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!

Draft Long Essay #2

The first time I remember seeing the box I was very little. "Dingo" was written across it in big red letters like a billboard. It housed the ugliest pair of boots I ever saw. "Isn't dingo a wild animal? Maybe that's what they're made out of." This was the big joke told at my dad's expense as he pulled, one by one, the hideous boots from the box. We all laughed at the absurdity of not only my father's terrible taste in shoes, but this brand name "Dingo."Where did he find such shoes?

He wore his shiny, ornate boots proudly, but it was the box that became the shining star of the family.  I guess my mom kept it because of its size and shape. It was the perfect vessel to store the family keepsakes: Mother's Day cards, letters from my older brother when he fist moved to Alaska at eighteen years old, but mainly photos; old and new. My brother, sister and I loved the box, it was like a treasure trove. Everything inside of it held a story, and as kids we waited in anticipation for the evenings when, after dinner, it would make an appearance on my mom and dad's bed. Three small bodies would tip toe into the room, join mom, and cuddle up on the bed to search through our family memories, reliving precious, funny, and exciting moments. Mom would tell us about the black and white photos and who the people were and about the great moments they spent together long before any of us were even a thought. My favorite pictures were the ones of her and her two brothers when they were little. It was so surreal seeing my mom as a little girl.  Her face was so much the same, yet the innocence and sweetness  about her would fill my heart. I also loved seeing the pictures of my dad's parents living in Spain before moving to America. These photos were exotic and foreign. It was hard to believe that I had any connection to the people in them. Sometimes my dad would steal away from his baseball games on the TV and join us. He would pull out pictures from his high school days or of himself as a soldier during the Korean War. These pictures would spark stories that kept us listening for hours. My dad had a way( and still does) of commanding a room when telling a story and we were simply enthralled, holding onto every word. For us kids, there was no better way to spend a Saturday night. Five bodies crowded onto the bed encircling the Dingo box. The best kind of night time stories a kid could can get!

The Dingo box remained a part of our lives. As we grew up and continued to take photos they made their way into the box. Graduations, proms, and surprise parties. New members of the family lived in there too. My baby nephew and mine and my sister's boyfriends who shared much time with my parents had many photo-ops. We would visit the box again and again, maybe not crowded on my parent's bed any more, but at the kitchen table after Thanksgiving dinner or the living room floor when one of my brothers came home for a visit. There were certain pictures that we always had to visit, like my mom pregnant with me showing off her gigantic belly or my brother looking absolutely miserable on a particular Easter because his cool teenage hair did not turn out right. We often found ourselves up for hours laughing and talking about the memories found inside the box.

Many years later, when 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. Somehow, I guess because I lived closest to him, only twenty minutes away, while my siblings were dispersed throughout the country, I received the brunt of it. Many of the precious items we all discussed and shared equally. However, it came to a point that every time I went to the house, I walked out with some sort of trinket or kitchen gadget... something, much that I didn't need or want. 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. But he insisted. He told me that it should be with me. I should take care of it. He wasn't taking pictures any more and had nothing to fill it up with. If he wanted to see the pictures he would look at them when he came over to my house. So I 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, I sat down on my 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, that was what made it special to me. As I continued to spend time with the box on my own, I discovered 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 heavily and felt that my time with the box has changed, the memories felt heavy. I no longer had the care free jovial feel I normally had. I felt alone. Afterwards, I placed it in my closet where it looked uncomfortable and homesick amongst my things.

As time went on, the Dingo box sat on a shelf in my closet. 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. The hardest decision came when I decided to give away some of the Dingo photos. It didn't feel right for me to be the only one in the family holding them. My siblings shared in the memories too. It was hard to take the photos from their home, but it was the right thing to do. After some time, the box was no longer busting at the seams the way it always did.

One Christmas, my husband bought me 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 needed to find a spot in the closet to store my old ones. While cleaning out my old camera bag, 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. I dropped the film off at a local CVS to be developed and forgot about it. I received a call from the store about a week later 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 everyone, making them all copies. 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 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 is 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 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 and enlarged  a few of theses 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, dusted it off and added in this last batch of pictures. This simple act added just a little more life and magic back into the place of my family's memories.

