Presentation Handout

The Whistling Fire “Handout”

http://whistlingfire.com/category/nonfiction/

I.        Non-Profit-that’s right no money, at all

o   Completely online

o   No Submission fees

II.      All are Welcome

III.   “Open Forum”

o   Feedback/Commenting available

IV.   Free Flow of ideas

V.      Investigated Pieces

o   “Look at Him on the Edge”- Oct 4 2011

o   Wanted Fat Girl-Oct 25 2011

http://whistlingfire.com/submission-guidelines/

I.        3,000 word maximum

II.      No more than 2 pieces per/mo.

Rhetorical Analysis: The Whistling Fire

The Whistling Fire is a non-profit forum where writers can submit their work or, as the editors suggested, their works in-progress. TWF accepts fiction, non-fiction, poetry and plays. The site is more of an forum than a publication, there is a vast range of abilities on display; some writing is definitely better than other pieces. Elements such as tone, subject, etc are not required to conform to any specific guidelines. I feel that the “niche” of this publication is that they aren’t so much interested in seeing themselves as a serious publication, as they want to see the free flow of ideas being exchanged; peer criticism of a constructive nature. Most of the pieces read like first drafts, or at the very least drafts with little editing. However there are a few pieces that standout.

“Look at Him on the Edge” by Jessica Barksdale examines the relationship between parents and a drug addict son. I think it would be classified as an “I” essay, investigating a situation/memory, and regarding it in terms of the narrator’s perspective. This is one of the examples of a “well-done” essay presented on the site. It grabs the attention of the reader with its believability, pondering a higher meaning; transcending the story/situation itself and relating to life in general. The subject matter of this story reflects so many different levels of human interaction with each other that attempting to condense it all into 3,000 or less is very difficult, lending to the story feeling rushed. If this essay were to be expounded upon, it could manifest into a very provocative piece. For every piece that shows promise, there must be a thousand that are worth more as learning experiences than anything else.

One such piece, “Wanted: Fat Girl” by Kimberly Dark, inspects the schism between people created by physical appearance; in this case, as the title suggests, weight. I feel that this is a piece that is a decent piece of writing, but it breaks one of the most principle rule of CNF: it cannot be self-serving. It chronicles the “life” of an apparently overweight girl (who used to be thinner). Ironically, the tone in some places reads condescendingly, with an air of superiority; some of the same characteristics she is critical of in her story. Anything positive that comes from the essay is readily undone by the feeling that the author is trying to convince the reader that the author is the better person. Now this is just one, relatively uneducated writer’s opinion.

This is the range of work that appears “in” The Whistling Fire, and the emphasis is that it is all welcome. Members of the site are all peer editors, capable of providing comments and feedback on any piece they wish; good, bad, or indifferent. If one were to create a hierarchy of publications The Whistling Fire would be above a blog, but perhaps below a printed publication. This publication serves as an intercessory, or a sounding board for potential authors to get their pieces out there and receive reactions, criticism, etc without having to pay submission fees or receive rejection after rejection slip. Sites such as The Whistling Fire could help jumpstart a writing career, or help uncover a passion for writing that wasn’t there before; they are the building blocks in this technological age for writers to be discovered.

Descend to Ascend

9:45pm, it’s a Tuesday, the sun has gone now for hours, the chilling darkness encroached and dominated the light; a battle it rarely loses, the light just does a little better or worse each time. I waited for father’s authoritarian eyes to close, rejoicing that I could finally exhale fully, and made for the basement door. I call it “splinter board” the plain brown door has an impressively frayed bottom edge where small fragments wrenched themselves free because the door doesn’t open through its full range of motion; the bare, pale tile obstructs the door from opening any further. The light at the top of the stairs remains off, I’ve descended these stairs numerous times; the third from the top creaks viciously, avoidance is key, the 7^th is a trap step, second to the last, it produces a sinister groan that reverberates throughout the house. The concrete floor is cold and in the dark I shiver but for a moment, swiveling to my right around a lowly coffee table and a box full of miscellaneous items; a clipboard with nothing on it, a stopwatch, Spanish vocabulary cards. I wave my arm in the dark for a relatively small (or large depending on your position) washer tied to a string responsible for operating the lights over the workbench. There the preparation begins.

