ADVANCED CREATIVE WRITING SD???
In ????
Mondays and Thursdays; 1:00 PM—4:30 PM with Mr. Franklin
THE 1ST THING YOU NEED TO DO before OUR 1ST CLASS MEETING
Purchase books at 2560 Bancroft 510/204-0900
1.
40 Short Stories: Beverly Lawn
2.
The Nimrod Flip Out by Etgar Keret
3.
The World Split Open published by Tin House Books
THE 2ND THING YOU NEED TO DO before OUR 1ST CLASS MEETING
Purchase Class Readers at 2576 Bancroft 510/848-8649
Bring your physical Reader to every class. To Access the Online version use the following link:
http://rhsweb.org/assignments/franklin/Advanced%20Creative%20Writing/
Also Purchase a Composition Book which will serve three purposes:
1) Your in-class writing will allow you time to Workshop writing and participation is 10 points per meeting; that's 120
points for the course.
2) Nothing you write in your Composition Book will be extraneous to the 100 point MetaNarrative Final. Consider it an inquiry-based, research rough draft.
3) Fluency COMPOSITION BOOK: Fluency is the rapid ease of access to all that language has to offer. Becoming fluent
as a speaker, as well as a writer, requires many timed practices and feedback (both from peers and your teacher).
THE 3rd THING YOU NEED TO DO before OUR 1ST CLASS MEETING
Email me before ???? at afranklin@redwood.org and let me know:
a) Have you ever attended/participated in a poetry slam? If so, what’d you think? Send me a
b)
c)
d)
e)
link if there are any slam poems you think everyone should see.
Are you familiar with Meta-Narratives?
Why are you enrolled in the course? Parents told you to do it? You enjoy writing?...
Do you binge-watch anything on Netflix? If so what? What’s the best read you’ve ever had?
Talents/passions? Anything else I should know about you before we meet?
THE 4th THING YOU NEED TO DO before OUR 1ST CLASS MEETING
Type up one short story that is 3-5 minutes long when you read it aloud—please time yourself
reading it aloud, practice being entertaining as an out loud reader too. Bring it to class on ???.
Feel free to use the prompts on pages 4-5 to get a short story rolling. You will type up a minimum of three
short stories in the first two weeks, but for now just bring in one. Also see page 6 for Compelling Literary
Elements.
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Dear Creative Writers,
What goals do I have for your creative narratives? Be COMPELLING! Yes, that’s the key word
for our six weeks together: compelling—driving the reader to want to find out what happens—just
as the writers of LOST have done to me as I Netflix-parlay one episode into five in a row because I
must know what realm Walt is from. Like, Dude, how does he show up to resurrect John Locke
from Ben’s mass Dharma Initiative grave? Yes, LOST is so dog-gone compelling that I have
watched the first four and a half seasons in the last two weeks and am so sleep-deprived that I
might, like, get lost and end up next to Hurley at the Santa Rosa Mental Health Facility.
Aim high folks. Be so compelling as to rob your readers of sleep. Or invigorate a Netflix-ed
zombie with a clean, deveined fish of a poem, so economical as to compel readers to demand from
you a whole book-o-your-poems.
Listen, instead of saying a narrative is boring, we’ll say it is not compelling and we’ll explain to
each other why and suggest in peer workshops what an author/peer can do to make it more so.
Creative Writing provokes poetry slam crowds into riots of raucous applause. Creative Writing
also frequently saves us from banal song-lyrics and predictable joke-telling conventions so that we
are surprised to be laughing so hard. Will you slam and song-truth and rescue audiences from stale
jokes in this course? Sure!
How? The Serious-Business Method (120 points)
Most of the course reading will be done outside of class for homework. Why? So that we can
workshop, workshop, workshop. A big rule is Maintain an essential workshop atmosphere: we
must agree to be serious about writing, serious even when writing comedy, serious and focused
without distractions. None of you should tolerate distractions from anyone in the room when we
write and review. I sure won’t tolerate them. Guess what? If you are distracted from your own
writing, that’s a good sign that even you do not find your own writing compelling. Don’t worry, it
doesn’t take much to get me to laugh and we’ll find time to laugh together, but we won’t goof
around for laughter’s sake when the time to improve our craft is upon us. As peer-reviewers, we’ll
take each other seriously. Did I mention, I’m one of your peers—I’m serious about improving as a
writer too, but I’m even more serious about you improving; if I wasn’t serious about it, I’d be a
kindergarten teacher—dem wee tikes are way, way cuter than you, you know? But what you lack
in cuteness, you more than make up for by being the right age to become an author. I’m so serious
about your improved craft that I’ll be moving around the room to visit with you frequently while
you write. The first thing I’ll always tell you when I peek at your drafts is what my favorite
phrases in your current writing are. I don’t care what your talent level is, I really don’t. We’ll all
observe another big rule, to maximize the potential in each of you. Even if you are already a
better author than me (and I hope you are), we’ll build from there.
Volume: How much? Well, totes-my-goats a lot. That is the fast track to loving some of what you
produce.
And, ready for another big rule? You will share almost all you write. If you need to write
personal-trauma incidents that you need to keep private, do so primarily outside of workshop time.
Over the entire six weeks, each of you gets only one pass on a work-shopped writing for the sake
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of privacy from peers. Sometimes you just have to write what’s lingering there, molding and
mildewing in the Trauma-land of your gut; it bubbles into the pen (or laptop which you may bring
in lieu of a Composition book if you prefer—keep in mind the zero tolerance for distractions
though you cyborg, you). The maintained essential workshop atmosphere will engender trust
among all of us. You’ll find that being open and honest about even the deep down hurts you’ve
kept under that stoic face of yours is worth it. Non-fiction (especially auto-bio and bio) can make a
reader say, “That’s real,” and real can be intimate, can be poignant and moving. Real narrative told
with literary craft is, say it with me now, COMPELLING.
Please do not confuse feeling embarrassed to share what you write with your one-time-only
personal-trauma-privacy-sharing exemption. We need to share and grow (to put the D in ATDP)
and to do that you must observe the final big rule: be fearless. Write your best every time and
understand that sometimes it won’t pan out and, hey, even the lead-balloon drafts TLC-ed by a
group of serious, committed writers can be work-shopped into something Compelling, something
of which you can be proud. Do this every time we meet and, by the end of July, you will be proud
of your body of work, proud to be an author.
Framework
In the long run we’ll aim at familiarity with the forms and purposes of meta-narrative. But we’ll
not only learn to write clever, meta-narratives, we authors will also be mindful not to trample on
purpose or message or content as if we’re attention-starved class clowns who impede other
students from learning the day’s lesson. We’ll also read many of the short stories in 40 Short
Stories to learn how to steal from authors who have beaten us to the publishing punch. In addition,
before presenting your own “finished” work, in class, we’ll watch… an Essential Film to MetaDeep Fry us:
Ruby Sparks
Attendance: two tardies = one absence and two absences = a student may be dropped from the program.
Homework: 3-5 hours of per class meeting.
1.
2.
3.
4.
????? (40 points) Author’s Chair short story
???? (35 points) Character Development Dramatic Monologue
????(60 points) Slam Video or (hopefully) Live Slam Performance
????? (50 points) Fiction Seminar
5.
????(40 Points) Blend
6. ??? (100 points) Meta-Narrative
7. Exalted Blurb (20 points)
8. “The Heart is not a Wall” Shadow Ending (30 points)
Total Possible Points = ???
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Short story ideas Any of these ideas can be used either humorously or
dramatically... or you can try both. Have fun!
Challenge: 3 stories in 2 weeks using these short story ideas. One of them might turn into your
ADVANCED CREATIVE WRITING FINAL
Extreme challenge: Why not write a book of short stories over the whole 6 weeks? Choose seven
or eight short story ideas to get started. Feel free to use any of these prompts in the middle of a
story or to use your own ideas to get started. Don’t feel obligated to use these prompts.
1. A babysitter is snooping around her employer's house and finds a disturbing photograph...
2. Your character's boss invites her and her husband to dinner. Your character wants to make a
good impression, but her husband has a tendency to drink too much and say exactly what's on
his mind...
3. At the airport, a stranger offers your character money to carry a mysterious package onto the
plane. The stranger assures your character that it's nothing illegal and points out that it has
already been through the security check. Your character has serious doubts, but needs the
money, and therefore agrees...
4. Your character suspects her husband is having an affair and decides to spy on him. What she
discovers is not what she was expecting...
5. After your character loses his job, he is home during the day. That's how he discovers that his
teenage son has a small marijuana plantation behind the garage. Your character confronts his
son, who, instead of acting repentant, explains to your character exactly how much money he is
making from the marijuana and tries to persuade your character to join in the business...
6. Your character starts receiving flowers and anonymous gifts. She doesn't know who is sending
them. Her husband is suspicious, and the gifts begin to get stranger....
7. A missionary visits your character's house and attempts to convert her to his religion. Your
character is trying to get rid of him just as storm warning sirens go off. Your character feels she
can't send the missionary out into the storm, so she lets him come down into her basement with
her. This is going to be a long storm....
8. Your character is caught shoplifting. The shop owner says that she won't call the police in
exchange for a personal favor....
9. Your character picks up a hitch-hiker on her way home from work. The hitch-hiker tries to
persuade your character to leave everything and drive her across the country...
10. Your character has to sell the house where she grew up. A potential buyer comes to look at it
and begins to talk about all of the changes she would make to the place. This upsets your
character, who decides she wants to find a buyer who will leave everything the way it has
always been....
11. Your character changes jobs in order to have more time with his family. But his family doesn't
seem interested in having him around...
12. Your character develops the idea that she can hear the voices of the dead on a certain radio
channel. She decides to take advantage of this channel to find answers to some questions that
are bothering her about her dead parents....
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13. Your character thinks her boss is looking for an excuse to fire her. She decides to fight back....
14. Your character goes out for dinner on a date and becomes attracted to the waiter or waitress....
15. Your character notices that a stranger is following her. She pretends not to notice. The stranger
follows her home and watches her go inside. Then when he leaves, your character turns the
tables and starts to follow him....
16. Your elderly character escapes from the retirement home where his or her children have placed
him or her....
17. Your character gets cosmetic surgery in an attempt to make her boyfriend love her more. But
then she worries he only loves her for her looks....
18. Your character is a writer. But his new neighbors are so noisy that he can neither work nor
sleep. He decides to take action....
19. Your character's mother-in-law comes to visit for a week, and your character suspects she is
trying to poison him. He shares his suspicion with his wife, who says he's always hated her
mother but this accusation is going too far. Meanwhile, your character has stomach cramps, and
his mother-in-law is downstairs making breakfast again....
20. It's a freezing cold night. Your character finds a homeless family on his doorstep and invites
them into his home to sleep. But in the morning, the family doesn't leave....
personal creative writing challenges—good for
slams too
21. Make a list of five things you're afraid of happening to you. Then write a story in which one of
them happens to your character..
22. Think of a big problem that one of your friends had to face. Then write a story in which your
character battles with that problem..
23. What is one of your bad habits? Invent a character who has the bad habit, but a much worse
case of it than you have. Write a story where this habit gets your character into trouble.
24. What is one of your greatest strengths? Invent a character who doesn't have this strength.
Create a situation in which having this strength is very important for your character. What does
your character do? Write the story.
25. Neighborhood: Draw a detailed map of a neighborhood you grew up in. Include Best
Friend’s House, bully’s house, danger zone, playground, store, school…who were the
kind 80 year olds the mean kids, haunted houses, the most fun spots, places that were off
limits…share stories about legends and myths…
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Partial List of Compelling Literary Elements For Short Stories
 Characters--interesting/relatable/engaging—meaning? Example
characters: Sherlock or Kate from LOST
 Plot flow—fluidity of transitions, good pace, want to find out
what happens next—twists, un-expected betrayals.
 Thematic Conflicts/Tension in different
“attitudes”/tones/styles—variety of “main” characters
 “Fatal Flaw”—rooting for a character to find resolution to a
problem though they may not make it
 Mystery/Suspense/Crosscuts (stop in juicy action to show a sub
plot bit…)
 Irony—distance from observations that allows for reader’s
“reflection”
 Flashbacks—e.g. a reason for the revenge
 Foreshadowing—e.g. chapters before the reader even sees
Gatsby, Nick says of him through indirect characterization:
“If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous
about Gatsby, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life,[…] it was an extraordinary
gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it
is not likely I shall ever find again.”
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You may have tangible wealth untold
Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold,
But richer than I you can never be
I had a mother who read to me.
--Strickland Gillilan
By the end of the first two weeks you’ll have written three short stories
each at a length of 3-5 minutes and select one to read to the class in the
Author’s Chair starting on ______
CHAIR SCORING
36-40 points =
1) deep ideas lead to long class discussion/seminar fodder, and
2) smooth delivery/line bending = audience rapture, owning stage, and
3) the stylistic choices/poetic phrasing produce a sound that exults the soul.
30-35 points = combination of # 1 above with either #2 or #3 above
28-29 points = just # 1 from above
24-27 points = combination of #2 and #3 from above
22-23 points = just #2 or # 3 from above
21 points = you address the writing assignment with some length
20 and below = shorter, flat, boring…
SEE Bronson Taylor’s Reading of his original Story: “Daffy”
Your elderly character escapes from the retirement home where his or her children
have placed him or her.
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Daffy
Daffy lay awake on his soul-stealing, remote-controlled bed, staring at the stains on the roof where water had once
leaked its way into his so-called elderly paradise. He turned his head to look out the foggy window where clouds were
encroaching on the privacy of this beautiful virgin landscape. Daffy was, in fact, irritated. His booming thoughts interfered
with his mind’s trying to drift into sleep. Go Daffy, Leave Daffy, Walk out the door Daffy, Daffy this and Daffy that. He
finally got out of his death-stained mattress and waddled his way out of his cell-of-a bedroom , through the hallway of the
elderly home at which his lone child had placed him. Though Daffy has a pruned face, and his word-factory has ceased
production, his mind was still very much stable. Even though the nurse and doctors insisted that his frame is too fragile for
movement, which Daffy completely agreed upon, his still-very-active thought box pushed him to the brink.
Daffy flapped his thin physique onto the double doors that lead out into the garden where Constance had left her
temple a few days ago. She was playing a game of cards with Adelaide and out of nowhere lord almighty swooped his
mammoth-sized hand and smacked her right in the back of the head as she went face first into the pudding cup that they
were wagering. Daffy saw the whole incident and Daffy, being Daffy, gave a small chuckle as her face embedded itself into
the brown substance that went flying out in every direction. He saw the table where Constance had passed, smiled at the
thought of age, and waddled his crusty form down the set of misshapen stairs where Daffy’s child once said to his semiwrinkled body, “This will be good for use.”
He sat down on the tired bench as he watched the clouds shoot glorious glass-like beams of light that made love to
the beautiful hourglass shaped scenery. The train of thought that Daffy was concocting in his mind was brutally interrupted
as a moody pair of twisted headlights screamed right in his eyes. He adjusted his lenses to look at the beat-down bus that
came to a solid halt right next to his legs. Daffy turned his head to look at the brown abomination of machinery, picked up
his weak body and walked over to the rusted gates of the gloomy bus. The raggedy doors glitched open like they had turrets.
Daffy stepped into the musty contraption that was filled with moist damp air, but it somewhat comforted Daffy. “Ahhh,
good evening old friend what brings your chaps around these parts?” asked the bus driver.
Daffy took his arthritis-infested hand and pointed it toward the soul and thought-covered mountain. “Ahh, the
graveyard, brave man Daffy. Climb aboard, have a seat, I’ll take you. Daffy bobbed his sluggish shell over to a seat and
plopped down his useless figure. He looked out the corroded window which was covered with Earth’s dewy breath and
allowed his thoughts to engulf his thin limbs. The thought-flavored stew that Daffy was cooking in his head was mainly
filled with memories of his daughter, Susy Lee, who grew up to fill the sponge-like minds of our next generation. Daffy
remembered the moment when she dropped kicked him right into the old folks’ home that reeked of wrinkles and
hemorrhoids and remembered turning his pixelated cameras on her, as she turned around with an emotionless manikin-like
face.
Daffy took that picture and hurled it into the vault, and then he remembered his father saying, “Aye boy, you better
shut your goddamn mouth, or else imma rip yo lips, out yo face. Almost only counts for horseshoes and hand grenades my
dear boy, if you eva say almost while you’re in my presence, I swear to god Im’ma kick yo ass out ya throat.” And on that
note Daffy threw off his blanket of thoughts that kept his thinking tube warm and fuzzy and looked out the cracked window
of this queer looking brown mode of transportation. Daffy knew that he was about 10 minutes away from his destination so
to pass the time he thought about ants and sponges.. *wink *wink
The narrow wheels on the bus screamed to a solid halt, like a baby wanting attention. Daffy struggled to pick up his
noodle-like vessel and waddled his way down the thin center of this brown failure to mankind and technology. “Ahh, good
evening Daffy,” said the bus driver right before Daffy stepped off the set of misshapen stairs. “I feel that our paths won’t
cross again, goodbye old friend.”
Daffy watched the doors glitch shut one last time and the brown step back to life and bounce forward on the
cracked pavement. Daffy turned his cameras onto the timeless mountain as God’s tears ran down his dried up, pruned mask,
that hid Daffy’s brilliant, yet exhausted mind. He gave a long annoyed sigh, rolled his deep blue eyes, and began his short
last journey.
Limb, after limb, Daffy limped his way through the tear-infested muddy plan that is filled with objects that were
once bursting at the seams with new brilliant beams of color. And through the rain, through the affectionate twigs and
leaves, was a tombstone, a small, simple, white, sheet rock. Where Daffy stopped his last adventure, sat down, and read the
small font on the tiny slab of marble: Suzy, These are not my tear drops, daughter dear, only the sheen of dew that lingers
here. And through this field, where other fathers lie. They kept their daughter better far than I.
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Evaluate Content and Delivery
See #1 Ziggy, why so dry? In school, we worry that we’ll be ostracized if
we’re not serious enough. However, see Zest of # 2 Georgia Tech
Convocation…then the #3 Bad Zest of Phil Davison…#4 Chef Holden…#5 Man of
Action Zev
How to deliver a good story: 1. care about the content and craft it in the aim to make
the audience care too 2. know the story well 3. deliver it with zest.
The analogy we’ll use: Eating a Taco. The fresh written ingredients, layered well,
comprise the Taco. The zest is the hot sauce which makes the eater/audience pay attention
to the eating. Too zesty and you can't taste the ingredients; no sauce and the audience drifts
into daydreams.
Mr. Franklin’s # 1 tip for Zest is to purposefully step outside
of the established flow of the narration by locating five or six
moments to be an actor (use distinct voices and gestures):
Practice by delivering the speech excerpts on the next page with you doing the
orator’s flow, momentarily trumped by you as an actor
After each student version, you’ll be followed by Mr. Franklin's version
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Process from Cold-Read to Pop-Out Gestures
#1
I was hiking the trail with my bunny, my dear Whiskers, in my arms. Just then, I heard
an eagle screech from above. Whiskers scurried out of my arms and darted down the trail.
That eagle dove and snatched my beloved. I fell to my knees and sobbed.
#2
The cop flashed his light in my eyes and asked, "Have you had anything to drink tonight?" Of
course I hadn't but something in me panicked and I ran. He chased me up the stairs and
caught me, pinning me on the railing.
#3
Ask questions about their life. Parents love this: “Where did you go to college?” or “Is the pay
the best part of your job?” or “Ever have an affair?” (just kidding). Adults like to tell stories
and pretend that the reason they tell them is to pass on advice—sometimes the advice
actually helps. It turns out, you don’t need to have the same interests as them in order to be
a nice, decent, and normal human being around them.
#4
If some guy is pressuring you to hook up, saying, "Come on. Just get in the car and go for a
ride with me," and you are not feeling it, just be honest. Tell him, "Hey, I am not interested
in popping one of your face zits in my mouth!"
#5
How'd I end up homeless in San Jose for four months? Good question. One night I was
drinking a cup of water in my dad's kitchen and my dad came crashing in, holding my sack of
weed like it was a murdered baby. He fumed out that I had screwed up one too many times.
Then he hit me with it; the next day, I would be sent to a rehab camp in Utah. I lost it. I
simultaneously cussed and threw my cup against the wall. Then I bailed to San Jose.
Now run through your prepared Short Story and find five or six good PopOut moments for Acting with distinct voices and gestures to engage the
audience.
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All Story Delivery Requirements
 Volume: audience can easily hear; voice is full and
resonant
 Articulation: words are pronounced correctly, clearly and
precisely
 Eye Contact: speaker does not rely too heavily on script;
appears confident; looks out to audience as speaking to
establish contact
 Posture: Speaker does not slouch or lean nor does he/she
shift or move around
 Controlled Breathing: Controlled breathing gives voice
resonance and power; speaker does not interrupt sentences
inappropriately to breathe
 Tone: Speaker establishes and maintains a narrative tone
appropriate to story

