Revised Short Essay

The First Confession

Walking into my church from the side entrance was new to me. As was seeing it in the shadows of the approaching night time haze. The chill in the air from the outside remained and lingered even as the last child was ushered in by the teachers, and the weighted metal door slammed shut behind her like that of a prison cell. I shivered, not quite sure if it was from the air or the darkness that held the church. The alter, that in the daytime looked powerful and commanding, now felt sinister. My eyes dared to dart to the crucifix that hung above the alter. In the flickering candle light I swore I could see cold empty eyes open, staring down at all of us little children, judging us from above. Why would they bring children here at night? I knew I would have to endure this terror for a while as my best friend and I went toward the back of the line, awaiting the task at hand.

As I stood in line I noticed the curtain, the heavy, blood red, velvet curtain draped over the confessional doorway. What exactly was behind that curtain anyway? The first child was to enter. He lifted the leaden entrance with his two little hands and it fell hard behind him as he was sucked in. We all watched, every kid in line watched, as the next and next entered and exited. Whispers ensued each time a little body emerged from the other side of the heavy curtain. We all searched for signs to see if that child looked any different from before he went in and the priest performed his magic. Were there halos above his head? Did he sprout wings? Or horns?

A rehearsal of confessions raced through my little mind. I must be prepared. What crimes could they possibly think a seven year old committed anyway, that they needed to be confessed to the Great and Powerful Oz behind the curtain? "I fight with my sister, I talked back to my parents, I told a lie..." Were these the kinds of sins that needed to be washed away from the world? Catch them while their young mentality?

The line lessened and I knew my turn was coming soon. I counted my lucky stars that at least I didn't end up like some of the other poor saps who had to do the face to face confessions. My friend and I  heard one of those kids actually peed his pants. I'll take my chances with Oz. Besides, when this is all over, I will make my Communion, and wear a pretty dress, and finally taste the wafer. I think this as my best friend prepared to go. Wide eyes full of terror, she turned and gave me one last look. I mouthed, "Good luck," and she disappeared behind the curtain. I wondered whom she would be when she came out. I watched the flickering candle dancing on the wall, creating shadows for what seemed an eternity. She finally emerged and escaped from the dark place behind the curtain. I willed her to make eye contact with me, to give me a sign, tell me something, but she didn't. She headed straight to the pew, head down, and prayed.

The nun who was there assisting our teachers, gave me a little push when she realized I was not moving, my feet had become frozen to the ground. Her stern look forced me to go. I lifted the lead curtain. It was dark. Pitch as night. My heart beat raced. Dark wood encompassed me. It was hard to breathe, the air was heavy and pushed on me from all sides. There was one small flickering candle on the wall; I don't think it was real. I thought about the empty,  judging eyes on the other side of the curtain, that came from above the alter. Somehow I found the courage to kneel down on the kneeler, knowing that when I did the wall divider would open and I would have to speak to the person on the other side. And it did. The face looked distorted from the screen divider, but I could recognize the priest from church. He shakes my hand each Sunday as we leave mass. "Yes my child." And I do it. I say my rehearsed speech that my CCD teacher prepared and I ramble off my list of "sins." I kneeled there waiting for a scolding, a lecture, but all he said was, "Say two Hail Marys and one Our Father. Go in peace."

The divider gently closed, I smirked, and rose, bowed my head, turned my smirk into a look of serenity and walked out from behind the massive curtain. Searching eyes were on my back, the kids waiting to go in. Suckers. I knelt down, said my prayers and sat with my friend. We nudged each other and giggled. Will it always be this easy?

RHETORICAL ANALYSIS OF PUBLICATION VENUES

SWEET

http://sweetlit.com/


The title, Sweet,  sounds as if it would appeal to a more female audience, however the topics and contributers are varied, reaching out to both male and female readers. The name is a play on "awesome." The founders of the journal want the readers to be left with something "sweet" when finished reading their issues. I spent time reading several of the issues and really enjoyed many of the pieces. I would start each issue by reading the Editor's Note, which often would allude to the issue's "theme." For instance, Issue 6.1, the latest issue, seemed to hold a theme of loss or impending loss. The Editor's Note also made mention in some back issues that a set of poetry evoked animal images, and Issue 5.1 dealt with topics of "the heart." I also noticed that in Issue 5.3 the essays infused childhood themes; crushes, getting into trouble with parents, etc. I therefore assume as the editorial staff decides on pieces for publication, they not only select pieces that they like, but ask,"Is this piece a good match for our theme in the next issue?"