The workbench itself is a pale blue, far from brilliant, half a century of repairs, odd jobs, and tinkering has left the station battered and scarred. Its now littered with power tools, paint cans, and other miscellaneous instruments; none of which I happen to be interested in. Above the bench hangs two cabinets, side-by-side, the left holds nothing but a few hooks and clasps; the right holds what I seek. It looks like a showcase; two shelves, holding paraphernalia that looks like it belongs in a chemistry lab. Shimmering glass, flame producing torches, metal pieces, and plastic containers, which are stained from frequent use. A line up such as this, choices upon choices of which instrument to utilize, there is no wrong decision. I select a short, skinny beaker, a torch and a severely weathered Altoids mint tin. Opening the tin, a floral aroma wafts up warming my nose, there is a plastic bag inside the tin, and two small green flowers are inside.  The skinny glass container holds a blue chalice, into which the flowers are to be ground and placed.

Water occupies the bottom quarter of the glass tube, but the water level is not intended to exceed its current level, it has be destined to be unfulfilled, incomplete and the top of the beaker is open, further enforcing the fact that this is a lacking instrument. I crack the cellar window to the left of the bench; the sacrifice is strong and distinctive to the nose, slightly acrid. The green flowers are ceremoniously pulverized, their small petals curl around each other, forming a cluster, glistening in the light reflecting the gem-like flecks. The minced flower, resembling something close to a coarse powder, is scooped into the chalice, compacted slightly, and “topped off” the vessel is then joined with the tube. A small docking stem protrudes from the front of the beaker, the bowl inserts into the stem, a male phallic piece for the female chalice. This union denotes that the time for sacrifice has come.

The beaker sits on the workbench, stoic, it knows it is a tool, to be used and, in the event of failure to function properly, to be discarded and replaced. Torch in my right hand, I ignite the flame, holding it to the top of the chalice, placing my mouth over the opening, creating a tight seal, drawing thin breath. I extinguish the fire, leaving the flowers to glow bright red, fueled by my breath drawing vapors into the tube. The cylinder is now filled with a milky white/gray cloud, swirling about. I remove the bowl, now filled with only ash and set it down on the bench, simultaneously vacuuming the vapors out of the tube. The cloud is not fluffy, it is not gentile, it sweetly chars the back of the throat, the longer it is held in, the more it will lash back against its captor. I have underestimated, yet again, how retributive the cloud can be, coughing loudly, repetitively into a towel to muffle the otherwise deep robust hacking. I refill the chalice two more times, coughing less and less, as the vapors have settled down and acclimated themselves in my lungs. The tools are cleaned to a satisfactory state and replaced in their concealed showcase.

By now a sedative haze has enveloped every fiber of my body; my movements have become rounded and lethargic, my speech, if I had an accomplice, would undoubtedly be slow, deep and slightly raspy; my eyes have glazed and shaded themselves, even in the dull low lighting. Slide the window shut, and turn the lock, pull the washer down and extinguish the light. Unlike before my equilibrium has been tainted, and I grope in the dark for the landmarks that I so deftly outmaneuvered earlier. I remember the pattern of the stairs, 8, 6, 5, 4, 2, 1, as I ascend, I feel as though a weight has been lifted off of my chest, despite an ever so slight tightness within my ribcage, the sacrifice has been accepted, I’ve paid the tribute. The lights are already off, I would have forgotten them in any case; their being left on irked me far less than father who seems to be on a jihad to remain in as much darkness as possible, for as long as conceivably possible. I jostle the splinterboard from the tile that stops it from opening fully, closing it, not fully, letting it swing back, trivially ajar. The irony that I must descend in order to re-ascend farther to reach my summit dawns upon me, I audibly chuckle, feeling satisfied that the means have justified their end sufficiently enough.

What Eye Wish I Could See

           I rolled up my air mattress, tied the convenient carrying case closed and hefted it onto my left shoulder. Who knows, maybe it’ll be worth the trouble. I had no problem sleeping on a chair, couch, floor, etc, but if I were to have someone to accompany me to bed, well, comfort, in that case, would be paramount. I had spoken to one girl Steve had assured me was interested, blonde, and “wild”; her partying was notorious. My brother, Josh, and I got a late start to the city of brotherly love; St. Joseph’s University is technically within the city limits of Philadelphia, but just two blocks from campus is affluent Lower Marion Township. We wound down route 31, expecting to hop onto 95 and head straight into the city, but a multi car collision only 1000 feet beyond our entry ramp forced us to endure nearly 30 miles of suburban boulevards and county roads, riddled with lights; separated by what seemed like mere inches, stopping incessantly, constantly. We had a concert to get to, an appetizer to the entrée to be served the next night. The last time we visited, we threw a party with our friend Stephen, the likes of which haven’t been seen since.