Emphasis/modulation: Speaker uses voice to highlight
different characters.
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Verisimilitude (noun)
the appearance or semblance of truth; likelihood; probability
Telling Tails
Tim O'Brien Aug 1 2009 in The Atlantic
How'd I discover the centrality of imagination in enduring fiction? In general, the topic is born out of attending
and teaching writing workshops, in which I’ve noticed, almost always to my alarm, that classroom discussion
seems to revolve almost exclusively around issues of verisimilitude. Declarations such as these abound: I didn’t
believe in that character. I need to know more about that character’s background. I can’t see that character’s
face. I don’t understand why that character would behave so insipidly (or violently, or whatever).
These are legitimate questions. But for me, as a reader, the more dangerous problem with unsuccessful stories
is usually much less complex: I am bored. And I would remain bored even if the story were packed with pages
of detail aimed at establishing verisimilitude. I would believe in the story, perhaps, but I would still hate it. To
provide background and physical description and all the rest is of course vital to fiction, but vital only insofar as
such detail is in the service of a richly imagined story, rather than in the service of good botany or good
philosophy or good geography.
Let’s say, for example, that a story is set in Nigeria. No matter how much detail is offered to help me see and
smell and hear Nigeria, if the story itself does not surprise and delight and enchant me in some way, all of that
detail is mere information, which better belongs in a travelogue or an encyclopedia entry. I might be wholly
convinced of the setting, yet wholly sedated by the story. Or, said a different way: the research might be a
resounding success but the drama a dismal failure.
The failure, almost always, is one of imagination.
In fiction workshops, we tend to focus on matters of verisimilitude largely because such issues are so much
easier to talk about than the failure of imagination. And for the writer, of course, beefing up a character’s
physical description is easier than envisioning a sequence of compelling and meaningful events in which that
character is engaged. So we nibble at the margins, shying away from the central difficulty.
What if, for example, one were to tell a child a bedtime story that went something like this:
Batman weighed 188 pounds. His hair was black. His complexion was fair. Young Batman grew up in Sioux City,
Iowa, where he spent an unhappy and decidedly disturbed childhood. His grandfather was well known in town
as the man who had invented the machine that lays down lane stripes on highways all across America. Batman’s
mother was an insomniac. She could sew pretty well. She loved a good pork chop. Batman’s father, by contrast,
preferred seafood. The church Batman attended was made of limestone. His school was a brick structure. The
family car was an Oldsmobile.
Well, I could pile on other such detail, for many pages, but my sons would eventually demand that something
happen—an unusual and dramatic event. Pork chops and highway stripes are important to a child only insofar as
they fit into the fabric of interesting action.
For a child—and maybe for an adult as well—a better story, although not a great story, might begin this way,
with very little effort devoted to establishing verisimilitude:
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When Batman was 6 years old, he grew a big, bushy tail. Often, it popped right out of his pants. This was
embarrassing, of course, especially in a place like Sioux City, where tails were out of fashion among midwestern
children. As a result, Batman had no friends. Kids laughed at him. One day after school, as Batman was walking
home, his tail dragging in the mud behind him, he looked back and saw that he had painted a long dark stripe
down the center of the road. His grandfather, who happened to be driving by, took note of this, and of how the
stripe neatly divided the road into two separate lanes. What a wonderful way to prevent collisions, thought his
grandfather. If only that stripe were yellow! That night at dinner, Batman’s grandfather talked with great
excitement about building a machine that would replicate what he had witnessed on the road that day. “We’ll
make millions, maybe billions,” he said. “We can finally get out of this cruddy town.” No one else at the dinner
table seemed impressed. (“Pass the pork chops,” said Batman’s mother.) But the next morning, undaunted, the
grandfather tied young Batman to the rear bumper of the family Oldsmobile and handed him a can of yellow
paint. “Just dip in your tail whenever it runs dry,” said the grandfather. “A nice straight line.” And so for miles
and miles, Batman painted a neat yellow stripe up and down the streets of Sioux City, Iowa, past limestone
churches and past brick schoolhouses. Not a month later, the city’s accident rate had dropped dramatically.
Batman suddenly had friends. A parade was held in his honor. Sioux City, Iowa, became known, and is still
known today, as the safest city in the safest county in the safest state in America. And little Batman had his first
sweet taste of what it was to be a hero, almost a superhero, although to this day his tail remains an appendage
he takes great care to disguise. You probably hadn’t even noticed it.
Now, I certainly don’t claim literary merit for this example. But I do think a child would pay attention—a chuckle
here, a raised eyebrow there. To be memorable and to have dramatic impact, informational detail must function
actively within the dynamic of a story. Otherwise the author’s hard work goes into a reader’s recycle bin as
“authentic” but forgettable clutter. As an example, I’d guess that few among us will recall with certainty the
color of Huck Finn’s hair. But even the most casual reader will remember that Huck journeyed south aboard a
raft and not a donkey. The raft functions in the story.
When I speak about a well-imagined story, I mean a good many things, but let me begin by listing a few things
a well-imagined story is not. A well-imagined story is not generic. It has not been lifted off the shelf at your local
literary Wal-Mart. A well-imagined story is not predictable, or at least not wholly predictable. A well-imagined
story is not melodramatic; it does not rely on purely villainous villains and purely heroic heroes; it does not use
formulas in place of inventiveness; it does not substitute cliché for fresh vision. A well-imagined story does not
rely on coincidence or happenstance for its dramatic effects—a character named Lance, let’s say, just happens
to be walking by at the very instant another character named Brandy, the unrequited love of Lance’s life,
emerges from the doctor’s office with her spanking-new diaphragm. A well-imagined story does not rev up
bland, everyday events with lurid, purply, overwrought language that seeks to elevate such events beyond their
due. For example, a well-imagined story would not, in my view, include a sentence such as this one: “With an
explosive, rocket-like thrust of his legs, Lance jumped for joy at the heartwarming vision of Brandy’s snow-white
diaphragm.”
More positively, and maybe more helpfully, I can try to suggest what a well-imagined story does mean to me.
Above all, a well-imagined story is organized around extraordinary human behaviors and unexpected and
startling events, which help illuminate the commonplace and the ordinary. In daily life, one would not say to a
drinking companion, “Hey, here’s a great story for you. Yesterday morning I ate Cheerios. Then I set off for
work. Work was boring. Nothing happened. I left the office at five o’clock sharp. That night I ate a steak, not a
great steak, but a pretty darned good one. I went to bed about nine.” Very quickly, I think, one’s drinking mate
would seek more interesting company. A better story, though not necessarily a good one, might begin:
“Yesterday morning, over my usual bowl of Cheerios, I was alarmed to note that the Cheerios were shaped not
as standard circles, but as semicircles, as if someone had used a surgical scalpel to slice each individual Cheerio
precisely in half. Odd, I thought. And odder still, those particular Cheerios tasted only half as delicious as
Cheerios usually taste. And even odder yet, I found myself half hungry at work that morning, half wishing for a
bowl of Cheerios. My hunger was soon tempered, however, by the disturbing realization that I was now but half
a man.”
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Again, I don’t claim literary merit for this example. But I do claim, pretty emphatically, that the second opening
is one to which most of us would pay attention. Your drinking companion might frown and ask, “Half a man
how?” The last sentence begs for a next sentence. The last event begs for a next event.
As a qualifier, I want to be clear that when I write about the need for extraordinary human behavior in wellimagined fiction, I am not arguing that a successful story must contain elements of the bizarre or the
supernatural or the fantastic. Although by temperament I’m disposed to what is called “magical realism,” I
admire and love the fiction of Dubus and Chekhov and Munro and Cheever and Hemingway and Fitzgerald and
many, many other masters of realism. What I do suggest, when I’m under pressure to suggest something, is
that even the most realistic tale succeeds by reaching beyond the run-of-the-mill or the banal. Even if one’s goal
is to depict ordinary human beings in ordinary human settings, a story must find striking, dramatic, and
unexpected ways to accomplish this. Something, somehow, must strike the reader as compelling enough to
warrant continued reading. Certainly in the work of those masterful realists I listed a moment ago, you will find
on virtually every page examples of what I mean by extraordinary human behavior, incidents that surprise and
delight.
To vividly imagine and to vividly render extraordinary human events, or sequences of events, is the hard-lifting,
heavy-duty, day-by-day, unending labor of a fiction writer. It is also the labor we so rarely talk about, perhaps
because we can think of so little to say beyond the exhortation: Do it! Be brave! Envision fictional events that
aren’t borrowed from last night’s rerun of Starsky & Hutch, that aren’t copped from that best seller you read last
week or that classic you almost finished back in college.
Another element of a well-imagined story, in my view, is a sense of gravitas or thematic weight. Inventing a
nifty, extraordinary set of behaviors for our characters is not enough. A fiction writer is also challenged to find
import in those behaviors. In the Cheerios example, at least a small, dry germ of gravitas can be found in the
line “I was now but half a man.” Without a turn such as that, and without the additional work of extending that
bit of language into a larger dramatic whole, the anecdote amounts to little more than a clever but trivial riff on
“halfness.” Cleverness, in the end, is a sorry (though common) substitute for thematic weight.
To imagine a next bit of action that is at once surprising and fitting, while at the same time reaching into the
deeper chambers of the human heart, is always among the fiction writer’s great challenges. “I love you,” Jack
says to Jill, which is action, and which leads Jill to say, “I love you, too,” which leads to an exchange of wedding
vows, another bit of action, which leads to Jack and Jill’s sailing off on their honeymoon to the South Pacific
aboard a rented yacht, which leads to a sudden leak, which leads to the yacht’s swift sinking, which leads to
Jack’s appropriating for himself the only life jacket within reach, which leads to Jill’s fetching into her lungs more
than a pail of water, which leads Jack to contemplate, as he floats in solitude upon the vast Pacific, the contours
of his pitiful and cowardly life. Betrayal, remorse, inconstancy—here is the sort of resonant thematic material
that a serious fiction writer finds tempting. (Another plot possibility: On the third night of their honeymoon
voyage, 400 miles west of Honolulu, might Jack discover a small but indisputable tail coiled at his lovely new
bride’s behind?)
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What makes someone an artist?
Among dozens of competing explanations of what qualifies a painter or musician or poet or writer or
actor/director as an artist, we'll first consider three widely accepted theories: 1. Formalism, 2. Expression
Theory, 3. Immanuel Kant's Theory of Genius (or Jouissance).
Formalism argues that the personal expression should be externalized to the point of being
impersonal. Practicing "good form" and imitating inspiring models (both from your teacher and selfselected) is useful because it increases FLUENCY drawn from knowledge of traditional designs and
educates the artist on critical abilities or taste. Even in auto-biographical narratives, biographical facts
about the writer that are not relevant to the artistic success of the writing should be clipped like fungusinfected toe-nails. Artistic success requires continual self-sacrifice because art that is uniquely about the
artist will not express anything to the audience. CREATIVE WRITER'S PRECEPT # 1: Art is a
bridge to an audience...you may as well tell inside jokes to yourself if you emote something only you
can understand. Don't get me wrong, there is great therapeutic value in coming to understand yourself
through diary-type writing that only you understand; however, some diaries are eminently more
fascinating or inspiring or gut-tilling than others. Some diaries should be published and others should
remain under lock and key. If you are work-shopping your writing and are told that you're being selfindulgent, tinker with the form of syntax, pattern, rhyme, metaphor or voice until it transforms the
diary-draft into something that bridges it to readers. If your self-expression burns the bridge to the
audience's better understanding emotions as experienced in their own lives or only unimaginatively
shows them what they already know about themselves, then you, my Emo friend, are no artist. A good
work transcends its origins (time, place, context…)--think effusive, think cosmic.
Let’s read the glossary definition and answer the questions posed for Structure on
page 557 in 40 Short Stories.
Let’s read the glossary definition of Didactic Fiction on page 552 in 40 Short Stories.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
SEE “PLOT IS WHAT HAPPENS”
Then plot out “A&P” with Dash of Didactics
and intertextuality plot graph with of “Maybe Yeah, Maybe Nah”
then plot with “Selective Hearing” and Short Short Story contest.
Then on to Expression Theory
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“PLOT IS WHAT HAPPENS”
16
“A&P” by John Updike
Pre-reading questions:
1. How do groups determine lines of APPROPRIATE behavior? When should a “don’t cross”
line be included in public policy? Who should enforce them and how assertively? Who is
heroic in challenging them and who is just self-indulgent in challenging them?
e.g. should it be okay to come to class in bathing suits? How about
playing music full blast in the hallways while class is in session?
During Reading questions
2. How long has the narrator, Sammy, been a cashier at the A&P?
3. Consider the parenthetical line on page 339, do you ever wonder if somebody else is “a
mind in there or just a little buzz like a bee in a glass”? Is this accurate observation about
“Queenie” from our narrator or is it shallow sexist objectification?
4. How much better is the line on 341, “All of a sudden I slid right down her voice into her
living room.”…than… “I imagined the scene she had just come from.”? Answer: 766 x
better = clever quick transition to backstory.
5. On 343 Sammy quits and dubs himself “their unsuspected hero.” Is he? Is that at all
delusional? As a reader, do you applaud him? Would you if you witnessed it in real life? Is
he just a horndog or is it a principled stand he’s taking?
6. Sammy also says, “…once you begin a gesture it’s fatal not to go through with it.” Is that
true? What would have happened if he folded up his hero cape and gave in to Lengel? Ever
dug yourself in too deep to back out? Been pot-committed in Texas Hold ‘Em and lost way
more money than you should have?
7. Seems the line of appropriate (or standing up to harsh or too stiff policy vs. being a selfindulgent whiner) is one that Sammy will toe forever on 346: “my stomach kind of fell as I
fell as I felt how hard the world was going to be to me hereafter.”
Can you relate? When are you wisest to swallow your protests and when do you regret
letting it slide? Conversely when you do call it to the mat, what do you gain/loose for
others and yourself? And for how long? Also when might being the Lengel be the heroic or
“right” action? (ask me about Ghetto Whistle incident).
8. If “A&P” was less didactic, that is, if Sammy only narrated his observations of the girl trio’s
movements and gestures, without relating the quitting and heroic gesture and aftermath
feelings, would it have been as satisfying or compelling or “good” a story?
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A&P Writing Assignment:
Write a story as a Sammy…In other words choose a narrator who is not you, who gives
the reader the skinny of his/her routine on some job (please do not narrate as a
student here at Redwood—I’m hoping for variety of locals). The familiarity of the place
should be micro-detailed.
Even if in your real life you do work at, say, Trader Joes, narrate it as some fictional
character whose attitudes are not exactly yours so you can distance the narrative from
you as an author. Part of the reader intrigue should come from, how your invented
narrator shows the reader the place—the characterization of the narrator revealed in
his/her voice an observations and musings.
From the start, use micro-details to signal to the reader that your narrator perks up
when noticing some out of the ordinary character in the place--the same way Sammy
does when Queenie and her crew walk in. Sammy starts with:
“In walk these three girls in nothing but bathing suits.”
Have your narrator start with something similar to “In walks…”
At some point narrate a conflict in which APPROPRIATENESS policies
surface…your narrator need not be on one side or the other, but can.
It may be tempting to devolve the conflict into a fist-fight or gunplay, but I
advise against that as the action sequence is not the point—the policy line
is the point…use dialogue or interior monologue more than physical
scuffle.
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Intertextuality a theory that no one text means anything except in relation to all texts.
-
Nothing means what it means in a vacuum.
How does the next story inter-textually speak to “A&P”?
Rene Saldana Jr.
Maybe Yeah, Maybe Nah
“So, you gonna call the cops on me, or what?” asked Miguel, his oversized, shiny Dallas Cowboys
jacket bulging in places.
The old man, the Don Fonti of the sign on the store window, stood behind the counter, his
forehead wrinkled—thinking real hard. He even sighed, then said, “Maybe.”
The boy shook his head slightly, wondered if he should make a run for it. The geezer would
have to come out from behind the counter, then run, and was older than spit, so Miguel could make it
out the door easy, then down the street, then stop somewhere—at the park, or in some alley—and there
he’d pull out the soda pop that was making his armpit freeze and get out all the other stuff to eat. “What
d’yuh mean ‘Maybe’?” he said, and looked Don Fonti straight on.
“Maybe you’ve learned your lesson today?—then I won’t. Maybe you haven’t?—I will. It’s all
on you, little man.”
The boy thought some more, didn’t like being called, “little man,” thought the man would
probably die of a heart attack or fall and break a hip if he even dared give chase. Worse came to worst
and the geezer came close to catching up, he’d dump the stuff in some alley.
The old Man kept looking at the boy, smack in the eyes, not turning away, but staring him
down, like, So what’s it gonna be, son?
The old man’s arms dangled at his sides; not a care in the world, it seemed to Miguel.
“I’ll tell you what too, son, just to complicate matters for you: I ain’t running after you. I’m too
old, and what you’re taking’s no skin off my nose.”
Miguel looked over at the door, the little bell over it still, tied to a hook screwed over the
threshold, considered running, but instead pulled the can of soda from inside the jacket, a bag of chips
and some candy bars from the jacket pockets, and put them on the counter in front of the old man,
though not letting go of the can just yet, still doing some hard thinking.
They were staring at each other again, then Miguel pushed the soda, candy and chips at the old
man, pushed hard, then said, “Maybe I have learned something, maybe I haven’t. For me to know, you
to find out. I know this much, though—you can stuff all that,” he said, pointing at the goods. “Stuff all
that up your big, hairy nose, geezer,” and Miguel ran out of the store quick, shot out of there, not once
looking back, not even one time. Just kept running until he was out of breath and far away from the
store.
Finally he stopped—turned to see. But neither the old man nor anyone else had come after him.
Only thing, out of breath like he was, his brain pounding at the temples, he could sweat he still heard
the bell dingling from down the street.
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SHORT SHORT STORY Lunch CONTEST!
1. Write a really great short story.
2. Wait. I mean a really short story. As in 250 words or less, short. The entry fee is a penny per word. Note: Pennies
are basically obsolete, but words are priceless.
3. If you write the best one, the pennies from other contestants will be used to buy you lunch at a deli near campus.
Mr. Franklin will pay the difference of the price that the pooled contestants' obsolete pennies do not cover. We'll all
walk to the deli as a class on the Due date ________, and celebrate the winner by eating food gang-o-writers style.
4. The winner will be determined by vote. Voters should consider the story great if it: a) hits all the plot graph
points, b) is Compelling, and it c) even has the right dash of Didactics.
(Mr. Franklin will not vote, he will only be a tiebreaker)
PAST WINNER
Selective Hearing by Gabe Ostler
(2013 Advanced Creative Writing ATDP student)