Draft #2 Ideas

I want to create my draft around the idea of family and the ever changing flow and consistency to it as time moves forward. There are things that always remain and stay forever in a family, for example I feel being the youngest I am viewed a certain way no matter how respected by my siblings I am or how old I  become. On the other hand there is this change that inevitably occurs in a family as life progresses. I would like to try to capture this through several "scenes" or memories that I hold dear.

At first I thought I just wanted to write a piece about how the importance and closeness of family has impacted who I am; how my mom's attempts over the years to keep us all connected has played a role in my life. However, as I thought more about the reality of my family and the changes that have happened since my mom has passed away, I know there is so much more to this piece than that. There are layers of love, connection, and disfunction. And they have always been there.

Thinking back to the last two readings that we engaged with, The Patch and Silent Dancing, and after my conference with Dr. Chandler, I began thinking about not only structuring/organizational techniques for my writing piece, but also more metaphorical or symbolical techniques that can come to play in my writing. Both of last weeks authors did a beautiful job.  McPhee's use of the water's surface as a metaphor for life and the depth of relationships and how well we know a person truly showed his struggles with his dad in a clever way. He chose something that was dear to their relationship; fishing. Cofer's piece used the silent home movie to capture the rawness and truth behind her family. The movie captured truth and allowed her to question her family and culture. It allowed her to see the people in her family for what they truly were and made her wonder more about them.

In my piece I am toying with the thought of using a "pulse" as a metaphor for life and the "beat" of the memories to which I will share. The pulse is strong when the family is together and functioning in tact, but we see it weaken as certain changes occur: a son grows and becomes distant, a mother's death, etc... But it strengthens at other moments. The moments for my family that I will share also seem to occur outside, mainly summer time; when there is a "pulse" to nature that coincides with the family.

I'm still kind of hashing this out and might change things up. I do feel like I have to be careful about being literal in my writing techniques and be sure to describe well, so that my message comes through without being cliche'.

Revision Ideas for Long Essay #1

It was so helpful to be able to work with classmates and give and receive feedback about our writing pieces. Reading other's writing and seeing their writing moves is always a great way to get ideas about one's own work. I spent time reading the pieces by my other classmates and found every one's stories inspirational and found their ways of expressing these tales wonderful. I also really enjoyed my time in class dialoguing with Alessia and Danielle. The feedback I received from them during our conference was positive and helpful. I plan on taking a deeper look at my piece and exploring some of the suggestions made.

 The biggest area that my classmates felt I needed to revise was clarification on some of my transitions. To be more specific, there are a few areas in the piece where I am not clear between my segments and the transitions become fuzzy. I need to go back and be sure to clean up those areas. I need to look through certain scenes and add in explanation. Perhaps I can also look back at the "funeral" scenes and add in more descriptive detail.

My biggest area of concern is my ending. I feel it reads rushed and obvious. Firstly, I feel that there needs to be more information/scenes about what happens to me after the funeral, after he is gone. Yes, he was buried, but my feelings of detriment continued. I had an even harder time in the first year after he passed away with my guilt and beating myself up than I did when he first died. It took a long time for my realization to come. That realization that he most definitely was not worthy of the pedestal I had created for him, and that he did damage to me, took time. I had to heal and really reflect back on what our relationship was. I feel that the ending I have now is too quick and blurts out what my discovery was. I do not want to be obvious. I keep thinking of Dr. Chandler's question about the conceptual thread that holds this piece together and what the big idea is that I am truly contemplating. The truth is it is not only what I discover about him, but what I learn about myself. If I want this to be a successful piece I need to get to work on this ending!

Hopefully I will draw some inspiration from the readings we have been discussing in class and from Dr. Chandler's wisdom during our conference.

Long Essay Draft #1

The Pedestal ????

It's a generic funeral home filled with the over agonizingly sweet smell of lilies, dark paneled walls and some hideously patterned carpet. Soft strange music plays in the background. What was I expecting? The full parking lot reflects the number of people inside. I see bodies standing around, but can not recognize anyone at the moment. Focusing is an issue. I'm sure I know most everyone here. I charge in. How I am able to stay on my legs, I don't know, but charge is what they do-straight to his dad, who stands at the front of the room next to the coffin, which I am not ready to look at or be near. Tears-literally in streams- keep me from being able to see straight, which for the time being, is a blessing. I reach him and he holds me close. We both gasp.