We reached our destination and attended the unimpressive, school-sponsored concert; Mike Posner, a flash in the pan artist. He was late to his set, and left early, I didn’t know many of his songs, and his “enthusiasm” did little to hold the thin crowd’s clearly divided attention. We left the auditorium with the prospect of a party not too far away. We procured refreshments, and walked next door to a party that was in full swing. The house was brimming with students, drinking, chatting loudly around a large table dedicated to no less than 6 simultaneous games of beer pong. Our trio descended the nearly vertical staircase to the basement; house music was pounding the airwaves, rendering speech ineffective. The bass thumped, jostling my vision, strobe lights flickered and rendering our vision slowed, capturing frames in slow motion. I asked a girl to dance in between songs, she obliged. We waited for the next song to start; it began slowly, our bodies moving in accordance with the rhythm. The tempo began to increase, her back to me, she gyrated and shimmied, keeping beat we; moved seamlessly. Half way through the song, she turned to face me, said thank you and left. I saw her later dancing with another guy, their affection lacked the quality of stealth, I gathered they must have been in a relationship of some kind; I did not venture to speculate further on the matter. Josh and Steve suggested we retreat to his house to procure more beverages and return later. However, after an encounter with the Chairman, we reevaluated our previous plans and settled in for the night, not wanting to exhaust ourselves out before our premiere evening. The anticipation of meeting this mystery girl was growing exponentially; sleep was elusive until the wee hours of the early morning.

Saturday afternoon was spent preparing for the evening’s festivities, acquiring the necessary supplies, two kegs of and a few gallons of liquor to create a beastly punch that, if not enjoyed carefully, has been known to lead to some early exits from unsuspecting partiers. We prepared ourselves, dawning our sharpest threads, making sure to look extra fresh. I chose black denim jeans, and a yellow button-up shirt that had a checked pattern with white lines. The lines shone brilliantly, basking in the black light in the basement, the DJ replaced the unflattering fluorescent, soft white bulbs, with the edgy black lights that illuminated anything white. I felt bad for the overweight kid with dandruff in line waiting to fill his cup at the keg, there was no chance at hiding the avalanche of skin cells littering his shoulders; it helped little that he was wearing a black shirt. An hour after the party started, it seemed that the drones had sent word back to the colony about a buzzing party, droves of young people came flocking, and at $5 per person, they were shoving money in our hands faster than we could hand them their cups. And then it happened, I went into the foyer to ask Stephen a question, he was talking to his main squeeze, Mia, I greeted her warmly. She walked in, and behind her, walking through the door was the most incredibly beautiful creature I’d ever laid eyes on. My breath was caught in my chest, and for more than a split second my heart seemed to halt.

The figure before me was enveloped in a radiance that cased others to pale in comparison, just by existing. Her golden hair cascaded down just below her narrow shoulders, framing a soft, round face. She had eyes like sapphires, so sharp; there was no pain when they cut through me, inspecting every element of my existence, searching through me. Her hourglass figure was accentuated by the low-cut black and gray dress she had on, it had long sleeves, and resembled more of a large shirt than a dress; but with the lethal black heels she wore in combination indicated that she knew exactly what she was doing. My mouth struggled to formulate a greeting, a word, a sound; I was stricken and could only manage a meager “hello”. I asked her name, praying she was the ethereal being I was destined to meet; it was Meredith, this was, in fact, not the young woman. My next introduction was to my pre-arranged acquaintance, I learned her name but remembering it became difficult after half a dozen or so drinks, combined with my cognoscente infatuation with her friend. I knew she was in a relationship, the strength of which I desired to test; I composed myself enough to attempt to spread some charm on the dazzling beauty. We, i.e. the group of 6, spent the next few hours drinking, dancing and conversing, I may have been laying on the “game” a little thick, but I saw no glory in standing on the sidelines. The rooms began to sway, the floors unleveled themselves, words slipped and slid on their way out of our mouths as we ushered our equally intoxicated patrons out the door, and began sloppy discussions of where to relocate for the after party. Stephen stayed sober so he drove back to Mia’s apartment with 7 others in the passenger and back seats; Josh partied a little to hard and had to duck out early that night, he stayed at Stephen’s house. We arrived at the apartment building, quite literally tumbled out of the small Japanese compact and merrily swaggered into the house.