It started with the annoying girl in statistics class. She tended to abandon her sentences, so when sound
stopped issuing from her mouth mid-question, Eric barely noticed. Minutes later, though, he was perplexed to
see her hand raise, then watch her gums flap noiselessly. He turned to the plebian sitting next to him.
“What’s going on?”
The guy’s lips moved, but again, nothing. In fact, as he scanned the room, everyone seemed to have
been afflicted by this illness—except for his friend Brian.
“Dude, why isn’t anyone talking?”
Brian frowned. “I think you just don’t want to listen.”
Understanding shot through Eric’s brain. After years of dealing with banal small talk and half-baked
thoughts, he had received his silent wish—to hear only what was meaningful.
For days he walked around gorging himself on fulfilling conversation. He was so caught up in the
profundity he didn’t notice the voices getting fainter and fainter.
Then one by one they went the way of the statistics girl. Significant had become commonplace.
Last to go was Brian. As usual, he responded to Eric’s panic with calm. “Well, man, you never really
cared much for what other people had to s—“
Brian’s lips kept moving, synchronized perfectly in silence.
Eric was desperate to hear something. Even the best music had stopped playing. Suddenly, he
understood. It shot through his brain. And the sound of pulled trigger echoing off the roof of his mouth rang
out loud and clear.
247 words
20
Expression Theory argues that artists have a talent for expressing emotion that most people
would otherwise mishandle. By this definition, Bob Dylan is an artist because ugliness doesn't matter.
Sincerity and authenticity matter. It don't matter at all that Dylan can't sing, or that he sounds like a dog
with his leg caught in barbed wire. Expression does not require beauty, grace, or even tunefulness; it
only requires emotion. Even a "nasty" emotion is just as legitimate as an uplifting one. CREATIVE
WRITER'S PRECEPT # 2: Make room for range of emotion, even the unexpected...poetry slam
nights are best when, among the 20 performers, a variety of emotions are offered. One-note-throughthe-whole-night poetry slams drown the artists in the pattern of what comes to be, by the fifth poet,
expected. Better to drown your salad in goopy dressing than to walk away from a slam drowned in
"expected" poetry. Of course, what is unexpected by a novice audience member may reek like unringed mop water to the savvy, cliché-disdaining art-vet and, what's more, even two vets can disagree
on who really should be labeled artistic: witness the "expert" judges booed by audiences who disagree
with their scores. By this theory then, can one person, be she rook or vet, who feels "moved," label
someone an artist or must rook and vet alike be emotionally stirred too? Or do we mark a rousing
whole-audience ovation as evidence that an artist has performed (what about pandering)? Regardless of
whether the works (the songs, the poems, the sculptures...) being critiqued ascend to the level of great
expressive art, as a student in CREATIVE WRITING keep in mind PRECEPT # 2 above during your
process and you may go down to the deep place where new and unexpected feelings burst through, you
may make your readers conscious of emotions they did not know they had--no cliché can do that.
1. Etgar Keret Stories = Narrate normal stories that thread in
something absurd without calling attention to that absurdity (adds
deadpan weight to themes or a subtle dash-o-didactics)
2. Then on to Theory of Genius with “Playground Purgatory”
3. If you think your story is solid, but might profit from some
creative reconfiguration, ask yourself, “What would be a
modern take?…How would Tarentino structure your story?”
21
Genius Blend of expression and form. Perhaps Bob Dylan is considered an artist by
so many because during his live shows he often succeeded in exploring the free-play (jouissance--joy
of paths available, sometimes ending in an orgasmic ally) of imagination in understanding the
artistic production. He knew how to blend the best of form and expression. He often knew when to
break syntax, when to run along the ridge of the expected phrase and drop you off the cliff, when to
verb-invent, when to startle your limbic resonance. He sought an aesthetic of imperfection, one which
accepts the human element in art. During live performance, an artist is less interested in executing what
has been mapped out than in seeing what can be accomplished in the act of playing. CREATIVE
WRITING PRECEPT #3: Seminars and workshops are good springboards, but an artist honors
discovering meaning from others then gets meta (moves beyond it) to create new meaning.
Changing your mind after reading an essay or during a good argument may be a good way to tell if you
still have a mind, but, more importantly, in creative writing or language arts, changing your mind is a
good way of identifying questions you have thereafter. When you find yourself changing your mind,
conscious of new emotions and thoughts, it's time to take the artistic torch and form a new "so what?",
a thesis or theme or dash-of-didactics all your own. Something that was not obvious to you may bubble
up an exploration of the ideas that changed your mind and thereafter anchor your purpose to artistically
persuade others of something greater. Writing practice may start out as deduction of style, may, for a
while, feel like choosing a mathematical combination of literary devices to achieve a purpose...but
when the formal skills peak, then you're free Baby, free like the geniuses I remember in the freestyle
ciphers down in The Pit during lunch at El Cerrito High, whose rhymes were not only off-the-dome,
but also hit home. The high-wire act of course is risky, especially in groups when you pass the
microphone. What if the collaborative cipher meaning-making in the here-and-now includes missed
cues, unfocused instrumental passages, or singing that seems mere afterthought (sounds like a dull
seminar)? Well, that's why it's good to be with a crew on their A-game...a circle of formally trained
geniuses takes art to higher levels. My advice is to consistently be an artist in workshops, in group
work, at cocktail parties regardless of your chosen or assigned group members' developed talents or
(dis)passionate level of contribution. Whether a lone artist or a collaborative one, genius moves beyond
what diligence and learning can provide; it transforms an existing tradition through an infusion of
unpredictable originality, prompting an audience's imagination to spread over a multitude of kindred
presentations so that the work is rich in associations but cannot be encapsulated under just one concept
or under any one paraphrase. Of course genius can be expressed in excess and generate nonsense, so
must be properly balanced with critical insight that shapes its intent. Who among you loves a genius
who leaves you feeling confused and alienated? Don't forget the bridge, the connection, the
communion. In short, genius requires a honed talent for expressing formerly ineffable ideas through the
play of imagination. At this level, literal meaning and passion are less important than finding fresh
inter-textual combinations of sound, word arrangement, and imagery, so that their mutual interactions
stir our species' imaginations. Does everything you write for our class require you to be a genius artist?
No, you should have buckets of fun just becoming a better writer.
Other Theories about what constitutes an artist. There are many other theories and each provides
different lenses for exploring different facets of an artist. Please actively investigate them, or, at least
keep an open ear for them in the future, and share them with us, as they will enrich your work and the
work of those with whom you artistically workshop in the future.
22
23
“Two Kinds” by Amy Tan, page 459 in 40 Short Stories
“When a child first catches adults out -- when it first walks into his grave little head that adults do not always
have divine intelligence, that their judgments are not always wise, their thinking true, their sentences just -- his
world falls into panic desolation. The gods are fallen and all safety gone. And there is one sure thing about the
fall of gods: they do not fall a little; they crash and shatter or sink deeply into green muck. It is a tedious job to
build them up again; they never quite shine. And the child's world is never quite whole again. It is an aching
kind of growing.”
― John Steinbeck, East of Eden
Pre-Reading: What are some typical conflicts between children and their parents? Why are
these common conflicts? Brainstorm here:
Reading Responses: You may answer these questions in your writing notebook or directly on
this page.
1. Read pages 460-464. Then, answer this question: What does the narrator’s mother want
for her daughter? How do these desires contribute to the conflict in the story? Answer this
question and include two supporting quotes selected from these pages.
2. Refer to Page 460: “In all my imaginings, I was filled with a sense that I would soon
become perfect.” At first, what does the narrator want for herself?
3. Refer to Page 461: “The girl staring back at me was angry, powerful.” How is the narrator
changing?
4. Refer to Page 464: “All day I have no time do nothing but dust off her winnings.” “You
lucky you don’t have this problem.” What is Autie Lindo’s subtext (what does Lindo really
mean underneath the words?) when she says this to the narrator’s mother? How do these
remarks affect the narrator? How do they affect her mother?
24
5. Refer to Page 465: “But then I saw my mother’s face, her stricken face.” What does the
narrator realize during and after her recital?
6. Refer to Page 467: “‘Only two kinds of daughters,’ she shouted in Chinese. ‘those who are
obedient and those who follow their own mind! Only one kind of daughter can live in this
house. Obedient daughter!’” How and when does the conflict reach a climax? What is the
climax?
7. Refer to Page 468: “The lessons stopped, the lid to the piano was closed, shutting out the
dust, my misery, and her dreams.” What does the piano symbolize? How do you know?
8. Refer to Page 469: “And after I played them both a few times, I realized they were two
halves of the same song.” Interpret this ending. What do you think the narrator means by
this statement? How does this ending connect to the title and to the plot?
9.
Look again at page 6 in this reader Partial List of Compelling Literary Elements For Short Stories
Which elements do you feel Tan used to best effect in “Two Kinds”?
25
Excellent Use of Dialogue to show 3-D nature of others and self
She was busy scrambling through her packet when Mr. Antics unexpectedly stopped and asked the
class, “How many students are in the bathroom right now?!?” Emma looked around the room and
counted three empty seats throughout class. She was about to answer his question when he beat her
to it, “Three?? THREE!?!?” She watched her teacher make his way to the front of the classroom. Oh
god, here we go. “Only one person is allowed to go to the bathroom at a time. You know, I know what
you kids do out in the hallway. You guys roam around and text your friends.” He continued, “What’s so
cool out there anyway? Are the kids trading stock out there in the hallway?! Like OH EM GEE, I have
to go out in the hallway and text!!” He then pretended like he was texting off of an imaginary phone,
“like OMG this class is SOO lame!! Where are you right now?!...How about now?!?!?” Emma found his
charade quite amusing.
After he had, so it seemed, finished lecturing, Mr. Antics plodded around the room, passing out
articles for the class to read. Emma immediately began scanning the article when she looked up and
spotted another kid leaving the classroom. She, and the rest of her peers, instinctively turned back to
see Mr. Antic’s reaction. “Where’d he go? Didn’t he hear what I just said?!” He stood up and
continued, “You know what, from now on no more leaving to go to the bathroom. You can handle not
texting for one class period. I find that--” “Uh, Excuse me Mr. Antics,” interrupted one of his students,
“but I believe he stepped out to blow his nose….” Just then the door swung open and the student had
returned with a crumpled up tissue in hand, the student made his way to the trash can. Embarrassed,
Mr. Antics immediately sat back down in his chair. Emma felt an odd change of heart. Mr. Antics was
worked up, mind waves sloshing against the walls of his skull, and Emma’s mind was easily sloshed
by Mr. Antic’s antics. But there he was, sitting still in his embarrassment, waves still sloshing. Emma
usually would have snickered at his having to choke on his words, but instead she felt his pain, she felt
for, not against him, she felt compassion, some form of, what did Mr.Franklin call it, Metta. She was
surprised to hear herself speak. “Mr. Antics, I’m sorry that we students have been so squirrelly, me
included, but I just want to say that your imitations of us stock-trading out in the hall was really funny; it
cracked me up.”
Mr. Antics looked up and saw Emma smiling at him, (ME, of all people, smiling at him) and she
saw his sloshing mind waves settle. “Thank you, Emma.” Other students seemed to sense that the
storm was over and treated him decently by thoughtfully asking questions about the article’s critique of
filibustering practices.
26
Dialogue
“Remember that each character must sound different from the others. And they should not all
sound like you.”
--Anne Lamott
How to write dialogue that expresses your character's voice
I bet if you hung around on a random street corner and asked ten different passers-by how to get
to the airport, they'd all give you different answers.
Okay, maybe if you're lucky, they'd suggest similar routes. But they'd all use different words to say
it. Even the, "Uh, don't know," answers would likely come out differently.
Character # 1: "I'm sorry, I really couldn't say. Give me just a sec and I'll pull up directions on my
phone."
Character #2: "No friggin idea. I ain't from here. But seeing you, I sure wish I was, you tasty treat,
you."
Character #3 "Get a map, man."
Dialogue is when you let the reader listen in on a conversation between your characters. Just as
every stranger you stop on a street corner will answer your question in a different way, every
character involved in a dialogue will have a slightly different speaking style.
Fluency # 1: Put the three characters from above (or any distinct personalities that you create
yourself) in an imaginary situation, and listen to what they would say.
Try saying their lines out loud. And then write down what you hear. Remember to cut it at the
right moments.
Your imaginary situation can be anything you want, but it should happen only when the
conversation is a key event in the story. In other words, if your characters are chatting about
the weather while they're waiting for the bus, that should just be background that is not worth
dialogue and that is when to summarize by using narrative instead. But, if your story is about a
pregnant teenager, the conversation when her boyfriend proposes marriage over the phone while
mom intervenes is probably a critical event that will change the direction of the story. Show it in
conversation.
(feel free to use the pregnant teenager situation from above for your write)
27
In-class short story exercise
The Short Sentence as Gospel Truth
By ROY PETER CLARK
As a writer and teacher, I try to learn something about the craft every day. A gold coin of inspiration
may come in my reading, in a conversation with another writer or even in the process of revising this
essay.
I learned an important lesson, somewhat unwittingly, on July 19, 1975, while watching an interview
with two of my favorite writers, William F. Buckley Jr. and Tom Wolfe. Mr. Wolfe was making fun of
an art critic who had begun an essay with the sentence “Art and ideas are one.”
“Now, I must give him credit for this,” said Mr. Wolfe. “If you ever have a preposterous statement to
make … say it in five words or less, because we’re always used to five-word sentences as being the
gospel truth.”
The five-word sentence as the gospel truth.
Granted, Mr. Wolfe was being a little cynical, but the truth of what he was saying still applies. Express
your most powerful thought in the shortest sentence.
In a 2006 article in The St. Petersburg Times, the writer Thomas French showed off this move,
describing the memorable life and influential tenure in a Tampa zoo of a chimpanzee named Herman.
“Altogether,” wrote Mr. French, “he lived at Lowry Park Zoo for 35 years. He lasted there longer than
any other creature and longer than any of the humans. Each of the 1,800 animals at the zoo is assigned
a number. His was 00001.”
In an interview, Mr. French explained that the most telling detail in Herman’s story was that number:
00001. Herman was Elvis, No. 1, the primal primate, Adam in this garden of captives.
Finding that number — with all those zeros — is good reporting; how Mr. French decided to use it is
more revealing. He could have listed it in a catalog of details. Instead, to deliver it full force, he placed
the magic number at the end of a paragraph at the end of a section in the story’s shortest sentence. “His
was 00001.”
Using short sentences to their full effect is a centuries-old strategy, found in opinion writing, fiction and
nonfiction, poetry and plays. It works in a formal speech or in a handwritten letter. Shakespeare had a
messenger deliver the news to Macbeth in six words: “The Queen, my lord, is dead,” a message that
could fit easily inside a 140-character tweet.
A familiar and effective place for the short sentence is at the end of a long paragraph. Here is the critic
Greil Marcus riffing on the poetry of the beat poet Allen Ginsberg:
28
SIN! SIN! SIN! Ginsberg shouted again and again, in scores of other words — single words, elaborate
travelogues, sexual fantasies, the American pastoral as it passed by under his eye on the highway,
unable to outrun the American berserk in Vietnam. He was there, “lone man from the void, riding a
bus/hypnotized by red tail lights on the straight/space road ahead,” to judge the country. And he was
there to save it.
Let’s measure the economy of that final sentence, an efficiency that brings with it the ring of truth:
Seven words, all of one syllable. Twenty-one letters. That’s three letters per word.
There are times when these truth-bearing (truth-baring!) sentences come in a cluster, heightening the
drama. The sentences also can appear as a stand-alone paragraph, swimming in white space. George
Orwell plays with these techniques in “Animal Farm”:
It was a pig walking on his hind legs.
Yes, it was Squealer … And finally there was a tremendous baying of dogs and a shrill crowing from
the black cockerel, and out came Napoleon himself, majestically upright, casting haughty glances from
side to side, and with his dogs gambolling round him.
He carried a whip in his trotter.
A long sequence of short sentences slows the reader down, each period acting as a stop sign. That slow
pace can bring clarity, create suspense or magnify emotion, but can soon become tedious. It turns out
that the short sentence gains power from its proximity to longer sentences, as Orwell demonstrates with
that final image of the whip appearing after a sentence that stretches to 38 words.
Another British dystopian, Anthony Burgess, might have learned this trick from Orwell. In the last
paragraph of “A Clockwork Orange,” his savage teenage narrator is about to be liberated from the reprogramming designed to suppress his violent impulses. Listening to his beloved Beethoven’s Ninth
Symphony, he expresses his joy via an invented gang-slang of the future:
Oh, it was gorgeosity and yumyumyum. When it came to the Scherzo I could viddy myself very clear
running and running on like very light and mysterious nogas, carving the whole litso of the creeching
world with my cut-throat britva. And there was the slow movement and the lovely last singing
movement still to come. I was cured all right.
Notice the metrical echoes in that final sentence: five words. All of one syllable. None longer than five
letters. And with this added benefit: It comes not just at the end of a passage or a chapter, but as the last
chilling words of the novel.
What makes a short sentence short is determined by the sentences around it. In the land of 40-word
sentences, the 20-word sentence bears a special power. The following passage ends the historical novel
“Libra” by Don DeLillo and describes the burial of John F. Kennedy’s assassin Lee Harvey Oswald.
You will notice that all the sentences are relatively short, allowing the emotional tension to build. The
woman in question is Oswald’s mother:
29
Marguerite felt a weakness in her legs. The wind made the canopy snap. She felt hollow in her body
and heart. But even as they led her from the grave she heard the name Lee Harvey Oswald spoken by
two boys standing fifty feet away, here to grab some clods of souvenir earth. Lee Harvey Oswald.
Saying it like a secret they’d keep forever. She saw the first dusty car drive off, just silhouetted heads in
windows. She walked with the policemen up to the second car, where the funeral director stood under a
black umbrella, holding open the door. Lee Harvey Oswald. No matter what happened, how hard they
schemed against her, this was the one thing they could not take away — the truth and lasting power of
his name. It belonged to her now, and to history.
Consider the variety of lengths in this excerpt: 7, 6, 8, 32, 3, 8, 13, 23, 3, 28, 8. The two shortest
verbless sentences of three words (Lee Harvey Oswald) appear immediately after two of the longer
sentences. That change of pace, that abruptness, that slamming on of brakes, carries significant
meaning as does that final truth bearing/baring sentence: “It belonged to her now, and to history.”
I thank Tom Wolfe for that 1975 lesson on the disproportional power of the short sentence. It stuck. I
owe it to him to restore his original context, that writers can use it to give even preposterous statements
the ring of truth. The bigot can use it to foment hate. The propagandist can slap it on a bumper sticker.
But for the writer with good intent, the short sentence proves a reliable method for delivering the
practical truth. With punch.
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Terrific Sentence Variety Model http://imgur.com/user/PriscillaYvonne/favorites/kuhEx
Coordinate Sequence Models