All of the pieces I read had a reflective tone. They dealt with every day issues which most people can relate; such as death, relationships, family issues, and childhood mistakes. The topics are not political or journalistic in nature and while most have a serious nature to them, others are humorous, and others fall somewhere in between. I think the point is that in real life we have a gambit of emotions at our dispense. Sweet's primary types of creative nonfiction in which they publish are the personal narrative and graphic nonfiction form.  Bye Bye Brain (http://sweetlit.com/5.3/graphicNoble.php)  is one example of the graphic nonfiction form where the author uses drawings to tell her story, and in Manchester, (http://sweetlit.com/5.1/graphicBennett.php) the sixteen year old author uses photographs to tell her story.

The personal narrative forms are also experimental and varied. Some are written in traditional format, while many others are written in segments that show a flashback and change from past to present such as, Giving Birth (http://www.sweetlit.com/5.2/proseTryon.php). Others use segments to show different scenes to build their points/message. Some authors use pictures as inspiration for their narratives, allowing their stories to unfold around a single photo (http://www.sweetlit.com/5.3/proseBruno.php) or several photos. They even have one writer who creates micro-essays (http://sweetlit.com/3.3/proseKerlikowske.php), while other writers tell their stories through an organized use of subheadings (http://www.sweetlit.com/5.2/proseRooney.php). Needless to say, this venue allows and celebrates writers who submit pieces that are experimental in form. The majority of the pieces are shorter in nature (under 1,000 words), while only a few that I came across would be considered long essays. These pieces are also considered "literary" in that there are literary elements found throughout each such as; a play with irony, repetition of words or symbolic objects, important metaphors that create deeper meaning, etc.

All in all, Sweet, is a good venue for emerging writers, as they do publish those starting out.  If you are writing personal narratives in traditional form or in any experimental forms that are self reflective in nature and touch upon real life- every day struggles, this journal may be a good fit for you.

WHAT IF I WANT TO TRY TO PUBLISH WITH SWEET?

Sweet is a venue that only publishes creative nonfiction and poetry. They do not take fiction submissions. The ratio of poetry to nonfiction work is about fifty-fifty. They also pride themselves on taking submissions for anything that falls in between the two genres. They have many graphic nonfiction submissions published as well. They also have a section for fan mail. Many of these submissions read like creative nonfiction. The editorial staff reads submissions all year long, but publish emerging and established writers three times a year, September, January, and May. Simultaneous submissions are accepted. If you do decide to submit to Sweet they prefer you to submit two-three short pieces or one long. Submissions should not exceed 1,500 words total. To submit, one needs to go through their online submission page and include a brief cover letter and a bio.

On a side note, Katherine Riegel, one of the co-founders, offers editorial services (for a fee). The information is on the site.

Short Essay Draft #2

 I remember standing in line, the blood red velvet curtain draped over the confessional like in a gothic Vincent Price horror film. What is behind that curtain anyway? A rehearsal of confessions raced through my little mind. I must be prepared. What crimes could they possible think a seven year old committed anyway that needed to be confessed to the Great and Powerful Oz behind the curtain? "I fight with my sister, I talked back to my parents, I told a lie..." Were these the kinds of sins that needed to be washed away from the world? Catch them while their young mentality? Whispers ensued each time a little body emerged from the other side of the heavy curtain. We searched for signs to see if that child looked any different from before he went in and the priest performed his magic. Were there halos above his head? Did he sprout wings? Or horns?

The line lessened and I knew my turn was coming soon. I counted my lucky stars that at least I didn't end up like some of the other poor saps who had to do the face to face confessions. We heard one of those kids actually peed his pants. I'll take my chances with Oz. Besides, when this is all over I make my Communion and wear a pretty dress and finally taste the wafer. I think this as my best friend gets ready to go. Wide eyes full of terror, she turns and gives me one last look. I mouth, "good luck," and she disappears. A few minutes later she escapes. I want her to make eye contact with me so badly, give me a sign, tell me something, but she doesn't. She heads straight to the pew, head down, and prays.