The girls’ apartment was spacious; a small kitchen with mountains of dishes and assorted cutlery in the sink melted into the living room sparsely adorned with a white couch/love seat set, and television, which outlet down a hallway to the bedrooms in the back. We sat at the kitchen table and continued to drink, shots of Evan Williams whiskey seared our throats, the penalty for not bouncing your quarter in the shot glass quickly enough. I lost the second, and fifth rounds, hanging in there with my companions. But Mr. Williams distilled a powerful tincture, a bad string of games later and I was 4 shots to the wind, fading fast. My 5^th straight loss, I was getting sloppy and I knew it. I stared at the 1 oz of amber liquid in the glass in front of me, slowly picked it up, inhaled, and closed my eyes.

The next thing I knew I was slowly swaying with Meredith in the middle of their living room to some slow, mellow jazz. She had her head against my chest as we rocked, my arms were wrapped around her, holding her closely to me. She looked up, smiling, and wiggled out of my embrace, beckoning me to follow her. She took hold of my hand; her small fingers guiding me as we sashayed down the pitch-black hallway. With each step I could feel my heart pounding harder and harder that by the time we reached her door, I could hear it slamming into my chest. We entered, the only light in the rooms was streaming in through the lone window from the full moon outside, casting a shimmering light-blue hue on everything it touched. We embraced; she leaned up on her tiptoes and ever so delicately brushed my lips with hers. Again I lost my breath, stammering to inhale. I picked her up, her legs serpentined around my waist, locking behind my back, I kissed her deeply and she kissed me back with equal fervor. We laid on the bed, squirming together, trying to get closer than too close. We burrowed underneath the blankets and sheets, intertwining our bare bodies, twisting, uniting. We rocked in unison, rhythmic, harmoniously as the pale moonlight began to glow. Our breathing became rapid, our touch, electric; the glowing morning light began to stretch across the floor and onto the bed casting it in a blinding golden light. For a third time my breath was stolen from my lungs, and I felt suspended in a forceless void, every synapse in my entire body firing at one simultaneous culminating moment, I closed my eyes.

When I opened my eyes my, it felt as though an elephant was sitting on my head, a classic trademark of a night spent drinking. There was an empty bottle of whiskey on the floor next to me, and a pool of clear liquid on the floor near where my face had been; I assumed it to be drool. I shuffled to the couch, sunk into its plush cushions, absorbing the rapidly growing dejection slowly beginning to simmer in my fuzzy prefrontal lobe. The pieces of a disappointing puzzle began to align themselves; I rolled onto my back, staring at the off-white ceiling. A mop of golden locks drifted into my field of vision, followed by two cerulean rings and an angelic “good morning”. I smiled and croaked a morning salutation, remaining on my back. Stephen and Mia emerged from the back and we conferenced over herbal hangover cures, collectively piecing together the previous evenings events. But the puzzle was missing pieces, but I feared that those additions might have been elaborate projections; I felt incepted. I didn’t want to make sense of the situation, I wanted to go back into that pale blue light and sway in the shadows with the angel of my dreams

11/1/11, repetition, etc.

action, launched upward higher, higher, until the chains of gravity bring the sphere hurtling downward. the sphere's reflective surface projects its surroundings onto itself, only danger. The sphere is destined to crash, bound and rebound, to be battered. The sphere is held in its cage by the sentinels; masters of this cruel prison. Their sole purpose is to confine its prisoner for as long as possible; conceivably an eternity. There is escape, but to reach it, the sentinels must be evaded, their unflappable vigilance renders escape all but hopeless. The sphere traverses the expanse of its dungeon for a lifetime, then, without warning the first  sentinel fails to thrust the sphere back into its cell, the second rushes into support, but only clips the twisting mirror. The mirror shines black as it descends through a void, the end is near, freedom, escape. Game Over.

Draft 2

It was the summer time, and boredom had set in long enough. So we got into our pale blue Chevrolet Caprice station wagon and rolled west; California or bust. In the front seat, my grandmother and her sister, Raynete, we called her Pinky. My mother and two sisters were sandwiched in the middle row; my brother and I were relegated to the third row, facing the opposite direction. I remember that summer being particularly humid, the day we left I sweated out of two shirts just packing my things into the car, the leather upholstery seared any piece of skin that it touched if it had been in the sun too long, and the metal seatbelt buckles were prone to burn our hands.