 I ask, "Do you think he forgives me?"

 His response, " I don't know." 

I look at the clock, it's 3:00 am-again! I am awakened by a noise that has become very familiar to me over the past few months. That god-damn motorcycle is outside my house! What now? What does he want now? Why can't he just move on? If I brush back the curtains he will surely see me, so I sit tight and wait for that fucking engine to die down and watch for break lights moving down the street. All the while I hold the blanket corners so tight praying that he doesn't wake up my father. What will it be this time I wonder? What token of his affection or loathing will be left for me? The windshield of my car becomes a twisted mailbox for letters and photographs, flowers, and such. A rose means he loves me and is missing me. As of late though it has been torn up photos usually with the word "Bitch" written on the back. He's been angry. How can one person be so conflicted towards another? Love and Hate-so far on the spectrum of emotions, encompassing this one person. The anticipation is all I can take. Whatever is there, I can only hope to get to it before my parents see it in the morning. They are secretly having a difficult time with all of this. Especially my mom who always tried to help him out and encourage him. She saw something others did not, like I did. It's why I held on and forgave for almost five years. Not realizing the damage I was doing to myself.  Finally, the roar of the engine fades away. He's gone. Before I drift off back to sleep, I take the phone off the hook. I have a hunch that tonight's visit might be followed up with a phone call.


I stand over the coffin looking down at his cold lifeless body. The guilt inside me is palpable. Was he on his way to my house that night? He wanted to hang out, but I would not. It had been over for me for a long time. Things have gotten so out of hand. Go out with your friends I told him. Go find some nice girls. Date. Our argument on the phone hours before wasn't any worse than the five hundred others we've had over the past seven months since the break up. And it certainly wasn't the worst of them.


How did he get my car keys from out of the ignition and place himself into the driver's seat? Why am I now crouched on the passenger side floor? I was driving! I couldn't get any smaller or crawl under the dashboard any more.  Body won't stop shaking-never felt this scared-he couldn't really hurt me-could he? My parents are going to be so worried. It's after 2:00 am. They didn't even know I was going out with him. Why did I agree? He seemed so happy when he came over. Wanted to celebrate, a new job. It felt harmless. Maybe we could mend a little. I set all the ground rules before we walked out the door and he agreed to everything. Let's go to a motel he suggested. Was he out of his mind? I wasn't going to a motel with him. Apparently he did not like my answer. How long have I been here? Crouched on the floor of my car listening to him rant about how horrible a person I am. I caused him so much damage and heartache.  He won't let me up. He won't let me go. Was that a rip? He tore my jacket in two. It is hanging in two pieces off my back. I know he gave it to me, why is he telling me this? I don't deserve nice things from him. I understand now why I am jacketless.  I have to get out of here. My breathing is so heavy. Is this what a panic attack feels like? Friends! Friends! How could I have thought we could be friends? He means to hurt me. He wants me to feel pain like he feels. Wait, where is he going? Is this my chance? Where are those damn keys?  He's outside my door, on my side, trying to drag me out. He slams my arm in the door. Pain shoots up my arm. I am standing up somehow, my legs don't fail me. A slap  to the face like I never delivered in my life and the keys are on the ground. Grab-run-lock-drive! I'm safe! I will be ok. The rear view mirror! I check it constantly until I make it to my driveway. Making sure he didn't cling to the trunk. I open the door so quietly, I don't want to wake them. I've never been home this late in my life. It's just after 3:00 am. It doesn't matter, there they sit. They take one look at me, my eyes, my arm, the jacket, and they know. My father picks up the phone. It's his turn to make an inappropriately late night call. All I here him say is, "Do we understand each other? Good."


Another hour goes by. I sit at the back of the funeral home as far away from the coffin as possible, I am surrounded by friends, by people who comfort me. There are whispers around the place of the tragedy, the poor family they've been through so much, the horror of it all. The whole time I can't stop thinking about my role. How I hurt him, the guilt, the guilt. It's my fault the family is suffering. He was overcome with sadness. I broke up with him and stuck with it. I was selfish.  I started seeing someone new right away. Meeting this person helped give me the courage to go forth with the break up that I had been putting off for so long. Of course he was hurt. Wounded. He crashed on that piece of shit motorcycle while I was driving around with my girlfriend showing her where my new guy lived, boasting about how happy I was, and how different it is with this new guy. I was so happy that night, the night he crashed blocks from my house.