The nun gives me a little push when she realizes I"m not moving. I lift the lead curtain. It is dark. Pitch as night. My heart beat races. It really does feel like a Vincent Price movie. I listen for a raven or a heart beat from under the floor boards. Dark wood encompasses me. I feel claustrophobic. There is one small flickering candle on the wall, I don't think it is real. I somehow find the courage to kneel down on the on kneeler knowing that when I do someone will open the wall divider and I will have to speak to the person on the other side. And it does. The face looks distorted from the divider, but I can recognize the priest from church. "Yes my child." And I do it. I say my rehearsed speech that my CCD teacher prepared and I ramble off my list of "sins." I kneeled there waiting for a scolding, a lecture, but all he said was, "Say two Hail Marys and one Our Father. Go in peace."

The divider gently closes, I smirk, and rise, bow my head, turn my smirk into a look of serenity and walk out from behind the massive curtain. Searching eyes are on my back, the kids waiting to go in, suckers. I kneel down, say my prayers and go sit with my friend. We nudge each other and giggle. Will it always be this easy?

Ideas for Short Draft 2

I have a few ideas rattling around in my head for this one. I guess I feel inspired by the texts we read for class. I enjoyed the short snippet from "The Thread" last week and thought about my own difficulty finding faith and often pretending that I am a "spiritual" person when I am really just confused about these things. I grew up Roman Catholic, and know that I do not follow that practice, but I wish so deeply I was able to whole-heartedly say, I believe in something. I am in awe of people who feel it and know it. Then I was thinking along the lines of writing about strange moments that tested me, and have made me believe in something if only for a moment. I had an odd and wonderful encounter with dragonflies after my mom died that gave me something if only fleeting. Maybe there is a way for me to combine the two conflicting thoughts. But, I have to be concise! I know every word counts and this is the short piece.

The second idea I have is around teaching. When I read "Teacher Training" and "Composing 'Teacher Training'" I feel like I have to write something about being a teacher. It is such a huge part of my life. I only have to narrow down to "the what" I want to share. I was thinking of trying maybe to emulate "Soundtrack" only using literature that inspired me throughout my life. This would show my path to wanting to become a literature teacher. Perhaps, I would highlight a moment in high school when I had a deep connection with my English teacher about literature. He gave me such confidence and encouragement. One other approach could be to remember certain students that I taught throughout the years, good and bad, and what they gave/taught me, as a person and teacher.

Lots of thoughts. I suppose I will reflect some more and think about our lessons in class and which will come through the strongest.

Draft Short Essay #1

Day Ten: Lake Powell, Utah. At this point in the trip I experience beauty like none I have ever seen. Great sand dunes, mysterious ladies royal and elegant, wedged between massive snow capped mountains; a contrast created by their masculine splendor. Canyons so rich in color that they seem to  reflect the sunset and the entire world is cascaded in shades of golds and reds that I never knew existed. To say I wasn't affected would be a lie, but nothing prepared me for the enormity of Lake Powell.

Our boring blue Jersey license plates stand out next to the other cars as we pull in, Arizona, Utah, Colorado; just a handful join ours. It's just as beautiful here as the other spots we've visited. I wonder how we'll spend our day.

"Get your suit on. We're going swimming."

Thank God. It is a scorcher today. I haven't done much lake swimming in my life, being a shore girl, but I do like it. I only wish I brought my water shoes, because I know how mucky the bottoms can be.
The short walk to the lake's edge is full of intense heat, strange desert insects, and a deep want of being immersed into cool water. We reach the edge. I simply jump in.

There is no bottom.

I surface and hear laughter. Familiar faces full of laughter. They knew and didn't tell me.

"How deep is this lake?"
"Over 3,000 feet at its deepest. They flooded the canyon to dam it."

I take a deep breath. Go back under. Eyes wide opened, and look. I am totally amazed. My eyes see the same brilliant autumn colors under water that have captured me this entire trip. I can see clear across the canyon. I look down, it is an abyss. My heart races. Breath quickens. I swim a little deeper, a little further. Just a little.  My legs dangle helplessly below the surface. They look on in awe at my daring nature.  My heart beats quicken even more. It is cool and I shiver.