We were headed for the Golden Coast, sun drenched beaches, Rodeo Drive, Hollywood. Actually it was more like, farm country in the San Joaquin Valley; Sacramento was an hour away and the closest beach was twice that far.  The western hills of New Jersey softly rose into the slightly larger hills of eastern Pennsylvania; the twilight drenched the sky in a gold drapery, exceedingly covered by the darkening sky. My brother, Josh, and I saw the sunset only in our periphery, the darkness behind us was closing in, and soon we were driving in almost total darkness; the occasional streetlight flooding our eyes for a few fleeting second. 

We were almost to Tennessee, 3 days into our trip the first signs of fraying nerves were beginning to show. Grandma and Aunt Pinky were in their own “sister world” often forgetting there were 5 other people in the car with them; turning off the A/C because their toes were cold. My indignation would rise with the temperature; as the sun rose in the east, so did my irritation level with inconsideration, or when I was exceptionally put off, anything that rubbed me the wrong way. My mother and sisters had each other to snip at, adding my grandmother and great aunt for flavor. For the time being, grumbling was kept to a minimum and passive temperament was intact. It would be another day before we reached Texas.

The Dallas suburb where my Aunt Koriene and her husband Tony lived felt like an oasis in a harsh desert wilderness. It was consistently 95 degrees or hotter every day after we crossed the Mason Dixon line, and the first two days we were in Texas the heat was in excess of 110 degrees on successive days. We loafed on plush sofas and rested, driving can be so exhausting for some reason. My cousins Bobby and Sarah-Emily are the closest in age to my brother Josh, sister Hannah and myself, and even though we’d only seen each other a scant few times that anyone could definitively recall, we interacted as though we’d spent years together. We only stayed for 5 days, elbowroom began to get cramped, and California still beckoned. But Texas was a big state and I had another aunt who lived outside of Austin a few hours away whom we were intending to visit. We left our oasis to venture into the desert.

What we found was a glorified trailer, with my Aunt Kristen, her husband Jim, their 7 children and 3 dogs. A prefabricated home community surrounded us, each uniform plot had the domicile and 20x40yd backyard, high cedar fences marked territory lines. To say the living quarters inside the house were tight would be an erroneous understatement. With a total of 4 bedrooms and 2.5 bathrooms to accommodate 16 people, it felt like being in the middle of bumper-to-bumper traffic in the morning. The cousins were all younger than Josh and myself; Hannah was the same age as the eldest cousin Corrie, but 6 of them were girls and the only boy, Matthew was a toddler. We played outside on the sun scorched earth, scrubby grasses and shrubs littered the lawn; most of our games and activities took place on the pavement. In the cool of the night we’d take walks around the neighborhood, watching the sunset and discussing various things. We always carried a reasonably sized switch or rocks with us as the neighborhood was prone to stray dogs, some of which were know to have bitten people. My Aunt had been pregnant with her 4^th child and was bitten on her stomach by a stray dog; she was not seriously hurt and 3 months later the baby was born, with no major complications or birth defects. After a week, tensions had run sufficiently high, but we were leaving, to being the last stretch of the first half of our journey; California was calling

It took almost a day to get to New Mexico, the sign welcoming us seemed lighten our spirits and even though the terrain remained an expansive flat land, glimpses of rust colored rocks beginning to rise in the distance lifted our spirits. New Mexico blended into Arizona, the heat got hotter, and the flat land just got flatter. The Grand Canyon was only 2 hours off our route, but somewhere between Austin and Albuquerque we manifested an agenda with a time frame, and a semi-specific time of arrival, and those two hours were far too precious to see a natural wonder. A sunset in Arizona may be one of the most awe-inspiring sights ever seen; the canvas of expansive desert sky mixed a pallet of pinks, golds, reds, and orange to create a masterpiece that unfolded in front of us. We were quiet as the sun set, admiring the vista introspectively. Josh had fallen asleep, and I could see the navy blue and black overtaking the shining golden rays of light slowly, darkness steeping deeper and deeper over us. The red taillights reflected off sheet metal signs we passed, I could see their shape, but what they said exactly was a mystery and I often wondered what their messages were.

