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?