We camp there. Eat next to the lake. Water laps the edge of the canyon as if it is alive in its movement, and talk into the night before settling into our tents.

Two a.m., I am awakened by the primal sound of baying coyotes not far off in the distance.  I slowly unzip the tent and sit out for a few minutes staring up at the pale moon and the desert stars. It is cool and I shiver.  I fall back asleep peacefully, grateful for the day and the lake.

Revised Long Essay

The Box?????

Boxes. They hold a mystery or element of surprise. They come in all shapes and sizes. Some play music upon opening them. Others amuse children when toys jump out. Presents of all sorts are wrapped up in them for presentation, creating anticipation and happiness. They even cause women to swoon when that tiny box is given to them by the man of their dreams. Who would have thought a box could cause so much emotion? In my family there is a box, a strange and wonderful box. It has been the source of stories, connection, and love since the day it entered our house.

I remember the first time I ever saw the box. I may have been four or five years old. My father sauntered into the house just before dinner with a giant bag in his hand and looked very pleased with himself. "Watcha got dad?" We all wanted to know. He sat down on the living room sofa and pulled the box from the bag as our eyes widened in curiosity. "Dingo" was written on it in giant letters that spread across the top making it look like a billboard. "Isn't a dingo a wild animal?" my eldest brother asked. This only heightened my curiosity even more as I peeked at my father as he laughed and began to pull boots from the box, one hideously ugly, red boot after the other. "Now we know why they are called dingo, those ugly things are made out of the poor creature!" We laughed at this joke and at the absurdity of not only my father's terrible taste in shoes, but this brand name "Dingo." I knew that the boots would eventually run their course and be replaced with an even worse pair, but what I didn't know was that the box that housed them, would remain a part of my family forever.

"Keep that box, I can use it," my mom told my dad that night as he went to throw out the trash. I guess the size and shape made it seem useful and she felt the need to find a purpose for it. Its purpose was soon discovered, for it was the perfect vessel to house family memories and keepsakes: Mother's Day cards, letters, especially later on from my brother Martin when he moved to Alaska, but mostly pictures; old and new. I'm not sure where my mom kept any of these things before the box entered our lives and I really don't remember spending time with them. However, now that we had the "Dingo" box it gave them a place and home, and it gave us a way to be together.

"Mommy has the box on her bed," one of us would tell the other. Three tiny sets of feet would tip toe into the room. We watched as she added some new letters from Martin to it. He left for Alaska recently, and his letters were just as magical to my six year old self as they were dear to my mother. Smiles all around from mom as my brother, sister and I cuddled up on the bed with her. Our little fingers dared to dig through the layers of photos, not fully understanding the gravity of life and time as we touched the same pictures our relatives did years before. Shades of colors mixed with black and white creating a kaleidoscope of memories. Old and new intertwined as we searched for our favorite family stories. Questions flooded my mother: Who are these people? Who took the picture? What was happening this day? Where are they now? She would answer every question with a sigh or a giggle. I always went back to the same photos, one in particular. "Tell me about this one Mommy." The photo of my mom and her two brothers captured my attention every time we rummaged through the box.

"This one is of me, Uncle Bob, and Uncle Sonny. We are getting ready to go to church on Easter. I loved my little outfits that Nanny used to dress me in. I always felt so grown up. We were very little."  She would recount all that she could remember about that Easter Day and I would listen, mesmerized as if I was hearing the story for the first time. It was amazing to me that the little girl in the photo was my mom. Her face was so much the same as the woman sitting next to me telling me stories of my family.

The best part of the night was when the sound of the baseball game on the TV would go silent and we knew Dad was coming to join us on the bed. Slithering in the room like a snake he would sneak onto the bed and go for the same shot all the time, "Who's this good looking guy?" Holding up his high school picture. Eye rolls from every face! The box gave Dad permission to do what he loved most, tell stories. He would grab a photo and ready, aim, fire. He would hold up an exotic and foreign picture of my grandparents living in Spain and that was all it took. "Awella and Papu (as we called them) came over here on a giant ship. Awella was pregnant with your Uncle Pac at the time..." and the story would continue and go straight into another. "This here is Murphy in this picture with me. We were stationed together in Texas before I was shipped off to Korea. You see Murphy was a hot head who liked his drink. One night we went to a roadhouse to have a few drinks and hang out and there was this guy up on stage playing the guitar and singing. Well, Murphy didn't like him too much and yelled some nasty things to him. This caused the guy to yell back at Murphy and they almost ended up getting into a fist fight. That guy was so mad, he was ready to take all of us on. Well, a few months later do you know we see that same same singer on TV? And would you believe it was Elvis Presley?" Dad was full of stories like this. We stayed up for hours listening, these were the best bed time stories a kid could get. We didn't need books, all we needed was our parents and a box full of family pictures.