As the last of the light was muffled by the oppressive darkness, I turned around in my seat to get a clearer picture of where we were, to see if I could read any of the signs that I was otherwise unable to read. In the center of a dark highway was a large white sign with red lettering, “California Welcomes You!” The greeting lifted my spirit, I felt revived as if the trials that lay behind us were no longer relevant, that even though we were still hours away from our destination, the path was now clear, the end in sight. I felt closely bonded to my family in those subsequent moments, feeling connected to them for completing our journey, safely, tolerating each other, collaborating, putting aside individual comforts to have a pleasant trip. The valley embraced us; we had finally arrived. 

Write on

When I read my 1st draft, I feel that I was able to utilize juxtaposition effectively. However I feel that it lacked "aboutness"; I found myself asking, what is this ABOUT? In future pieces I want to know, not just what I'm writing about, but also the point I'm trying to convey to the reader.

I want to keep developing my spacing and grouping techniques, because I feel like that aspect of the essay helps with the pace that the reader digests the information and how they interpret the story. As far as content is concerned, I want to explore things that are more far reaching and relavent to a larger audience than what I've been tinkering with. 

Juxtsuppose this isn't terrible

            The party last night was legendary.  Steve got cut with some glass from a black light, John tried to fight Eric, and Adonis got too drunk again, but not as bad as Ashley; she had to get her stomach pumped. I remember making out with Brittany, not thinking Katie would find out, but she did.

Practice has been nothing short of a battle every night. These guys jump so much higher, hit so much harder, and the pace at which they play is so much faster than anything I’ve ever seen; it takes all my energy to look like I know what I’m doing. I may be in over my head. I’ve missed 2 6am workouts now and coach is losing his patience, I’m on fairly thin ice to say the least.

My politics professor has no concept of how to concentrate on a topic, he is constantly deviating from the subject matter to insert an anecdote, or try to make a loose connection to a current event; in short, I’ve been teaching myself about colonial politics and the principles of a democratic republic. Other than that, my workload is fairly light, and I’m keeping up with my assignments.

…Keep working hard, nothing ever worth having or accomplishing comes easy. Never miss an opportunity to learn something from these bigger guys; I’m sure they can teach you a lot. Make sure you’re getting to bed at a reasonable time; you can’t burn the candle at both ends and expect to maintain such a demanding schedule.

College isn’t about someone teaching you something; it’s about you LEARNING something, taking the rhetoric your “educators” spill and YOU deciphering it, translating it into useful knowledge that you use to better yourself, the people around you and the world. You are so, so smart, I have no doubt that you’re going to be running circles around those academics.

In all the things you do, seek truth, revel in knowledge, and keep yourself rooted in your faith. You will find your path easy and your burdens light.

I love you Samuel

It feels like the dog days of summer, only a lot colder. We’ve had snow every day for the past two weeks, and the time seems to drag on and on in the dark with sun setting around 4:30. The dark is pervasive; even with the lights on it feels like the dark is seeping into my room, along with the bitter cold. The wind howls and when I walk to class, it rips through any layers I have on, as if they were made out of tissue paper. But then again, what did I expect going to school on top of a mountain?

I missed another 6am workout a few weeks ago, Coach sat me down and we talked about me not being on the team this season, taking a year off and being the manager. I know I can play at this level, but coach says it might be too much too fast. The rest of the team doesn’t want me there, I can feel their glares burning holes in the back of my head when I turn away. A few are encouraging and helpful, but mostly I’m ignored; segregated. There seems to be no room for a walk-on.

 My classes have picked up steam considerably, last week I had 2 exams, a presentation, and a speech to give, on top of our regularly scheduled readings and assignments. I feel confident in the work I’ve been doing, but I still feel anxious until I know my grade. Not to mention finals start next week, I have to admit my nerves are starting to get a bit worn, and I’m starting to get stressed easier.

I really miss home; Christmas can’t come soon enough.

Sweetheart,

We all miss you so much, Josh most of all I think, he seems like a completely different person when you’re not home; he’s quiet, doesn’t talk much and when he does, the conversation is short. We all miss your smile and your happiness. Make sure that your priority stays with your studies, a game will be over someday, and when that day comes, you’ll need that degree. The semester is almost over, stay strong, and finish strong.