This can't really be happening again.  He just got home from two months rehabilitating and this is the first big thing he decides to share? Another girl? I felt it in my gut, but still can't believe it. Why am I not good enough for him? Why does he keep doing this to me? They told him to make amends. This was step number blah blah. Do they also tell him about selfishness. Does everything have to come out? Who was he trying to make feel better? It certainly wasn't me. Aren't making amends about apologizing? It's not about clearing your own conscience, so you feel better. He is so selfish.  Perhaps a dictionary is in order or a conversation with his sponsor. I've had enough, I'm crushed. And things have been going so well lately. He's clean, going to meetings, has a sponsor, and a new job. He's crying and pleading, telling me what a horrible person he is and that he doesn't deserve me. He is weak he says. But I'm the weak one. Will I forgive again? One last time? What will happen if I don't? Will he use again? I can't live with that. The guilt would be tremendous.

I step outside. It is warm and sunny. The perfect September day. I am surrounded by friends and family. It almost feels like a party until I look back at the men in dark glasses manning the door. They are a constant reminder as to why we are all gathered here. I am approached by a face I know, but can't think who she is yet. It's until she starts speaking that I remember. Just another one of the girls who "loved" him. There was a pack of them when he worked at "The Pub." This one I actually had an altercation with. She even tried to get me fired from my job. Do I really want to speak to her? What would he want me to do? I must forgive. If I forgive her, then it's like I have forgiven him and I can feel better. I grab this girl and hug her. She looks dismayed, but hugs back. It was the right thing to do. He would want that.

"I'm working," I tell him. It's so busy. "Stop calling or you'll get me in trouble." He won't let up. Finally, I just say it, "It's over. I don't want this any more. Let's see other people." There is silence. I am too much of a coward to say the truth. What I want to say: "I spoke to your mom the other night and she told me that you stole your grandmother's car and went to buy drugs again. I can't do this any more. You are sucking the joy from my life. I met someone who makes me happy about who I am." I hang up the phone feeling a sense of relief, but knowing this is nowhere near over.

We have to say goodbye. I'm not going to see him ever again after this moment.  I walk up alone because I don't quite fit as friend or family. I fall on the cold, dead body. I seem to lose myself not really caring who is there watching. I hear some gasps and a few people say my name. I say, "I'm sorry," over and over, thinking maybe his eyes will open and he'll rub my hair telling me it's ok one last time before they close the lid and he's gone forever. I feel my mom's arms around me. She takes me away. "It's ok," she says. But it's not. It's my fault he's dead and I don't know how I'm going to live with this. He was amazing and I hurt him so badly.

I run into his mom a few years later at the mall. We keep in touch regularly, but something happens this time we speak to each other. Something inside of me changes. There is a shift if you will.  As she talks about him today, I  realize that I don't recognize the person she is describing.  Who is she talking about? I wonder. This person is not Paul. I understand in that moment that she has created the son that she has needed him to be for her. And I ask myself, "Haven't I been doing the same thing?" How can I have turned him into someone he never really was for all these years?

Paul was funny, good-looking, charming, and at times tender. But he was also very wounded, controlling, lost, sad, and mean. Guilt and grief took over me and my life when my phone rang at a strange early morning hour  on September 3, 1993. It changed who I was and blinded me to the truth about who Paul was. Only right now seeing another person also blinded by grief, could I make sense of it. He chose to get on his motorcycle, drunk, at a very late hour and drive it, maybe on his way to my house and maybe not. Does it really matter?

In that moment, listening to her, I made a decision that changed me forever, I decided to knock him off of the pedestal that I created for him and kept him on. The guilt that I felt washed away. I decided to forgive him and... forgive myself.