As a teenager the box continued to be important to my family's life. New pictures were added and new stories created around them. With Scott now living in Alaska too, the viewing parties became less often, but more special, especially when the boys came home to visit. The venue for viewing changed from mom and dad's bed to the kitchen table or all of us sprawled out on the living room floor with the box in the middle. We still loved looking at those old photos and hearing our favorite stories, but there became some playfulness and needling between siblings surrounding certain pictures. "Holy crap Martin. Who dressed you for the prom? A white tux? How did you have such a hot date? And look at those shoes. Were you a member of Kiss?"

I remember torturing my brother Scott about one picture in particular. I grabbed the picture from the box and cracked up, thus the torment began. "Scott, your hair is awesome in this picture. How did you get it like this?" We all started to laugh because we knew the photo so well. "Daddy looks like he is your best friend here." A wicked smile spread across my dad's face, remembering how he wanted to kill Scott on this day for making us late, because he couldn't get his hair right. We passed the picture around. My brother's high pitched infectious laugh filled the room. "Look at it!" He said about the uncontrollable mop that lay on his head. The picture showing an obvious contrast; him standing next to my sister and myself in our matching blue Easter suits, so tailored. His teenage rebellion so pronounced. A laugh erupts from my father as he stares even harder at his own face in the photo, such displeasure at his son. The picture tells so much about the dynamics of our family during that time period. We continued on in this fashion into the late hours of the night. More memories being made.

Stories, laughter, connections to one another; this has been the box's purpose thus far on our journey, but for my mother, the founder of the box, it became more purposeful when she was diagnosed with cancer. The box made its way back to the bed, but a different bed. I laid with her, an adult now, but feeling so much like a child, my head on her lap and the box off to the side, and watched as she methodically pulled out certain pictures. Her face showed that of a student studying for an exam, spending time with each photo. Silence. No speaking.  Quiet tears trickled from each of our eyes, for we knew that this was a rite of passage for her. Small sighs or giggles would erupt from her mouth bringing me back to an earlier time in life. Remembering that picture of the young girl with her two brothers; an Easter morning. This moment with the "Dingo" box was more precious to me than any other that I shared with her.

Shortly after my mom passed away, my dad started to purge the house of everything he felt he didn't need to survive on a daily basis. He began to pass items on to us kids, my mom's clothes, jewelry, books. Then one day, as I was getting ready to leave, he came out of his bedroom with the Dingo box.

"No way," I told him. 
"You take it. It should be with you. You should take care of it. I don't take pictures any more, and have nothing to fill it up with. You're the one who takes pictures. If I want to see them, I'll look at them when I come over your house." So I reluctantly brought it home. I couldn't help thinking about the kinds of pictures I would add to it. My mom wouldn't be in any of them. The box made me sad.

Before storing it away to its new home in my closet, I sat down on my own bed, in my room, by myself and searched through it wishing I could go back to those Saturday nights of family stories and searching through it together. I spent time with the box on my own, and I rediscovered so many happy moments from my lifetime and from those lifetimes before me: colorful Christmas mornings, vacations in the Poconos with a red row boat, my parent's wedding day, our family trip to Alaska to visit Martin when my mom's cancer was in remission. I sighed deeply and felt that my time with the box had changed, the memories felt heavy. I no longer had the care free,  jovial feel I normally had when interacting with the box or the pictures it held. I felt alone. Afterwards, I placed it in my closet where it looked uncomfortable and homesick amongst my things. It sat there for a long time. I never added any pictures to it. Of course I took pictures during events throughout my life: dinners with my girlfriends, trips with my husband, my dogs frolicking in the yard. But none of them felt like the right kinds of pictures for the box. These memories were different and I held them in other places.