The roles of musicians in the basic four-person rock n’ roll band have not changed much over the years.
One musician plays lead guitar. One person plays rhythm guitar. There is a bass guitar player. One
person, the drummer, gets to sit.
Notice that in this paragraph there is a topic sentence at the top, and then all the other sentences serve as
more or less parallel illustrations of the topic. All the sentences that follow the topic sentence are
coordinate, meaning they’re relatively equal in importance to each other. In terms of the meaning of
the paragraph, the order of these coordinate sentences could be shifted around without changing the
meaning of the paragraph much.
Think of this kind of paragraph as a sort of list. You bring up an idea, and then list a bunch of
examples that show something about that idea. Each of these examples is a sentence in the coordinate
sequence.
Below are some examples, from professional writers.
In 1943, the writer E.B. White was asked by the War Board to give a statement on “The Meaning of
Democracy.” He responded with this masterful example of a pure coordinate sequence paragraph:
(a) Surely the Board knows what democracy is. (b) It is the line that forms on the right. (c) It is
the don’t in don’t shove. (d) It is the hole in the stuffed shirt through which the sawdust slowly
trickles; it is the dent in the high hat. (e) Democracy is the recurrent suspicion that more than half of
the people are right more than half of the time. (f) It is the feeling of privacy in the voting booths, the
feeling of communion in the libraries, the feeling of vitality everywhere. (g) Democracy is a letter to
the editor. (h) Democracy is the score at the bottom of the ninth. (i) It is an idea that hasn’t been
disproved yet, a song the words of which have not gone bad. (j) It’s the mustard on the hot dog and the
cream in the rationed coffee. (k) Democracy is a request from a War Board, in the middle of a war,
wanting to know what democracy is.
Notice how all the sentences which follow the top sentence illustrate the topic, each from a slightly
different angle, but you can also see that they all begin with “It is” or “Democracy is,” and that they
exist in equal relationship to each other. We can diagram this sequence – so we can explicitly see the
“levels” of each sentence in relation to each other.
(a)
(b)
(c)
(d)
(e)
(f)
(g)
(h)
(i)
(j)
(k)
1
2
2
2
2
2
2
2
2
2
2
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James Michener wrote about the killing of 4 students at Kent State University by National
Guardsmen in 1970. One of his paragraphs looks like this:
(a) It is important to visualize the condition of the Guard as they begin their retreat at Kent
State. (b) They have been on duty for nearly a week, sleeping at odd times and in odd places.
(c) They have eaten irregularly and been subjected to taunts and ridicule. (d) They are
bewildered by the behavior of college students and outraged by the vocabulary of the coeds.
Again, as you can see, this paragraph can be diagramed easily as:
(a) 1
(b) 2
(c) 2
(d) 2
Here’s one more example, a simple one that I wrote just a moment or two ago:
(a) On my way home from school, I picked up some things at the Safeway. (b) I bought some
milk. (c) I found the kind of cereal I like best, and it was on sale! (d) I picked up a magazine at the
check-out. (e) I remembered to get the cat food.
(a) 1
(b) 2
(c) 2
(d) 2
(e)
2
Assignment: Now, create your own coordinate sequence paragraph. Remember, you are basically
creating a list, a series of sentences that all illustrate something about the topic raised in the top/topic
sentence.
Let’s start with this topic sentence – write it down in your Composition Book and then add at least
4 or 5 coordinate sequence sentences to create a good paragraph:
Each of my friends has at least one good quality.
Below are 3 topic sentences to choose from. Pick one, and then create a coordinate sequence
paragraph.
1. There are many benefits to starting your own garden.
2. I hate so many things about the movies my mother thinks are “good for me.”
3. The best thing about playing basketball is…
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Subordinate Sequence Models
(a) The cougar has a disturbing habit of following people. (b) It will trail a person silently for miles
without threatening or attacking, often making no effort at concealment. (c) This audacious behavior is
certainly nerve-racking, but there seems to be nothing sinister in its motive. (d) The cougar is curious:
that is all.
-High Country News
This paragraph is obviously much different from the previous coordinate sequence models. The 4th
sentence depends directly on the 3rd sentence; the 3rd sentence depends on the 2nd; the 2nd depends on
the 1st. There are no interchangeable parts here; the sequence is fixed. Instead of a list composed of
like structures hanging from the top sentence in straight parallel lines, we have a sequence of steps
leading downward, level after level after level.
Diagrammed, the “cougar” paragraph looks like this:
(l)
(m)
(n)
(o)
1
2
3
4
The word “subordinate” means something that is lower in rank or position – you can see how that word
fits the sentences in this style of paragraph. Below are some more Subordinate Sequence examples,
from professional writers.
(a) What got me interested in Space Colonies a few years ago was a chance remark by a grade
school teacher. (b) She said that most of her kids expected to live in space. (c) All their lives
they’d been seeing Star Trek and Star Wars and American and Russian space activities and they
drew the obvious conclusions. (d) Suddenly I felt out-of-it. (e) A generation that grew up with
space, I realized, was going to lead to another generation growing up in space. (f) Where did
that leave me?
-Stewart Brand
(a)
(b)
(c)
(d)
(e)
(f)
1
2
3
4
5
6
(a) Merchants of the German port of Hamburg had acquired the Baltic taste for scraped raw
beef, but it was not until the St. Louis World’s Fair in 1904 that broiled, bunned beef was
introduced to the rest of the world by the Germans of South St. Louis as hamburger. (b)
Americans quickly latched on to the hamburger as their all-time favorite. (c) For a bustling
people it offered a combination of convenience, economy and tasty nourishment that seemed
just what the doctor ordered. (d) As a matter of fact, it was. (e) Its more glamorous hotel-menu
33
name, Salisbury steak, harks back to the end-of-the-century London physician, Dr. H.J.
Salisbury, who invented a diet based on broiled lean minced beef three times a day. (f)
Nowadays, alas, some American children are unconsciously such fans of Dr. Salisbury’s diet
that they will eat nothing else. (g) One desperate mother we know has dubbed it “the daily
grind.”
-Irma Rombauer
(a)
(b)
(c)
(d)
(e)
(f)
(g)
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Assignment: Now, create your own subordinate sequence paragraph. Remember, each sentence
you write is generated by the one before it – each sentence leads directly to the next. Keep the
diagram in your mind, the idea of taking your reader by the hand and leading him/her down the
steps deeper and deeper into your ideas – don’t lose your reader along the way!
Let’s start with this topic sentence – write it down in your Composition Book and then add at least
4 or 5 subordinate sequence sentences to create a good paragraph:
Hip-hop music is the best (or worst) thing to come along in a long, long time.
Below are 3 topic sentences to choose from. Pick one, and then create a subordinate sequence
paragraph.
1. If I could have one supreme talent – like Michal Jordan in basketball or Picasso in painting – it
would be ___________.
or
2. I would do this [name specific activity] all day long if I could.
or
3. School would be a much better place to be if ____________.
34
Mixed Sequence Models
You can probably guess that Mixed Sequence paragraphs will be a combination of the coordinate and
subordinate types we’ve been working with. Mixed Sequence paragraphs are by far the most common
kind of paragraph we’ll run across in any reading we do, and they are the most useful in terms of our
writing strategies as well.
Sometimes a list of examples (coordinate) relating to our topic is appropriate, and sometimes a
sequence that leads us from one idea directly to the next is just what we need; but really, what most of
us want most often is both of these strategies, integrated. We need illustrations/examples of the idea
we raise in our topic, but we usually want more detail (level 3, 4, 5 sentences) as well, and in fact it’s
usually necessary to really make the point. This is what the mixed sequence paragraph is all about.
Let’s look at how this works. First, we’ll look at a very simple, pure coordinate sequence paragraph:
(a) The best case I ever ran across of a compulsive-obsessive man was one of my old professors.
(b) He was a man who very characteristically saved things. (c) He was also a man who labeled
everything, as such people will do.
-Abraham Maslow
As you can see, this simple, coordinate sequence paragraph can be diagrammed like this:
(p)
(q)
(r)
1
2
2
This is a simple sketch: two traits of the compulsive-obsessive personality, and little more. Maslow’s original
paragraph has much more: details that bring the old professor and his quirkiness clearly into view. Let’s look at
the original paragraph – all the previously omitted sentences have been added back in and italicized:
(a) The best case I ever ran across of a compulsive-obsessive man was one of my old professors. (b) He was a
man who very characteristically saved things. (c) He had all the newspapers that he had ever read, bound by
weeks. (d) I think each week was bound by a little red string, and then all the papers of the month would be put
together and tied with a yellow string. (e) He saved his old razor blades. (f) He had all his old razor blades
stored away in the bathroom closet, nicely packaged. (g) He was also a man who labeled everything, as such
people will do. (h) Once in his laboratory, he spent hours trying to get a label on a little probe of the sort that
didn’t have any space for a label at all. (i) And once I turned up the lid of the piano in his laboratory and there
as a label on it, identifying it as “Piano.”
(g)
(h)
(i)
(j)
(k)
(l)
(m)
(n)
(o)
1
2
3
4
3
4
2
3
3
35
Above we have examples of how the old professor saved things, each developed to level 4. And we
also have, at the end of the paragraph, two parallel examples of his labeling mania. Maslow’s portrait
represents a combination of subordinate and coordinate sequences, and it shows the connection
between lower levels of generality and the wealth of specific detail available in any description.
Think of very general ideas as being up on the surface of the water – it’s all nice and pretty and you can
float along there quite well for a while. But when you get below the surface, you start to find
interesting fishes and currents and temperatures that are far more fascinating! When we dive really
deep, we sometimes find a beautiful coral bed, or maybe – if we’re lucky and write really well – a
sunken treasure. Notice how interesting things begin to happen once the writer descends to lower
levels of generality. Lower levels equals more detail!
Assignment is to fill in the blank – complete the sentence in your Composition Book
based on how you see yourself – and develop it in a complex, multi-level paragraph.
Try to generate at least 7 good sentences, but really, shoot for as many as you can
produce.
“I am ____________”
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Coordinate, Subordinate, Mixed Sequence Paragraphs – Summation
What can we gain from practicing paragraph writing skills with these models in mind?
Conceptual: the diagramming of paragraphs allows you to see the levels of generality in
your writing and in the writing of others. From top (topic) sentences at level one, to
examples/illustrations of the topic at level 2, to the detail and specificity level 3, 4, 5,
etc. sentences provide, we can see this happening when we look at paragraphs in this
way.
Generative: knowing that paragraphs work this way, we can generate ideas using these
paragraph writing strategies. Whether we’re giving a list of examples, or letting one
sentence lead us to the idea of the next, and then the next, this kind of writing approach
can help us get started and then create well-written paragraphs.
Revision: using these strategies, we can look at the sentences we’ve written and we can
see that they are all related to the topic sentence of our paragraph (remember, each
paragraph is a unit of thought – when you move to a new concept, you must begin a new
paragraph). We can also see how general or specific our writing is. Do we need to go
down a level, provide more detail, so the reader can really see the point we’re trying to
make as well as possible?
37
MODEL FOR YOUR OWN short story WRITING
Sentence Level Mecahnics
To us prospective thieves, the delay was harrowing, but Four-Eyes, a fresh convert to blooddrinking, was no less frustrated: we saw him jumping up and down with excitement, raising the
lid of the cauldron, dipping his chopsticks into the stew, taking out a lump of steaming meat,
sniffing it, inspecting it closely, and dropping it back with a disappointed shrug.
1) Intro Phrase
2) Main Clause S (Criminal)-V-O,
3) Subordinate Clause S (snitch), appositive phrase,-V-O:
4) 6 Verbal Phrases
5) SHORT SENTENCE
Student Sample I DO…WE DO…YOU DO
For the rat in the interrogation room, the cigarette burns were mounting, but the
enforcer, a recent parolee from county lock-up, knew where the rat’s children lived: the
rat could envision the enforcer picking the apartment lock, swooping up first the twoyear-old, then the five-year-old into each crook of his elbows, squeezing their innards to
pulp, turning back to the door, trench coat trailing like a cape as he darts down the stairs,
kick-smashing the glass foyer door open, then tossing the two-year-old through the back
window of his GMC Yukon, using his now free arm to fold the five-year-old’s
squirming legs motionless. So the rat kept quiet until the final cigarette seared into
his temples.
Read opening of Fired note what works: specific symbols, metaphors, rhythms of sentence
structure, characters, dialogues…
38
MODEL FOR YOUR OWN short story WRITING show Mr.
The Wind Cries Mary
By Jimmy Hendrix
After all the jacks are in their boxes
and the clowns have all gone to bed
You can hear happiness staggering
on down the street
footsteps dressed in red
5
And the wind whispers Mary
A broom is drearily sweeping
up the broken pieces of yesterday’s life
Somewhere a queen is weeping
Somewhere a king has no wife
10
And the wind, it cries Mary
The traffic lights, they turn,
uh, blue tomorrow
and shine their emptiness down on my bed
The tiny island sags down stream
15
‘cause the life that lived is, is dead
And the wind screams Mary
Uh will the wind ever remember
the names it has blow in the past?
And with this crutch, its old age, and its wisdom 20
it whispers no, this will be the last
And the wind cries Mary
Richmond…
Stretches her refinery-stack arms at dawn
And exhales dank funk all day long.
Her buildings moan for exfoliation,
Ache for facials—
A trip to Calistoga.
At night her sidewalks pop, pop, pop
And she locks her arms jail tight,
Daring dreams to walk her streets,
Cackling out anti-lullabies as she steeps
Our minds in bathtub gin.
--Alex Franklin
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Exposition and the Details that make a Dominant Impression
He darts away from his infant daughter’s grave, uphill. The other mourners see him, but are
stunned, stuck in a grieving black circle of stupor, and are slow to call to him. He is a hundred
yards away before the first voice cracks the silence. He dodges among gravestones. Dandelions
grow bright as butter among the graves. Nobody gives chase, but he runs as if they are at an
arm’s length.
The distance to the dark crescent of trees is greater than it seemed from beside the grave. The
romping of his body turns heavy; the slope of land grows steeper. Rather than hang vulnerable
in these wells of visibility he rushes across the rotting trunks and slithering pine needles.
Insects follow him out of the sun; his sweat draws them like a rope. His chest binds and his
shins splinter from jarring uphill into pits and flat rocks concealed by occasional matted carpets
of needles. He pauses, struggles with his breath, then digs his polished black shoes into the
inclining slope, up into the darkness, clogged with spider-fine twigs that finger his face no
matter how much he might crouch, weave or duck. His hands and face are scratched from
plowing through the bushes and saplings that rim the woods. The trees cease to march in rows
and grow together more thickly. Deeper inside there is more space. The pine trees smother all
growth. Darkness defies the broad daylight’s sky, which leaps in brief flashes from treetop to
treetop above him like a silent monkey.
The ground is steeper still, the darkness denser. Brown needles muffle the earth, are in union
now, one blanket. Sunshine sneaks down in narrow slots and dies on knee-high rocks, scabby
with lichen, that jut up through the blanket; collapsed trunks, softened by grubs and termites,
hold the blanket in place with intricate claws. Nothing is stirred, breezes are sealed out; it is
dim but hot in here, like an attic; the unseen sun bakes the shingles of green above his head.
Dead lower branches are lances, thrusting at the level of his eyes and chest, threatening to
topple him back down the slope, to tumble out of the woods and back down to the grave to
mourn among the others who undoubtedly wait there for him to do what is right. So he sinks
down, clings to the claw of a thin trunk, sucking down barely enough breath to sob.
Adapted from Rabbit Run, by John Updike
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Story Frameworks are known as EXPOSITION
Writing about Place: What is the Dominant Impression?
Sometimes people and their movements create part of the impression of a place, as at a funeral site or in a busy
mall. But our goal is to distinguish how we feel about the people from how we feel about the place itself. Look
back at the previous page at the passage you just heard and do the following with a partner:
1. [3 minutes] What kind of person is that place? And how does that kind of person
make others feel? What is the dominant impression of the woods in the 2 nd and 3rd
paragraphs? Agree on how to phrase that feeling and write it here:
2. [5 minutes] What diction (author’s word choice) created that impression for you? Circle
a total of 15 words and three phrases from the last two paragraphs that made you feel that
way, then show your partner and see if the two of you picked the same ones. Discuss your
reasons for the circled choices. Be ready to report what your partner and you decided to
the whole class for another 5-minute discussion.
3. [30 minutes] We are going to a location on campus to write our dominant
impressions/personifications (see Hendrix song for example of personification).
While accurately describing what you see is important, your real goal is to use diction that
conveys a feeling you get about the place. Before you start writing, take some time to
quietly walk about the area. Crouch, peer up, kneel, turn around, squint, touch, and
meditate on your surroundings to get a “feel” for them. What details will best get across
that dominant impression, that “feeling” without you saying directly “my feeling about the
place is….”? You will have to choose what to emphasize (perhaps with some repetition of
key diction or phrases), what to only lightly touch upon and what to leave out.
4. Walk About on Campus: Due back in class at ____________ in your Comp Book.
Visit a place on our campus between now and the return time and hand write your one
or two-page dominant impression with carefully selected, nuanced diction and a lot of
micro details (some with similes and metaphor and personification) of the place. You will
have a peer-revision partner identify the dominant impression and make any suggestions
about how to describe clearer the parts of the place that matter most.
5. As you read our class texts identify dominant impressions of the places that authors
convey. Be able to explain how the authors do that. Sometimes I will ask you to examine
specific passages, but always be looking on your own and note what use they serve in the
greater context of the whole story and apply what you learn in our workshops.
41
First Hand Bio or writing a Round Character (try with short stories too)
1. Write down the names of two people you personally know, who you think would be
interesting to write about.
2. Choose one person and rank order the top nine characteristics that best define them.
3. USE this format to write a poem about that person.
Title:
Name’s
Name’s
Don’t ask me about Name’s9)
8)
, 7)
.
Ask instead 6)
, 5)
Ask about 3)
.
And ask 2)
.
Ask me 1)
.
,
-4)
.
4. Place that person in a larger, true story. Use three of the following four narrative
strategies.
a)
b)
c)
d)
See( body, face, movement).
An experience you shared with the person.
Important things that aren’t immediately noticeable.
Noticeable things that aren’t important.
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BLEND of Person and Place as Significant for Self (40 POINTS)
Look at the Dominant Impression you already wrote. It was about a location you visited. Your job is to
place your real 1st-hand Bio subject in the place you wrote about, to put him or her in motion. You may
choose to write about a new place other than the one you visited on campus. Blend that person into the
scenery. It may be that the non-fictional person has been to your non-fictional dominant impression
location so that the whole piece is easy to blend as a non-fictional story. However, if not, then create a
believable fictional bridge from person to place. You can also call upon memory to narrate a 100%
non-fictional event of a person who moved around in a familiar place to you.
STRUCTURAL SUGGESTIONS
Perhaps, as in the sample “DYI” by Max Olgin, you can use lines from the First-Hand Bio or Round
Character poem that you wrote in class as topic sentences to introduce different paragraphs. Or as the
Uncle Lewis sample does, just write to honor place and roundness with your own chosen structure.
Type your Blend with 2-3 pages, 1 ½ –spaced (with proper heading) in 12 point font, with a creative,
centered title and nail the four criteria below:




Roundness of character in actions (10 pts)
Strong dominant impression in diction and micro-detail sentences (10 pts)
Well-used figurative language (metaphor or personification) (10 pts)
The 9 characteristics of the person seem to be have, almost, just barely under the surface, a
dialogue with the place. (10 pts)
DUE____________
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DIY by Max Olgin
The unfinished step-stone pathways snake all throughout the backyard. The cement
bags lie around the yard, waiting for Ben’s next project. Most of the property is covered by tall,
dry grass--except the lawn and the garden, both of which Ben seeded and sewed himself.
The hot Petaluma sun beats down, trying to strip the color from the lawn. Ben is at war with
that sun.
He tends to his garden daily. It has two levels, separated by a cinderblock wall. On the
bottom level, he grows lemon and plum trees. He plucks plums on hot summer days. On the
top level he grows an array of flowers and strawberries. He picks strawberries and doublehand cradles them into the house to eat later. The garden can be seen from inside the kitchen
and through the back door in the living room.
Exiting the sliding glass doors from the living room, there is a flat, square, partly
bricked-in patio. To the left rises a steep, serpentine, concrete path leading to the garden and
the upper area. This path passes his garden, the lawn, and a big oak tree with a bench
underneath. The path then continues as if it will lead somewhere, but it doesn’t. It stops at the
very top of the hill where one can purchase a good view of the house and backyard. To the
right of the patio is another path, yes, yet another path, and that one curves around the house
to the steep driveway and front door. Ben invested his swollen joints into this house.
Don’t ask me about Ben’s glasses and has white hair or his 6’5” frame or his
bodybuilder physique, even at the ancient age of 80. Every morning he does 200 sit ups on a
wooden bench that he made years ago. Daily, he rides his bike at least 5 miles, then back up
the steep driveway to his house. Like a mule, he hauls 50 pound bags of concrete up the
paths in the backyard. He prides himself on his strength.
Ask me instead why Ben watches the news six hours a day. According to him the world
is going downhill. He always tells stories about his past and the many near-death childhood
experiences, but says that the world itself was once sane. Not like today with its pill-frenzied
families. When his daughter says to be positive, he tries for a few minutes, then gets off track
and starts making grave predictions about the world again.
When at family gatherings, Ben rarely listens to others. Sometimes it’s because of his
poor hearing and sometimes it’s because he’s busy thinking about other things. If he finds his
own thoughts remotely interesting, which he usually does, he rifles them at the group. Often
times they are completely unrelated to the topic being discussed. He will often recount
something that happened on a TV show or movie he watched, as if telling a story about a
friend.
Before he left home, he lived on a farm, which had one sink in the kitchen and no
plumbing elsewhere. The outhouse they used was a source of one of Ben’s best stories.
When his father was using the outhouse one day, he encountered a Black Widow, which bit
him and put him in the hospital for a few days. Ben says that the hospital staff had never seen
anything like it before.
44
He grew up during the depression and lost his mother when he was three years old.
She died of a fever after giving birth to his sister. This left him to be raised by his immigrant
father, who was too busy as a sharecropper to watch over his young son. This may explain
the way Ben relates to his children and grandchildren.
His daughter says that he has mellowed with age, but his short temper still makes
appearances at the dinner table or when he’s driving. “No, YOU listen to ME,” he booms at
the table, when his son begins to complain about Ben’s self-centeredness. When the
arguments get too hot to handle, Ben walks away, fuming, into his garden to cool off.
He is particularly proud of his grafted fruit trees. He grafted cherry branches onto an
old apple tree and peach branches onto a plum tree. The point where the grafted branches
meet the host tree oozes black sap. The grafted branches were never in proportion to the tree
and tended to grow a moss that looked like mangy fur. But he got the fruit he wanted -- he
engineered it by hand. Handcrafted and homemade, not factory produced. Ben will do it
himself. Often times not finished, but always fully functional. Aesthetics come second for him.
45
Uncle Lewis: A Richmond Story by Mr. Franklin
On August 6th, 1987 I kissed
Trina on Gram’s plastic-covered couch.
It was after our first date: deep-sea fishing
Under the supervision of Trina’s adoptive
Grandmother.
I’d caught a 30-pound halibut and Grams showed me how to gut it.
She grabbed my wrist and guided my incisions,
Transferring that skill of scoop-flicking the fish’s vitals.
Trina was stoic, a fish-gut scooping veteran. I was not.
I’d never seen so much life go dead.
But that did not stop me from kissing her on that plastic-covered couch.
Later I married her, but that was my first kiss,
So I almost didn’t notice the bars on the windows
Or the dealers outside, hustling South 17th and Cutting.
And I almost didn’t see Gram’s brother, Uncle Lewis,
Shuffle out of his room
To accidentally witness our first kiss.
After that kiss I frequented Gram’s house
And wore the plastic on that couch thin.
I found out from Trina that Uncle Lewis was
A heroin addict.
But he didn’t match any images of heroin addicts I held.
Sure he dressed like a pimp,
And drove a felt-lined
Caddie
And sure he wore a felt-brimmed hat
And sure
He flashed
A disarming gold-toothed smile out of a gray goatee,
but his eyes weren’t dusty,
they gleamed;
he never slurred or bumped into furniture. He was functional,
accessible.
Once, when Trina was primping in the kitchen,
I asked Lewis if I had been out of line earlier that day
for questioning some line of my father’s logic.
He sat next to me on that plastic-covered couch and rasped,
“Discontent
is the seed of resurrection.
You’re supposed to question your fatha.
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Discontent is new skin to
wear.
But don’t say your discontent
out loud because that is disrespect.
Discontent be a silent,
necessary thing,
but the silence
outweigh the necessary—
especially for a boy and his fatha.”
He talked like that. Not a word slurred.
Respect was Lewis’ creed. He respected Grams enough to
Lift off in the Caddie out on the curb instead of in his room.
He’d sit in that car for hours, calling to young females on the street
Who’d lean into his window
To listen
to his rap about
Training them 17th street thugs
To respect their women.
Respect was his mantra.
From that plastic-covered couch I watched a dozen police raids on
Those 17th street thugs,
But Uncle Lewis,
Low in his felt-lined Caddie,
With tourniquets and blackened spoons on the dash
Was never rounded up with those boys.
Trina moved when Grams died,
So Uncle Lewis lived alone in that 17th street house.
In the mid nineties I visited him by myself a few times and
learned that,
though it was called Gram’s house, he had
Always paid the mortgage—so behind the scenes: such respect for his older sister.
I learned that Though he lifted off
every day,
Lewis never missed an assignment
As a truck driver for the
Safeway Distribution Center.
Then many years passed without my following through on the whims I had to pay more visits,
so on August 6th, 2001, when Lewis called Trina
to meet him at a motel in Vallejo,
I was thrilled to ride along with her.
The motel parking lot at dusk
Was awash in crack-fiends. It was hairy.
Trina led me to Lewis’ room.
He was not there, but a long-time girlfriend, Lucia, was.
47
She told Trina that Lewis was waiting for her in his car. Trina left.
Lucia said, “He always in that car.” I commented on how that was true back on 17th. “Alex, I remember
when you came by there to pick up Trina for the Snowball dance. You were so handsome—I just about
wanted to push Trina to the ground and jump in that limo and show you a good time.”
“I wish you would have,” I said. Lucia howled,
“Boy, I woulda turnt your cracker-ass out.”
“I know you would have,” I admitted.
“I gots 20 years on you boy, but Trina better watch out.”
Trina walked in crying.
Lucia shushed her and pulled her tight.
Trina said Lewis was waiting for me and to go find his car.
I dodged some lot fiends before sliding onto Lewis’ felt-lined seat.
His breath was coming in hot gulps and
his voice came to me as through a thin straw.
“Alex,” he was on the other side of it all,
“I’m real glad that you and Trina got married.”
“You always made me feel comfortable Lewis.”
“White boy coming down to South Side Richmond,
I knew that must be love. I respect that.”
Some sort of Superfly track was playing real low and it
Almost drowned out the gasping.
A crackhead wrapped his knuckles against my window.
I told him I wasn’t selling. He drifted to the next car.
Lewis grabbed my wrist with a tendonless force.
His hand was a cloud wisp.
The red feather in the silk lining of his felt hat was shaking
I looked back at the meandering lot fiends.
I must have missed his passing, but
When I looked back at Lewis,
His gold-toothed grin
For the first time
Out-shinned the gleam of his eyes.
--Alex Franklin
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Characterization
Typed Dramatic Monologue Criteria (35 POINTS)
You must include all 5 elements
1. a particular personality (narrator’s voice is distinct)—this is the purpose for writing the piece; a clear
sense of a voice-heavy character, one whose storytelling Compells = most important
(15 points)
2. at a particular present-tense setting (use subtle details to clue the reader in on where the
tale is being told) (2 points)
use italics to indicate to actor
3. narrator is featured in a compelling past event worth telling and that took place
elsewhere = the bulk of your writing
(10 points)
4. narrator is speaking to an implied other character because the character you create for
the stage needs a motive for telling the past-tense tale out loud. The implied listener’s
responses are only hinted at through the narrator’s words. (subtle hints). Use italics to
indicate to actor (3 points)
5. Use the model styles (complex sentences, personifications, conceits) that you practiced
on pages in this reader
(5 points)
“How long should this be?” 1 single-spaced page