Blog #3 Invention Writing for Long Essay

I have been thinking about a few possibilities for my long essay. It has been a bit difficult. When we first started class I felt like I had so many ideas running through my mind, but as we continue to define and read more about CNF, I have narrowed down my thoughts and ideas. My biggest challenge is about connecting to the readers. I want to write about something in my life to which others can connect. It is the idea that we discussed, of writing with a purpose in mind, that I think about the most. As I hit a milestone birthday this weekend, I can't help but think about moments in my life, good and bad, that have shaped me. What lessons did I learn and what can I pass on to others? Can I look at these moments from different perspectives or am I blinded by my emotions to see everything one way? One point that Lott made in his piece that really resonated with me was when he spoke about E.B. White and the idea of writing about simplistic moments in our lives, the every day.

The one idea that I was thinking about, and that emerged was writing about when I was nineteen and my boyfriend died. I was afraid to go here because I felt vulnerable and didn't know if I wanted to explore this topic. Then I remembered in class that vulnerability was one of the things we discussed as a feature of CNF, and it is what I admire from so many of the readings I have read over the years. It is why I love memoirs so much. It felt ok to share a little in our last class and to hear others share similar tales of loss. I guess thinking about the purpose connected with this loss was hard. What did I learn? There was so much, but conveying it through words may be challenging. There is the thought of how we lose ourselves in grief and have to climb out of it. How we create an alternate reality about the person who died and we need to let the truth just be, and that's ok. There is also a lot around forgiveness. These are just some ideas.

Another, very different idea, is about childhood innocence and family. I have wonderful memories of playing with my brother and sister as children and making up such imaginative games in our own backyard. The best part for me was always being called back to reality when my father's car drove up the driveway and Mom called us to the dinner table. This feels very simplistic to write about, but it truly has shaped who I am. I cherish the simpler things in life, I always have and family time is the most important thing to me. The organization and structure of this piece is something I think about. How can I go from sharing a tale of frolicking children to putting forth my affirmation about life?

So far these are the two front runners. Perhaps as we continue some writing techniques in class,  some other ideas will develop. I know they are both very different from one another and I kind of like that. I can explore different areas that have spoken to who I am today, and hopefully connect with others.

Blog#2: Lott and Gutkind

September 14, 2013

Definition of Creative Nonfiction

I found both essays to be very informative and enjoyable reads. There were some overlapping ideas from our class discussions mentioned in them, as well as some deeper guidelines that we have not yet broached. Both writers are passionate about writing Creative Nonfiction, and care deeply that those who approach the genre with their own personal stories do so with a manner of ethics and responsibility, both to themselves and their readers. With that said, I have come to a definition that I feel encompasses what we have shared in class, and what I feel these two writers hold dear.

Creative Nonfiction is a genre of writing that draws from personal life experiences, is truthful and not embellished, and should be written with integrity as not to falsify information. A CNF writer must think beyond him/herself, as this type of writing is not "self-serving." It should be written to reach others and be meaningful. A connection with the readers should be the main focus of the writer's intent. It is beyond a simple anecdote. In addition, one must try to view his writing from different views, trying to see the event from every angle. This allows the writer to gain a deeper understanding and perspective of the topic about which he is writing. Finally, it must be creative, utilizing all of the fictional writing techniques and elements, just as a fictional writer would when telling a story.

I'm not sure if what I put is a definition or more guidelines which CNF writers should follow. As Gutkind mentions, it is difficult to create a definition for this genre. Either way, I think it will give me a place to start, and definitely will give me a lot to think about when trying to come up with topics.

What Do Lott and Gutkind Leave Out?

I do feel that I learned so much from both pieces, and that they were clear and thorough. However, there was one point that I wish they addressed. When beginning the process of creating a piece for publication, does a writer of CNF need to consult anyone who will be mentioned in their piece? Does this writer need permission to use their names or include them at all? There is much talk in both pieces about being truthful and ethical that I feel ties in with that discussion. Lott states that writers should allow people written about to view the material after it is written, but shouldn't they be made aware beforehand? I would like more clarification on this.

How Are Definitions of Creative Nonfiction Changing in Light of Digital Publishing?

In today's society we see more and more people using digital publishing. When thinking about this question, I think mostly about what I am doing right now; blogging. It feels as if everyone has a blog! This fact does change the way we think about CNF writing a bit, in the sense that anyone can have a blog. One would hope the majority of published nonfiction writers are legitimate. They do their work ethically and provide truth to their pieces (we know there are always exceptions). They must, or face consequences. However, with blogging who's to say the person is reputable and ethical? Are there consequences for a blogger who is venting about someone without having facts straight? Do they follow the guidelines provided by Lott and Gutkind? I'm not sure.

