether or not Karla should be on death row. I knew that while I was reading the story I was to form my own opinion on whether or not people can change after committing a horrible crime such as murder, however I was very interested in the author's opinion as well. Another thing about this essay, was that it is considered an "Eye" essay, and is the first example in the textbook of what an "Eye" essay is. However, I felt that this was not just a story about another person, but a personal story from the author. Yes, it was about Karla Faye and her tragic story, but it was also about Beverly Lowry and her story as well. We don't know much about the author except that she felt drawn to Karla Faye, and that she had a son that died in a hit and run accident. That background information immediately puts Lowry right into the story, because we as the readers are interested why she put that into the story, and how it will effect the story as well.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Definition of Creative Non-Fiction
What is creative non-fiction?
Before I started this class, I had no idea what creative non-fiction was. That thought was the reason that I decided to take this class. I wanted to find out what creative non-fiction was through the process of reading examples of it, and then trying to write my own. After the first couple of classes, I have found myself in the midst of great examples of creative non-fiction, and I am eager to start writing my own. In my own words, creative non-fiction is writing about an event that may have happened, or will happen, but embellishing on it in your own way. In other words, a person who wanted to write a creative non-fiction piece could write about a memory they had, and although they may not be able to recall every detail of that memory, it would still be called "non-fiction" because the memory happened. It is turned into "creative" non-fiction because every detail of that specific memory cannot possibly be recounted perfectly. I love writing about things that have happened to me, and stories that I have heard from other people. I don't have a very good memory, so I believe that everything I have written about a memory or a story could be considered creative non-fiction. Who knew? When I walked into class, I did not know what creative non-fiction meant, and today I am writing my own definition of it, and also finding out that I have been writing it for years.
Before I started this class, I had no idea what creative non-fiction was. That thought was the reason that I decided to take this class. I wanted to find out what creative non-fiction was through the process of reading examples of it, and then trying to write my own. After the first couple of classes, I have found myself in the midst of great examples of creative non-fiction, and I am eager to start writing my own. In my own words, creative non-fiction is writing about an event that may have happened, or will happen, but embellishing on it in your own way. In other words, a person who wanted to write a creative non-fiction piece could write about a memory they had, and although they may not be able to recall every detail of that memory, it would still be called "non-fiction" because the memory happened. It is turned into "creative" non-fiction because every detail of that specific memory cannot possibly be recounted perfectly. I love writing about things that have happened to me, and stories that I have heard from other people. I don't have a very good memory, so I believe that everything I have written about a memory or a story could be considered creative non-fiction. Who knew? When I walked into class, I did not know what creative non-fiction meant, and today I am writing my own definition of it, and also finding out that I have been writing it for years.
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