Mr. Franklin will perform two examples:
My first performance will be the fictional piece from a former student:
Rita Tolkach’s “Origami, Coffee, and Cats Club”
My second performance will be the non-fictional piece from a former student:
Kaitlyn Yang’s “Let’s go to Hawaii”
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Two Options for Content of your Dramatic Monologue

Write a completely original story for Dramatic Monologue (fiction or non-fiction are
both fair game)
 Extrapolate to insert a scene into a book or movie or TV show that you know well.
Your monologue actor’s audience will best be served if they too know the story
well, so use popular stories as your source:
1. Write about one offstage event (something not told in the original story, but
that stays within the original story’s suggested timespan—i.e., don’t tack on
some new ending—no preludes or sequels)
2. Write the scene as retold using the voice of any character from the original
story.
3. Create an event that adds depth the original story. Even if it is fictional, do not
add any scenes that would not happen in the spirit of the original story.

ACTING/DIRECTING
To bring texts to life, good readers read a variety of styles and are familiar
with how both common and sophisticated literary devices contribute to these
styles. For another thing, good readers experience the text as if they are
actors and directors who want to perform well for an audience. So, for
participation credit, you might perform yours or ask a peer to perform yours
or Mr. Franklin might upon your okay!
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Rita’s and
Kaitlyn’s
Samples
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Creating a 3-D character in six sentences
“Make your characters want something right away—even if it’s only a glass of water. Characters
paralyzed by the meaninglessness of modern life still have to drink water from time to time.”
--Kurt Vonnegut
1st sentence = a) create a fun first and last name of a character, b) character possesses something
he/she/it wants using an active verb, c)end with a prepositional phrase.
2nd sentence = a shallow or vague internal thought about the near future.
3rd sentence = transition the character to physically move through the setting, perhaps even to
a new setting
4th sentence =a second, deeper thought that reveals emotional scars from a past event or
relationship
5th sentence = says something out loud to steady the emotions the last though produced and
move to the near future describe in # 2 sentence above.
6th sentence = an unfortunate or even tragic event/encounter (need not be death).
Two student examples:
#1 Keven Bluntweed slid the rolling papers from the granite counter. With any luck I fill these papers and fly high
before the night is over, he thought. His feet skipped most of the stairs down the four flights and he knocked the
secret stash knock on the dealer’s door down on the second floor. He thought of his ex and wondered if she would
be sleeping with Randy Ready at her rehab. When the dealer failed to open up, Keven fished his extra key from his
pocket; he saw blood on the opposite wall, and never heard the bullet that killed him.
#2 Sic Ofitall placed the gun gently on his forehead. Does heaven want me? he wondered. He scooched closer to the
window and gazed at the city lights below, bemused by all that life, searching for meaning. He thought of how his
son shot out of his wife at birth, like a squid out of a cannon; up one of the doctor’s arms, across her chest, and down
the other, and softly smiled, and shouted, seemingly at the city below, “Nice catch doc!” Sic removed the gun from
his forehead, shook his head for a moment, then placed it in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
1. Now share yours aloud with our whole class.
2. Post activity = Now share your short story in a trio—peers suggest a place
in the existing narrative where to insert a six-sentence 3-D sequence…
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In-class short story exercise
Fluency Write #2 20 minutes write your assigned situation dialogue (mix in
narrative too). Or, you can insert dialogue into a short story on which you're
working, just be sure that it should happen only when the conversation is a key event in
the story.
1. explain that baby: Your character kidnaps a baby. (What is the motive?) Your
character's husband/wife, discovers your character changing diapers in the living room,
and wants to know what's going on. Write the conversation. What happens next?
2. taking sides: This story takes place at a restaurant. Three acquaintances have gone out
to dinner together. Person A has just left his/her wife and family. Person B supports this
decision. Person C thinks this was criminally irresponsible. write the conversation.
(Suggestion: try giving each character the voice of a different person who you actually
know. For example, Person A might talk like one of your classmates, and Person B might
talk like your brother or sister. Choose people who are very different from each other.
Then try to express each one's unique voice so clearly that you don't need to tell the
reader which character said which sentence: the goal is to make it easy for your reader to
"hear" the difference between who says what.)
3. bus ride: The story takes place on a long bus ride between two cities. Two strangers
are sharing a seat. Each one secretly hopes to get something from the other. For
example: one of them wants a job or money or a place to stay in the city where they're
headed. The other one wants love or a one-night stand. Neither of them mentions directly
what he or she wants. They pretend to make casual small-talk, but each one is actually
trying to manipulate the conversation in order to reach his or her secret goal. Write the
conversation.
4. dangerous suggestion: A man suggests to his girlfriend that she get cosmetic surgery.
Write the conversation.
5. young decorator: Parents come home from a trip and discover that their teenager has
redecorated the house while they were gone. The teenager tries to convince the parents
that this was a good idea. One of the parents is partially convinced; the other one isn't.
Write the conversation.
After Fluency Writes, peer-check the Dialogue Dos and No-nos
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Some Dialogue Dos:

Show how the character speaks instead of telling it.

If the character speaks angrily, you can make this come through in her words -- it's therefore
often not necessary to add an expressive dialogue tag such as, "she said angrily." The same if a
character is shouting or crying, etc.

Keep reader's attention on your character's speech, not your narrative explanation of it.
Some Dialogue No-nos:

Information stuffing: "Hey, is that your sister Kate, who dropped out of college to become a
welder, causing your father to have a nervous breakdown?"

Putting YOUR words in their mouths: "My Daddy won't let me play with Stevie's trucks, which
makes me cry because I'm only four years old and I'm already the victim of gender stereotypes."

Don't get too colorful with the dialogue tags. "Hello," she shouted; "Hi there," he cried; "How
are you?" she queried," "Fine thanks," he shrilled... too much of this stuff gets distracting fast.
Put your thesaurus away. The basic dialogue verbs "say," "tell," and "ask," have the advantage
of fading in the background, letting the reader focus on what your character is saying.

Don't feel obligated to add a tag to every bit of dialogue. If it's clear who's saying what without
them, then you can leave them off.

Opposite of the above = Don't let your reader get disoriented. Use dialogue tags when they're
needed to prevent confusion. There's nothing worse for a reader than stopping in the middle of
an exciting scene to retrace the dialogue and try to figure out who's saying which lines (Okay, it's
the killer speaking here, so this must be the detective who's answering him, not his sister...wait,
who said the short line in between?)
Explain James Baldwin’ method of asking characters how they feel
once they are 100 pages old and provide an example with Victor
from Fired 100 pages later.
54
Humorous Techniques for Writing
“A person without a sense of humor is like a wagon without springs, jolted by every
pebble in the road” –Henry Ward Beecher
1. Humor often revolves around incongruity: things that don’t normally fit together. You
can call these strange juxtapositions.
Example: Think of Rebecca Black as the Philosophy Club president.
2. The Rule of Three: First set a pattern, then confirm the pattern, finally, surprisingly twist
the pattern.
Example: Seth McFarlane honoring Bill Mar at Walk of Fame Star Ceremony at:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ZFgsQnGvhI
3. Reversal or Misdirection: take a recognizable character type or situation and then
disrupt it.
Example: Three guys walk into a bar, the fourth one ducks.
4. Hyperbole or Exaggeration: Intensify some aspect of something:
Example: See Caricature Cartoons or Your Mama jokes…
5. Puns
Example: “One the other hand, you have different fingers.” --Steven Wright
55
PRIVACY= ALWAYS MAINAIN A 10 YARD DISTANCE FROM OTHER PAIRS
WALKING
A) Once out at The Campanile, the two of you should walk-talk some Counter-Clockwise laps on the concrete
path
B) Both of you should walk stride for stride together
C) First walk one brisk-paced lap to get your hearts pumping
D) Then slow down to walk at least two more laps at a pace both of you can enjoy
E) After three laps decide if the two of you would like to finish your discussion by sitting somewhere together
(still maintaining 10 yards of distance away from other pairs) or by continuing to walk
F) Whether you sit or walk more laps, make sure to increase eye-contact as you continue
TALKING
G) One of you read all the following odd numbered questions and alternate with the other who reads all the
even numbered questions.
H) Both of you take turns sharing full answers to all the questions
I) Also feel free to interject follow-up questions that interest you--as long as you cover all the written questions,
try to be as free and easy as you can, you know, like totes-my-goats conversational
QUESTIONS
1. What is something you are really good at?
2. What is one of you biggest fears? why?
3. What do you wish you were better at doing? why?
4. What are each of your three short stories about? Tell the narrative arcs, expositions/settings, names of
characters, types of characters, conflicts, thematic tensions, dramatic ironies, symbolisms, figurative language,
dialogues, rhythms...
5. Now that you’ve heard about all of them, which of your partner’s stories are you most looking forward to
reading? Why?
6. Perhaps you and your partner are of accord in the answer to #5 above, but which of the three stories are you
thinking of reading aloud for your assigned group of four next week?
7. What are you most proud of in that story?
8. What do you want your partner to listen for as a reader most when you hand over the hard copy for
feedback?
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Mr. Franklin’s REVISION of Writing Workshops Policy = key to growth
I like that W.H. Auden used to pick his finished volumes of poetry off of bookstore and library shelves
and write in them then place them back on the shelf. He knew that “Works of literature are never
finished, only abandoned.” The implication is that if it is really literature (rather than mere writing
exercises), then we won’t stop thinking about the ideas or phrasings in it just because it was
published or had a deadline. Good literature, whether we read it, or write it ourselves, continues to
grow in the mind after we close the back cover or turn it in.
“A work of literature is never finished, only abandoned until later.”
Now is later for the writings you’ve done, so pull one out and do the following:
Delete
15 word penalty

phrases
Condense
Add
due to the fact that =
“because”
I can remember =
Delete

Contract adverbs
with verbs
Very quickly ran = dashed


Redundancies
Tangents
Skeletons

Write 2- 3 sentences
in between 2 existing
sentences:
--Sensory detail
--commentary
--figurative language