There is also an element of fun to digital publishing, like Roger Ebert's Blog, in the sense that bloggers are able to interact with their readers in an instantaneous way. There is a connection that must feel very intimate which perhaps other writers are never able to achieve.



All in all, I feel more informed about Creative Nonfiction writing. I am a big fan of memoirs and am often touched and amazed by people's personal stories. It is difficult to think about my own life's tales as more than just anecdotes and that they may have deeper meaning. But I am willing to follow the guidelines that I am buying into and give it a try.

BLOG #1    September 7, 2013

Features of Creative Nonfiction:

• First Person Experiences
• Personal Realizations/Self Discovery
• Elements of Fiction Used Throughout the Piece
• Purposeful Tone Set 
• Vulnerability Exposed/Openness
• Drawing From Every Day Experiences

Essential Features of Creative Nonfiction:

Although the four assigned readings were diverse in topics, they were all comprised of various elements that surfaced within them. The most obvious being that they were told through first person experience. Because these are personal tales there is a rawness and vulnerability that comes through each and every piece; no holding back. The authors share their most painful, scary, humorous, and uncomfortable thoughts and moments. They show the reader that life is rich and uncertain and full of surprises in our every day. Every day life experiences are the pool from which to draw and create and one must be truthful and ready to bare his/her soul, so to speak. Commitment is a must.

In addition, because it is "creative" writing, many elements of fiction can be seen throughout these pieces. Flashback, figurative language, scene setting, dialogue used either directly or indirectly, are all examples of some fictional writing techniques that are seen at play within these four essays. There is also a purposeful selection of word choice to create a tone throughout the piece, or to change the tone as the piece moves forward. For example Portrait had a tongue in cheek humor to it, whereas Some Things, obviously had a much more serious tone. In Beard's Out There, I couldn't help thinking of the movie Thelma and Louise as I read about her journey and wanting her to gain a sense of independence from her life and husband. That is until I became incredibly "creeped out" when she was pursued by the homicidal maniac. I bring up word choice and tone, because it is something that fictional writers must pay attention to and we see it as a focus for Creative Nonfiction writers as well.

Finally, all of the texts showed the author coming upon a self discovery or a personal realization throughout the piece and by the end. The structure and organization choices for the piece creates these realizations, and although the way each organizes his/her text varies,  each has a discovery that comes through to the reader. For example, Marquart opens her piece with a description of the overwrought husbands in the clinic's waiting room and ends by describing her own husband sitting on the couch watching the NBA playoffs. Her discovery about her husband in that moment is undeniable to the readers.

The Sometimes There and Sometimes Not Features:

One of the big things I noticed while reading these pieces had to do with the topics. Beard and Marquart both captured an important specific moment in their life that affected them. Whereas, Ebert wrote his piece about a longer period of time.  And finally you have Lopate's piece that steps away from "something that happened to him" and is more of a self reflection where he describes an aspect of himself; his body! Therefore, a creative nonfiction writing does not necessarily have to be about a specific moment.

The self discoveries need not always be "deep" or traumatic. Ebert had wonderful turn of events after a difficult and life changing experience, and in Portrait, Lopate's simple discovery about his fingers truly helped him define who he was and why being a writer was perfect. These pieces show us that we have many discoveries in our lives, and as we write our own personal pieces we can decide which are worthy of sharing.

Differences Between Long and Short Forms:

The main difference I noticed between the two forms was the organization. The short form was much more of a "snapshot." It was quick and to the point. For instance, some of the writing style Marquart chose created a fast-paced read. She used many short declarative sentences and fragments. When writing a longer form, much more detail of scenes and person can be introduced. Beard needed to set the scene of the road, of the gas station, and store to really build up to her climax. She also chose other purposeful writing techniques like repetition, when building on the idea of "embarrassment" and flashback to let us know what caused her to begin her road trip. Committing to the length of one's piece is an important decision. Does it need to be detailed and lengthy or can it be a snapshot of a moment?