 Then one Christmas, my husband handed me a new box. I slowly unwrapped the colorful wrapping paper and found myself the proud owner of a digital camera. It was one of the coolest things I ever saw. The world of taking, editing, printing, and storing pictures was about to change. No more boxes for me, now my photos would be saved on my computer. I loved being able to make folders and play around with the editing tools, but when I thought back to the "Dingo" box in my closet, probably a little dusty at that moment, I knew it was truly a family relic. It held my past, my family's past. Since my mom died, the life and magic of the box seemed to fade away.


 Armed with my new digital camera, I found the need to pack away my old one. I pulled the old, blue camera bag from its little corner in the closet, unzipped it and placed the bulky camera into it. Before placing it back into its spot on the shelf, I noticed a bulge from a little compartment in the back of the bag and upon investigation I came across some old undeveloped film. I tried to think about the last time I used the bag or the camera. What could possibly be on this film? I couldn't come up with anything. Shrugging my shoulders, I decided to drop off the film at a local CVS to be developed. I received a call from the store about a week later telling me that my film was ready to pick up.

When I got home with the film I sat down to look through the shots. There were three rolls. I was curious, but not terribly excited. Frankly, I didn't think anything was going to come out. I had no idea how long the film was there and it was probably ruined. I started with the first set and was pleasantly surprised to see some photos from the summer a few years past. As I continue flipping, something clicked. My mom was alive this summer, we took her to the beach, it was the day when the waves wiped us all out and we laughed so hard. Could there be photos? I can't remember if I took any that day. I became anxious. Do I have new pictures of my mommy after all this time? I went through the second set with a purpose, the pictures flying through my fingers, dropping to the floor.  Nothing. Then the third.  Finally! There she was. It was that day. One of the best days we had before she died. The whole roll is of the family, laughing at the beach. My mom looked so happy. It was a great day. I can't describe the feeling of having pictures of my mom in my hand. New pictures of her, like she was still here. Still alive. It was as if this day at the beach just happened.

I shared the pictures with the family. We talked about that day at the beach and what fun we had. How my dad warned us kids not to let go of my mom's hand in the water. He was so protective of her. She wanted to go out further into the deeper water, she was fearless. She had the three of us surrounding her like a fortress. The water wasn't particularly rough that day, so we thought we would indulge her and go out at bit farther. What was the worst thing that could happen? As we ventured out more and more, the fortress was penetrated and somehow, we got knocked over.  It seemed to be one wicked little wave that did the trick. The whole time under water I kept thinking, I hope one of them held onto Mommy. I remember coming up for air in a panic. All I could do was look around for my mom. Was she hurt? What if her back fractured again? I saw my brother and sister, they seemed to be in the same panic as I, neither of them had her.  My dad, ran to the water's edge. He looked like he wanted to kill all three of us. And then there she was, coming up from the water herself, cracking up. When we reached her, she simply and unexpectedly said, "Let's do that again!" Fearless.

Sharing and revisiting these memories with my family around these particular photos was priceless.  I decided to copy a few of these beach shots to be put into frames around the house. However, the originals had a home to go to. These were the right kinds of memories for the box. I pulled the Dingo box from its shelf in my closet, dusted it off and added in this last batch of pictures to the many others that seemed to look up at me before replacing the lid. This simple act seemed to add just a little more life and magic back into the place of my family's memories.

Ideas for Short Essay

I was having some trouble coming up with ideas for this short piece. It is sometimes a little harder to write less. You have to be much more concise and direct. I actually used my second draft to help me come up with ideas for this one by pulling out the Dingo box and some old photo albums. Looking through these jogged my memory about moments that were important to me. I discovered two trips that stood out the most that had profoundly affected me. One was my trip to France with my husband, who was my boyfriend at the time, and the other was a cross country trip I took with my brother and sister when I was twenty years old.

There were specific moments during each trip that I was moved beyond belief. In France we visited Monet's home. He was always an inspiration to me, and to be there, to stand on the water lily bridge was amazing. In addition, during my trip out west we camped out one night at Lake Powell in Utah. The entire moment there was surreal to me; from swimming in the man made canyon lake to hearing coyotes baying at three in the morning. I felt completely vulnerable, but in such a good way. This moment truly was a deep connection I felt with nature.

I think exploring either of these two moments in my life can make for a good short essay. I will do my best!