Dangler of great line
--new document
--start with it an write new
lines
Re-organize
Create clarity of logic,
suspense, pace, by
Moving sentences:
--last to first
--first to last
Move paragraphs
--last to first
--first to last
57
Instead of Bland…Try Creative and Imaginative Language
Show, don’t tell, details, metaphors, wit and voice…
Instead of: “The parachute opened and lifted me up into the sky.”
Try adding sensory details: “When the boat’s two crew members unleashed the parachute,
a fiery river of color burst into the sky.”
Instead of: “He had a raspy voice.”
Try rounder characterization: “Soon he was aware only of the deep, rumbling timbre of
Inman’s voice, which had been smoke-cured the classic Southern way, by decades of Camel
cigarettes, unfiltered.”
Instead of: “He wore a thick gold chain”
Try voice: “Adorning his neck was a gold chain so chunky you could have used it to pull an
Isuzu pickup out of a red clay ditch.”
Instead of: “Everybody grinned.”
Try fresh language: “So many boiling teeth!”
Instead of: “She was tongue-tied.”
Try metaphor: “She was aware of tripping on her own verbal vines and thickets.”
Instead of: “She wore a lot of jewelry.”
Try specific phrasing: “She wore about 500 watts of jewelry.”
Instead of: “The performers played their hearts out.”
Try busyness of scene: “Deep into Beethoven’s sixth, they were, this huge arc of human
beings up on the stage, all laboring so earnestly with their cellos, their oboes, their
bassoons, and one viola—all sawing and moaning away in my midsection.”
Instead of: “They were stuck up.”
Try unspoken group rules: “They all saw loneliness as a stigma, as a sign of failure, as a
gaffe. It was a violation of etiquette, loneliness was, a source of embarrassment.”
Instead of: “They stabbed him with their bayonets.”
Try unexpected verbs: “They ventilated him with their bayonets.”
Instead of: “Her back ached.”
Try evolution of a feeling: “He made her sit still fifteen minutes, then forty, then an hour,
just watching, until her backbone threatened to split open and eject some other creature
from her cracked shell.”
Instead of: “Even though I’m fuming on the inside, I remain outwardly composed.”
58
Try emotional imagery: “I often don’t say things out loud, even when I should. I contain
and compartmentalize to a disturbing degree: In my belly-basement are hundreds of
bottles of rage, despair, fear, but you’d never guess from looking at me.”
Instead of: “As time goes by, it’s getting harder and harder to do or say anything original.”
Try cause and effect: “I don’t know that we are actually human at this point. Those who
are, like most of us, have grown up with TV and movies and the Internet, are betrayed by
all the scripts; we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say.
If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are
all working from the same dog-eared script.”
Instead of: “We know more than the previous generations of our species.”
Try humorous twist of cliché: “A dwarf on a giant’s shoulders sees the farthest of the two.”
Re-write one or two or all three of these boring sentences with creative/imaginative technique:
a) Her phone rang and she picked it up.
b) He played with Legos.
c) A lot of people in the room were coughing.
59
Your Brain on Fiction
By ANNIE MURPHY PAUL
NY Times Published: March 17, 2012
AMID the squawks and pings of our digital devices, the old-fashioned virtues of reading
novels can seem faded, even futile. But new support for the value of fiction is arriving from
an unexpected quarter: neuroscience.
Brain scans are revealing what happens in our heads when we read a detailed description,
an evocative metaphor or an emotional exchange between characters. Stories, this research
is showing, stimulate the brain and even change how we act in life.
Researchers have long known that the “classical” language regions, like Broca’s area and
Wernicke’s area, are involved in how the brain interprets written words. What scientists
have come to realize in the last few years is that narratives activate many other parts of our
brains as well, suggesting why the experience of reading can feel so alive. Words like
“lavender,” “cinnamon” and “soap,” for example, elicit a response not only from the
language-processing areas of our brains, but also those devoted to dealing with smells.
In a 2006 study published in the journal NeuroImage, researchers in Spain asked
participants to read words with strong odor associations, along with neutral words, while
their brains were being scanned by a functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI)
machine. When subjects looked at the Spanish words for “perfume” and “coffee,” their
primary olfactory cortex lit up; when they saw the words that mean “chair” and “key,” this
region remained dark. The way the brain handles metaphors has also received extensive
study; some scientists have contended that figures of speech like “a rough day” are so
familiar that they are treated simply as words and no more. Last month, however, a team of
researchers from Emory University reported in Brain & Language that when subjects in
their laboratory read a metaphor involving texture, the sensory cortex, responsible for
perceiving texture through touch, became active. Metaphors like “The singer had a velvet
voice” and “He had leathery hands” roused the sensory cortex, while phrases matched for
meaning, like “The singer had a pleasing voice” and “He had strong hands,” did not.
Researchers have discovered that words describing motion also stimulate regions of the
brain distinct from language-processing areas. In a study led by the cognitive scientist
Véronique Boulenger, of the Laboratory of Language Dynamics in France, the brains of
participants were scanned as they read sentences like “John grasped the object” and “Pablo
60
kicked the ball.” The scans revealed activity in the motor cortex, which coordinates the
body’s movements. What’s more, this activity was concentrated in one part of the motor
cortex when the movement described was arm-related and in another part when the
movement concerned the leg.
The brain, it seems, does not make much of a distinction between reading about an
experience and encountering it in real life; in each case, the same neurological regions are
stimulated. Keith Oatley, an emeritus professor of cognitive psychology at the University of
Toronto (and a published novelist), has proposed that reading produces a vivid simulation
of reality, one that “runs on minds of readers just as computer simulations run on
computers.” Fiction — with its redolent details, imaginative metaphors and attentive
descriptions of people and their actions — offers an especially rich replica. Indeed, in one
respect novels go beyond simulating reality to give readers an experience unavailable off the
page: the opportunity to enter fully into other people’s thoughts and feelings.
The novel, of course, is an unequaled medium for the exploration of human social and
emotional life. And there is evidence that just as the brain responds to depictions of smells
and textures and movements as if they were the real thing, so it treats the interactions
among fictional characters as something like real-life social encounters. Raymond Mar, a
psychologist at York University in Canada, performed an analysis of 86 fMRI studies,
published last year in the Annual Review of Psychology, and concluded that there was
substantial overlap in the brain networks used to understand stories and the networks used
to navigate interactions with other individuals — in particular, interactions in which we’re
trying to figure out the thoughts and feelings of others. Scientists call this capacity of the
brain to construct a map of other people’s intentions “theory of mind.” Narratives offer a
unique opportunity to engage this capacity, as we identify with characters’ longings and
frustrations, guess at their hidden motives and track their encounters with friends and
enemies, neighbors and lovers.
It is an exercise that hones our real-life social skills, another body of research suggests. Dr.
Oatley and Dr. Mar, in collaboration with several other scientists, reported in two studies,
published in 2006 and 2009, that individuals who frequently read fiction seem to be better
able to understand other people, empathize with them and see the world from their
perspective. This relationship persisted even after the researchers accounted for the
possibility that more empathetic individuals might prefer reading novels. A 2010 study by
Dr. Mar found a similar result in preschool-age children: the more stories they had read to
them, the keener their theory of mind — an effect that was also produced by watching
61
movies but, curiously, not by watching television. (Dr. Mar has conjectured that because
children often watch TV alone, but go to the movies with their parents, they may experience
more “parent-children conversations about mental states” when it comes to films.)
Fiction, Dr. Oatley notes, “is a particularly useful simulation because negotiating the social
world effectively is extremely tricky, requiring us to weigh up myriad interacting instances
of cause and effect. Just as computer simulations can help us get to grips with complex
problems such as flying a plane or forecasting the weather, so novels, stories and dramas
can help us understand the complexities of social life.”
These findings will affirm the experience of readers who have felt illuminated and instructed
by a novel, who have found themselves comparing a plucky young woman to Elizabeth
Bennet or a tiresome pedant to Edward Casaubon. Reading great literature, it has long been
averred, enlarges and improves us as human beings. Brain science shows this claim is truer
than we imagined.
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FICTION: IS IT OPIUM, INSIGHT, OR WHAT? (50 points)
Concrete Anchoring together in class: Think of the broad category of Fiction—from books, yes, but
from movies too, and plays, and cartoons and TV shows and Video Games and go through your mental
rolodex of all the fictional characters you can remember. Do this for a minute, then determine whether
you could save the life of a loved one by naming at least 100 characters…well could you? You could
probably do 1000, right? Maybe 10,000! Now narrow down to two or three of your all-time favorite
fictional characters. You’ll pick one and explain why to us. Please do not feel that you need to look
sophisticated by picking someone such as Hamlet (unless indeed, his existential angst is riveting to you),
you might actually love Scooby Doo the best: he’s scarred all the time but he loves a good mystery and
he braves all the ghouls to find out who dun it, “Would you do it for TWOOO Scooby Snacks?” You
might love a villain, that’s fine too, just explain why? You may never have thought of why you know all
these characters so well, but it does suggest that fiction plays a big part in the stories we tell about
humans and our selves.
Prepare for “FICTION” Seminar by reading this pages and following page to do all of the following:
a)
Evaluate the claims on the next page--WHAT OTHERS HAVE SAID—which seem
convincing?
b) SOME QUESTIONS TO CONSIDER Answer an assigned question 1-6 below for your fishbowl
discussion. Also answer at least two other (non-assigned) questions of your choice (kudos if you
answer all of them in depth. In order to make the seminar less abstract and more concrete, please
provide evidence, citing many examples from fiction that you’ve read or seen (books, movies,
plays…) All of your answers must have the phrase “For example…” in them.
SOME QUESTIONS TO CONSIDER:
1. What is the relation of fiction to truth? Reality? Life? Its author?
2. Does fiction influence society (no Jaws Googling please)? How? What is its impact on
individuals?
3. How do the author's experience and personality on the one hand, and society's values,
interests, and assumptions, influence fiction?
4. How influential is fiction as deliberate and/or unintentional role-modeling for our
character traits, beliefs, actions?
5. Is fiction a kind of psychotherapy for the author? If so, when is that self-indulgent and
when is it “good” Art?
6. Of course, fictional stories are often an escape from the HERE and NOW, but how
many of these escapes are “good” for the reader/viewer’s mental health? None? Some?
All? Is there a such thing as a particular achievement of a story’s craft and “quality” that
effects the answers? In your opinion, compare and contrast an example of well-crafted
vs. a poorly crafted fiction.
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WHAT OTHERS HAVE SAID
Fiction's about what it is to be a human being.
David Foster Wallace
There must be possible a fiction which, leaving sociology and case histories to the scientists, can arrive
at the truth about the human condition, here and now...
Ralph Ellison
There's a reason why every human society has fiction. It teaches us how to be 'good,' to behave in a
way that is for the benefit of the whole community.
Orson Scott Card
People look for morals in fiction because there has always been a confusion between fiction and
philosophy.
John Cheever
Young readers have to be entertained. No child reads fiction because they think it's going to make
them a better person. [AC: but maybe their parents think so.]
Mark Haddon
Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
It's no wonder that truth is stranger than fiction. Fiction has to make sense.
Mark Twain
Fiction is a piece of truth that turns lies to meaning.
Dorothy Allison
....fiction is fact distilled into truth.
Edward Albee
Some people just don't seem to understand the concept of fiction. It is fiction; it ain't true, folks.
Laurell K. Hamilton
There is no longer any such thing as fiction or nonfiction; there's only narrative.
E. L. Doctorow
Journalism allows its readers to witness history; fiction gives its readers an opportunity to live it.
John Hersey
It means that no matter what you write, be it a biography, an autobiography, a detective novel, or a
conversation on the street, it all becomes fiction as soon as you write it down.
Guillermo Cabrera Infante
All fiction becomes autobiographical when the author has true talent.
Jeanne Moreau
Fiction is life with the dull bits left out.
Clive James
All the best stories are but one story in reality - the story of escape. It is the only thing which interests
us all and at all times, how to escape.
A. C. Benson
Impotence, fetishism, bisexuality, and bondage are all facts of life, and our fiction should reflect that.
--Rick Moody
% non-fiction story times? Why?
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Meta-Fiction
Meta-fiction (noun) a type of fiction that self-consciously addresses the devices of fiction, exposing the fictional
illusion. It systematically draws attention to its status as an artifact in posing questions about the relationship
between fiction and reality, usually using irony and self-reflection. It can be compared to presentational theatre,
which does not let the audience forget it is viewing a play; meta-fiction does not let the reader forget he or she is
reading a fictional work.
Play “Duck Amuck”
Meta Jokes

A magic tractor heads down a path and turns into a field

Knock, knock. Who's there? Noah. Noah who? No-ah good knock-knock joke?

“Why are blonde jokes so short?” The answer: "So brunettes can remember them."

Why did the chicken cross the road? To have its motives questioned.

Why did the elephant cross the road? Because the chicken retired

A dyslexic man walks into a bra.

An Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman walk into a bar. The bartender turns to
them, takes one look, and says, "What is this - some kind of joke?"

Request to the audience to get the paramedics to “revive” the last joke or the
metaphorical “dying” of the comedian.

I've never meta-joke I didn't like.

Knock, knock. Who’s There? Meta-Joke. Meta-Joke, Who? Punchline!
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Why Meta Mind Clutter Apartment needs Medi(tation) Mind Maid
Sometimes I think about what I'm thinking about, and then I realize that I'm thinking about what I'm
thinking about--and think about that. The overall effect is like being on a chairlift going up a mountain,
and then the chairlift gets whisked away by a huge military transport plane, which is in turn sucked up
into the belly of some alien mother ship. Except that I'm the freaking alien that's exploring the thoughts
of the poor little Earthling. Did I mention I often have trouble sleeping?
Do “Charlie’s Fiction”
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How’d we get to the Literature and Art we now know?
A Brief Account of Modernism
Dates: 1900-1940
What provoked it? Urbanization and Industrialization led to a decentralized spirituality—no more
town preacher. WWI reduced many ancient cities to ruble, so all the world was a “Wasteland.”
Traditional structures of institutions, architecture, art, language seemed less permanent, less
secure, certainly not absolutely right.
What did it aim to do? Show that the old ways were arbitrary, and the old ways led to ruin, so
needed not be rebuilt. Instead of rebuilding, there was a sense of recreating the world from scratch
in new ways.
Its view of Art? Think Picasso. Think Stream-Of –Consciousness narratives. An exuberant sense
of freedom and limitless imagination was pervasive. Pound’s motto: make it new! Free verse and
even blank verse flourished. A re-naming of things with concrete imagery as a way to not define
experience as much as create it as we go.
A Brief Account of Postmodernism
Dates: 1945-Now.
What provoked it? Modernism’s absorption by the Bourgeoisie. Commodification. The general
collapse of the late-capitalist, corporate-industrial, technologically-totalitarian economy.
Breakdown of traditional authority. The tyranny of chaos. Loss of all certainty. Ferocious
contradictions prowling at all ports of thought. Creeping sense that, for the first time, the future
would be worse than the past. Loss of faith in Progress. Rise of homogenized world culture.
Presence of a hedonistic youth culture. Breakdown of family and patriarchy. Emergence of class,
gender, ethnic, sexual lifestyle alternatives. Need to escape from the half-nelson of narrow-minded
expectations, to shatter the official narrative line. Failure not just of answers but questions. Reality
defined by TV. Professionalization of literary criticism by universities. Urbanization. A general
acceleration of life.
What did it aim to do? It attacked yet participated in mass culture. It was anti, but also hyper
intellectual. The self was infinitely fragmented. New public mind invaded private mind. It asked
more of information givers which were equivocating and inconclusive. It rejected high seriousness
and thus became restless and rootless, swirled in super flux. Made objectivity a laugh. Everything
became ideological. Age of quantity and overkill. Language was contaminated by ad talk: said life
is not absurd, it’s ridiculous.
Its view of Art? A sense that culture is at a breaking point, making art a game changer, a
commodity. The artist fought being isolated and belittled. It fought the death of the author and
genres and heroes. The first generation of totally college-educated writers developed an
understood hostility between the author and the reader. It was a counter-assault on TV-style
stories, with a refusal to ring closure out of narrative arcs, with meaning endlessly postponed. Art
is a birth of inter-textuality and meta-narrative.
67
Anyone here lucky or unlucky or know anyone who is?
Why Meta Matters
Metafiction is an attempt through stories to understand what stories are. Why do stories matter?
Because we are stories.
Whenever you — or anyone else — says you are woman or heterosexual or suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder or lucky or afraid of needles or good with children, you are choosing
words that tell a story about yourself and the stories you tell about yourself strongly affect, if
not determine, the lives you’ll lead.
The moment the ultrasound detects your sexual organs, even before you are squeezed into the
world, the theater begins. When the doctor says, “It’s a boy,” colors are picked for your room,
costumes are bought, props are chosen. Bedroom, toys and clothes decide, for most of us, what
roles we will rehearse as a child: football hero or princess, adventurer or bride, superman or
supermom. Even those brave kids who realize they have been cast in the wrong role are shaped
by the story of their gender, a story they must constantly rewrite.
Words are magic. They create reality. What is usually considered the defining act of sex?
Penetration. And who penetrates? The man. This makes sex into something men do actively and
women receive passively, thereby creating a social order that echoes the sexual act. But what if
the word were not “penetration,” but “engulfment”? Imagine then how our views of gender
would change, how society itself would change.
Call yourself gay, you may ignore some attraction to the opposite sex. You say you are
obsessive compulsive, then you are more likely to be obsessive than the obsessive people who
don’t know they are obsessive, but the label may give you the freedom to change. Unlucky?
You won’t have any more bad events in your life on average, but you will notice them more and
have a pessimistic outlook. If you say you hate to cut your fingernails, you will continue to hate
it for the rest of your life. If you claim you are bad with children, you are writing the interaction
you will have with the young folk around you.
Most of our stories we pick up not at the beginning, but in the middle. We enter the epic in
media res, in the thick of the action. If you are white that generally means you will have better
education, better job opportunities, and better housing. Say you are Puerto Rican and you will
belong to a country that, for the most part, doesn’t know that you are a part of their country, a
country which has written you out of their story. If we do not understand the stories we have
entered, we cannot understand who we are in relation to those stories. Thus, we are characters
playing out roles assigned to us, but if we know our stories, then we can alter them, we can
become the authors of ourselves.
68
When a tale tries to catch its own tail in its mouth, it makes something bigger
than itself, something eternal, like the ouroboros, the snake that eats its own tail, or, as Carl
Jung describes it, “the dragon that devours, fertilizes, begets, and slays itself and brings itself to
life again” (Jung 357).
We can do the same for ourselves. We can devour ourselves by examining the labels and stories
that make us who we are. We can fertilize ourselves by funneling these pieces back into
ourselves in new arrangements. We can beget ourselves by creating new selves. We can slay
ourselves by saying we are not the story about ourselves and we can bring ourselves to life
again by saying, “I am a story that knows it is a story and therefore I am more than a story.”
Understanding stories means understanding ourselves.
Meta happens whenever we look at ourselves in a mirror, or in our art, or in our music, or in our
writing, and ask, “Who the hell am I? What am I? How am I what I am?”
Even, “Am I?”
How have humans solved the problem of existence? Through meta. Buddhism says, “Nonexistence is the ultimate existence.” In other words, if you can step outside your labels and your
roles and your stories, then you can truly be.
In the west, we solved the problem of existence with, “I think; therefore, I am.” Descartes’
meta-statement has often been criticized for founding human existence on logical thought
processes, but this dismissal overlooks the genius of Des Cartes’ realization. He recognized that
wondering whether or not he existed proved his existence. If something was wondering about
its being, then something must exist in order to wonder about itself.
The good news: I am! The “I” may be just a fraction of my whole being and history, a fictional
speaker I invent in order to discuss myself. The “am” may contain certain assumptions about
being and existence in relation to the invented speaker and the universe that contains it. The
story “I am” may be a piece of fiction, an artificial creation about a person and his existence, but
when I take the fiction apart and recognize it is just a tale, I also realize that I exist outside of
that story. And in spite of that story. And because of that story.
In more biblical terms, meta allows us to say, “I am that I am,” thereby creating ourselves and
our world through language. Or as Carl Sagan puts it, “We are a way for the universe to know
itself.” Meta makes us God.
69
How Meta Matters to you as a Writer
Most of you are familiar with the concept of the
“omniscient narrator,” which refers to a storyteller
who, like God, knows everything about everyone in
the story being told. You are the omniscient narrator
of the story of you – no one else has all the
information you have, and no one else has the ability
to change the story of who you are and what you
might be the way that you can. Understanding
stories means understanding ourselves, yes, and it
also means that we can recognize when it’s time for
a plot change, time for a new chapter in our lives,
time for the character who is “I” to evolve.
Meta-Narrative Video or Live Final (100 points) –start now
After scan-reading “Brief Account of Post-modernism” and acting out “Charlie’s Fiction” to see what made it work,
a la Mr. Ryan’s email to me: “Dude! Funny and good. My favorite part, esp. in terms of what our students
are often like, is Author always finding ways to procrastinate (the sandwich, the dishes, the jog….) but the
characters, the material continues on, it doesn’t go away, it’s always there. Great.”
One thing we will not sacrifice at all is material that continues on…the biggest meta-narrative
mistake is to abandon the story, the narrative arc to only go meta. This is the problem with say
the spoofs series Scary Movie—everything is a spoof of the predictable and the cliché without a
good new story being told at the same time—the structure of that series of movies itself becomes
predictable and cliché—that is, let’s mock 25 parts of this genre in a row that show how stupid the
characters are…but is really just a disingenuous disassociation from our humanity.
Your final will be an accumulative commentary on the significance of lessons you’ve learned in this class,
a bridge from the fictions to relevance in your lives—that is the core of the final, while the meta will only
be used as a framework that serves to help communicate the significance of what you’ve learned. Both to
lighten the mood of this class and to watch an excellent meta-fiction that honors genuine characters
whose intelligence matters, we’ll watch a real gem:
Ruby Sparks
then we’ll read Lorrie Moore’s meta-fictional “How to Become a Writer” on page 491 in 40 Short Stories
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Meta-Narrative Final Grading Criteria (100 points)
1. (50 points)—Insert yourself into what you love or find worthy of contemplation and commentary
from these 6 weeks by sampling from our authors, sampling lines from the Class Reader to build
beyond pastiche into something original and significant. The meaning of your story/lesson should
matter to the audience so much as to linger like a gift or an epiphany. And access that depth with
language and style that are creative and fresh and sizzle-y and delightful.
2. (50 points) Own The Stage: Delivery to Audience (4 to 6 minutes) could be a video
demonstrates many of the following:
playful,
lively,
engaging,
interactive,
aesthetically pleasing,
flowing,
well-organized (if in a group, cues are sharp)
_____________________________________________________________________________
use at least two of the following meta techniques
NOTE Your final will be an accumulative commentary on the significance of lessons you’ve
learned in this class, a bridge from the fictions to relevance in your lives—that is the core of the
final, while the meta will only be used as a framework that serves to help communicate the
significance of what you’ve learned.