Maybe taking a year off to get used to the environment will be good for you. You can concentrate more on school, and raise your level of play to be able to compete with the rest of the team. Just remember, no one ever said you had to like your teammates, and no one ever said they were going to like you. Find the ones who are positive, up lifting, and supportive, gravitate to them, ask them for help and LEARN what you can from their experiences. You are an incredible athlete, gifted with strength, speed, intelligence and passion for the game; use those attributes to keep a positive attitude and develop your game further. We all know you can.

We all love you so, so much. Keeping you in our prayers. I love you Sam

Xoxo Mommy   

  

This is an experience

this essay will be about family, aside from that, I'm still rendering the details. First Draft: in progress

A couple drops from a bRain Storm

An idea for a "patterning" segmented story could detail my pre-match match routine, how it helps me focus, the meaning behind some of the things I do, and how those circumstances helped shape me as a person. I feel that the structure of routines is important when we try to maintain a certain level of consistency when undertaking challenges. Using the structure of my pre-game routine can help shape the structure of the story.
An idea I had for a piece using juxtaposition, I write from the perspective of myself in college describing my activities, experiences, etc, and responding to it in the form of emails from my mother. We exchanged e-mails routinely, and even though I wouldn't always tell her EVERYTHING, she always had words of inspiration and advise that helped me through trying times. I could also incorporate some parallelism by using past/present voice between the corresponding segments.

For Kidder, CNF is directly related to the concept of "self". While truth is what drives CNF, plausibility is the key factor, is this something legitimate that someone will believe? Judith Ortiz Cofer's Silent Dancing describes not only what, typical daily life was like through her memories and experiences, but also what life was like, culturally for Puerto Ricans in the 1940s and 50s. The asides describing the family parties, depicting the gossip, and revealing shocking secrets about peripheral characters gave further depth into this portrait of an "Americanizing" puerto rican family. In this the writer's relationship is primary to the idea of "self". Lopate, in the affirmative of Kidder, states, "characters...will need to become knowable enough in their broad outlines to behave 'believably'...". Even if the character is fictional, the experiences, the story of that character has to be drawn from a source, most conveniently, the self. 
Lott's definition of CNF, "...it is writing about oneself in relation to the subject at hand." Finding a perspective from which to write is key. Lott also emphasized that CNF,  "cannot at anytime be self-serving." I believe this point to be especially difficult to understand and achieve in writing, simply because we naturally want to believe the best about ourselves, but even beyond that is the examination of our tics, traits, mannerisms; basically all the things that makes everyone an individual, and find a way to arrange and present it objectively.
I feel these concepts helped to further refine my definition of CNF, a voice needs to have an origin, the story has to be delivered in such a way to convince the reader of the truth in the piece. Every story has three sides, your side, my side and the truth. I only get to tell the reader my side of the story; if I've convinced the reader that my side is the truth, I would consider that a relatively well done job. 

A definition...of sorts

Creative non-fiction utilizes the past, taking memories, the non-fiction part, and conglomerating those experiences with details that dramatize the 'essentials' about the speaker, i.e what the reader will find interesting, amusing, etc. The key idea being to keep the reader believing, plausibility is essential to the life of creative non-fiction. 

I feel that creative non-fiction serves to show audiences that people are, at their ground level, similar in more ways than not. The details vary from story to story, experience to experience, however, the story, if its a good one, revolves around a problem that must be solved. Perhaps the narrator must overcome a character flaw to reveal a deeper, genuine asset, for example.

Creative non-fiction, I feel facilitates a natural bridge between fiction and non-fiction, where one is clearly defined, and the other can traverse imagination and surreality, creative non-fiction is an amalgamation, dancing on the precipice of plausibility. Creative non-fiction gives perspective and a voice to notable times in a life; its a play of the mind, a production of memories.         

We are what we choose to see

Grealy's Mirrorings traced her thoughts and her preconceived notions that she was "ugly". Her stories move semi-chronologically through her experiences, projecting a strong face despite being treated cruelly. She couldn't accept that the face she had, what she looked like, was truly her; attempting to change what the outside looked like, to harmonize with what she felt on the inside.

Her stories seem to show progression through her thought process about herself, starting with her chemotherapy process; her bravery associated with outward signs of strength. The emphasis on outward appearance grips Grealy until she forces herself to not even acknowledge her appearance. Signs that she may be "acceptable" lead her to view herself once again, however, Grealy still questions weather or not she'll be able to truly recognize herself.

Is recognizing oneself more important than being thought attractive by others?  

9/6/11

This is my first blogging experience...far out