Self-reference to author/director/actore.g. Bugs Bunny in “Duck Amuk” or Ruby Sparks

Frame story in layered narratives or Droste Effect or a show within a showe.g. O’Brien sets
what Rat heard from Mark Fossie about what happened to his girlfriend Mary Ann Bell or Alex
and Ravi Final or opening of “Modern Family”

Forth Walle.g. “The Office” in which characters stare into the camera because they are aware
of putting
on a show for the T.V. audience (mockumentary)
Question: Are those characters aware that actors play them?

Meta-Jokese.g. “What?” by Bo Burnham or the Indian Cartoon that plays on the talk bubble
convention

Inter-TextualityAn emphasis that no one text means anything except in its relationship to all
texts and the effusive context of everythinge.g. “Family Guy”

Address the specific conventions of languagee.g. This sentence contains thirty-six letters.
OrMetaphors are a lot more grown up than similes; see, similes are like three year olds who
point to things and name them for adults, whereas, metaphors show adults what they could not
see already.
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Rubric for Meta-Narrative Final (100 points)
Thematic
Weight of
Narrative
Organization/
Structure
Of story Arc
MetaFramework
serves narrative
Language Use
at sentence
level
Delivery
(see page 12)
A
Seamless
Dash of
Didactics
Clearly and
personally
connected to
Many Specific
Class-learned
Techniques
Augments the
narrative without
ever saying “Hey,
you digging my
meta?”
Compelling
and clear with
varied and
well-chosen
sentence
structure
Video is
professionally
edited and/or
Live
Presentation
feels
Interactive
And flows
B
Well weaved
Dash of
Didactics
Clearly and
relevantly
connected to
Specific Parts of
Class-learned
Techniques
Clever support
for narrative
Compelling
with varied
sentence
structure
Video is well
edited and/or
Live is
Festive or
Engrossing
And flows
C
Simplistic Dash
of Didactics
Connected to a
few Classlearned
Techniques
Adequate
support for the
narrative
D
Narrative
tangentially
connected to a
tagged-on Dash
of Didactics
Unorganized
structure and
paragraphs
Meta Interrupts
the narrative,
gets in the way of
good story
Awkward and
simplistic
Errors
somewhat
distract the
Audience
F
Narrative
barely
connected to a
theme
Unorganized
structure and
no paragraphs
Only Meta with
no narrative
meaning or
Missing Meta
Unclear or
repetitive and
simplistic or
lacks control
Errors really
distract the
Audience
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Adequate and Video is edited
some sentence and/or live is
variation
Rarely Off Beat
Slam Video or Live Performance Work-shopping
1. Show “Roadrunner” clip and “Wild E. Coyote” Slam Poet
2. Play “How To Write a Political Poem”
 Before playing it, say a bit on the cliché busting of the genre through Meta spoof.
 During it, ask if they know the Gore vs. Bush Election reference to “Somewhere in
Florida, votes are still being counted.”
 Post poem ask, “What was he doing with all that propulsive rhyme?” making fun of
empty rhetoric for sound only.
3. Show E-man’s “Sobriety Storm”
4. Ask pairs to share which of the two good poems “Coyote” or “Sobriety Storm” they liked
better and why.
5. Share out as a class on white board and then look at the graphic organizer on this page to
figure out entry points for your own poems
Topic
Addiction
Framework or Vehicle
speaker as coyote vs. as poet
Purpose
delayed drop “It is the curse of the
addict to pursue the thing that
destroys him” thrills vs. wake up
Delivery
Post roadrunner chase feel as he starts with heavy breath vs. irate to controlled/rational
Details
familiar cartoon gags vs. familiar party scenes
Pop/classic References
Cartoon as old myth of Sisyphus
Kid Cutti
Shot Shot Shot
Poetic Devices
Buddhist imagery conceit “broth of bowl” to lotus flower—both with propulsive
rhyme without empty rhetoric
Mr. Ryan’s blurb on the Wild E. Coyote poem after I sent it to him,
“Terrific stuff! Frankly, the swearing I could do without - stove calling
the kettle black here, I know - but in the Slam context, saying
"f&^%ing" is fast becoming a cliche. It's the too-obvious semaphore
signaling either Now I'm Really Upset! or Laugh Now, For I Have
Invoked the Emphasis Word!
73
Watch a variety of live/video poems: meta “How to write a Political Poem”, call to
action “Sobriety Storm”, bio or auto/bio that’s already poem worthy “Asylum
Brother,” increased awareness
CONTENT AND DELIVERY CRITERIA FOR YOUR 2-3 minute SLAM POEM






Your poems should feature voice (either yours or a character’s)
Your Poems should be performance-based, spoken-word style pieces.
Your poems should not be teen-angst diary entries, elevate the rant content to art
Your poems should exhibit elements of metaphor, simile, parallel structure, internalrhyme that surprises, and propulsion!
You should be able to perform with clear flow, and dynamic energy—own the stage!
Your poems should build tension; they should take us from familiar to somewhere new!
A great way to augment the narrative is to elevate repetition to re-incorporation!
Personal Narrative?
Slam Poet Attitudes and Postures
1. Write about what you know, what it is to be your age…but that is not enough—use
what you know to dive into things you do not yet know
2. NO PIDGEON HOLES: Don’t feel that you must be indignant, or profound or
funny…or that you must not…be open to where the process takes you
3. Drop the cool and un-fazed approach/posture…seek honesty
Slam Poet Writing Ethic
4. “Write lots of poems…” Max Friend, like many poets, said, “On average, I write five
crappy poems for every poem I might use.” Also think about writing time as more
than the time that ink hits paper or fingers hit keyboard; Matt Cummings said, “Most
of my writing happens when I am not writing, times when I’m thinking and incubating
the poems are the real writing time for me.”
Slam Poet Starters
5. Write a list of ten memories that have significantly impacted your life (look back at the
personal writing challenges on page 5 of this Reader)
Slam Poet Aim
6. Tell stories only you can tell and bridge to an audience in a way that they can
recognize in themselves.
74
Humor and Owning the intent of Lines
a) Then “5th Grade Teacher” name specific phrases and poetic devices he use to make this
not only funny, not only stand-up comedy, but also a well-framed poem?
b) [10min] pick an item form #5 or #6 and write a funny poem
c) After 10 minute “burst write,” ask if they were Funny? What seems easier, to be funny in
the moment, or to be funny ahead of time on purpose?—remember what Matt
Cummings said about Writing time and incubation…just be open to humor in you final
slam poem.
d) Work-shopping will consist of a few [10 min] constricted focus burst writes, to test things
out, and lots of free-write time, peer review, one-on-one with Mr. Franklin, rehearsals…
e) then KATE TEMPEST start at 9:05 [or 6:30 left] which runs about two and a half minutes and
then 4 minutes of her talking craft after that
http://www.charlierose.com/watch/60328960
Ah, she's lovely, int she? Yeah, that stuff about committing to memory so you
own it, so there's nothing (no paper) between you and the other and how that
puts you in a better (she said it better) position on all counts.
Homework = this link of the 2014 Tri-District Redwood Champs
https://drive.google.com/folderview?id=0B2Fg4Z4zmNt6UzVSRlJwajdoOEU&usp=sharing
Rest of the “Real Player” bunch of poems
“Retirement Home,” “21 Foster Homes,” “TouchScreen”, debate dialectic
“Storm”…send in your favorite links too!
75
The world of slam is stale with certain clichés topics and
phrases” = AVOID the following, unless you can earn
the clichés or you are twisting/cutting them with insight:
1. “Society is a hell hole”
2. ”Mean girls hiding behind airbrushed magazines and
fake smiles”
3. ”The media is controlling us and we must wake up”
4. ”People in bubbles should not complain because
look at how hard life is in Africa”
Let’s talk out more as a class…What would you not
like to hear?
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Writing and Rehearsal Steps and Due Dates
1. “Write lots of poems…” Max Friend, like many poets, said, “On
average, I write five crappy poems for every poem I might
use.” Also think about writing time as more than the time that
ink hits paper or finger hits keyboard; Matt Cummings said,
“Most of my writing is In time I not writing, thinking and
incubating the poems.”
Due by:____________
2. You must get used to hearing your voice the way it sounds, not
how you think it sounds, so record an audio version that you
email to Mr. Franklin at afranklin@redwood.org and bring in
your recording device (a.k.a. smart phone) for work-shopping
with peers and Mr. Franklin.
Due by:____________
3. Practice 30x in the mirror while standing up. Plant your feet
shoulder-width apart and stay anchored unless you have
dynamic intentional moves and gestures that help visually tell
your narrative. Practice when you are seated for long times
(commuting, babysitting…) and visualize your best of the 30
mirror stand-up takes.
Due by:____________
4. Record a video version that you hope to duplicate live on the
day of the slam and show peers and Mr. Franklin.
Due by:____________
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No Bukowski Poetry Rockets Firing Out Of your Gut Yet?
scaffolding technique;
Try to focus on a
the “I am from…” to “I love…” each will be its own
separate stanza to be wrapped up in beautiful poetic imagery. Later on you can unscaffold the separate poems
found in each stanza to spy transitional narrative among those stanzas—you’ll unite the separate pieces to tell
one solid story of you…
write 3-5 things in each category, then write the first 2-3 words that come to mind for each
“base” word that comes before the colon (feel free to replace the base words). See an
example rough draft on the next page. Then see the narrative freedom
i am from:
heart surgery: fear, long, stress
exploration: climbing, heat, forest
pets: hair, lizard, eggs
machines: gears, computer, remote
control
building: bunk bed, chicken coop
Things i think are cool:
intelligence: humans
the universe: infinite
patterns: everywhere, making
Things that scare me:
opinions:
being social:
first impressions
Possessions:
my bow: archery range, bulls eye
my knife: katana, sharp
my bed: building, assembly
Things i like about myself:
height: goals
experiences
i love:
archery: target, arrows, friends
music: orchestra, loud, speakers
puzzles: wood, 3D, challenge
repairs: RC cars, computers, pencils
knots: monkeys fist, swings, teaching
Foods i Like:
sushi: fish, homemade, sesame seeds
steak:
strawberries
peaches
jelly beans
Things i wish were different:
my confidence: fright, anxiety
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My Scaffolded 1st draft Slam Poem
I am from frightening, stressful heart surgery to fix a part of me, SVT they called it.
Supraventricular Tachycardia to be exact. Long hours spent in hospitals, blood drawn to chronicle
my existence.
I am from many pets, gathering eggs, and crickets from the thickets where they would hide.
I am from the hours spent carving wooden animals with my pocket knife. Only to stop, and throw
them away at night.
I am from the snakelike shape of my bow, and the power behind the string.
The sound that would ring every time the arms snapped forward.
I am the arrow, leaving my bow and flying towards the target. A sparrow, flying home over the flea
market.
I am from the challenge of a good puzzle, the feeling of repairing something and watching it work
once again.
I am from explorations in the forest. Mapping the fortress of trees, and the homemade sushi on a
warm summer night, with the wasabi, to add in a bite.
I am from building and constructing. Piecing together bunk beds, or simply sewing something with
threads.
From freshly picked strawberries, and reaching for the peaches in a tree we planted last summer.
I am from repairing, small cars, and broken pencils. From monkeys fist knots, to teaching my
family how to whittle utensils.
I am from the infinite universe, and baffling illusions. From the tall mountains, to the patterns
which help me draw conclusions.
I am from opinions, first impressions, and the fear obsession that follow.
I am from the mountains of hair shed from my dog, that we dragged with a trash can, into the fog.
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My De-Scaffolded 2nd draft Slam Poem
I survived a frightening, stressful heart surgery to fix a part of me, SVT they called it.
Supraventricular Tachycardia to be exact. Long hours in hospitals led up to the day of tubes
inserted through leg arties that snaked up to my heart and long hours were spent in recovery too.,.
I know that stressful heart surgery sounds oxymoronic because they wanted to unstress my heart,
but the anxiety was short lived-compared to the life I’ve lived and the blood they drew kept my
heart beating so that my lived life continues to chronicle my existence. I can look back now and
know where I from.
I’m from a wild kingdom of pets, gathering eggs, and crickets from the thickets where they would
hide.
I am from the hours spent carving wooden animals with my pocket knife. Only to stop, and throw
them away at night.
I am from the snakelike shape of my bow, and the power behind the string.
The sound that would ring every time the arms snapped forward.
I am the arrow, leaving my bow and flying towards the target. A sparrow, flying home over the flea
market.
At my house, the only thing that outnumbers my pets are the puzzles. I love the challenge of a
good puzzle, the feeling of repairing something and watching it work once again.
And what better puzzle than my backyard forest? Explorations mapping the trees, and tall
mountains draped in capes of misty allusions, that unveil in mid-day the patterns which help me
draw cartographer’s conclusions. Celebrate finding myself lost and tempest tossed to use the maps
I’ve plotted, the puzzles I’ve unknotted as I’ve trotted through the muddy trails to return to glorious
homemade sushi on warm summer nights, with the wasabi, to add in a bite.
My heart still pumps and so I build and construct, piecing together bunk beds, or simply sewing
something with threads. I am from repairing, small cars, and broken pencils. From monkeys fist
knots, to teaching my family how to whittle utensils.
The surgeons gave me the gift of freshness, gathered as strawberries I’ve picked, and reaching
for the peaches in a tree we planted last summer.
I am from the infinite universe, and baffling illusions. I am from opinions, first impressions, and the
fear-based obsessions that follow.
I am from the mountains of hair shed from my dog, that we dragged with a trash can, into the fog.
My beating heart keeps these songs of me safe.
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When you have a tough story to tell and you feel vulnerable use the rumination to reappraisal technique, use
the distance of metaphor to tell your tale securely…see “Constellation Art” example
Rumination and Reappraisal
(after “Warrior Voices” Rough Draft)
Why do these warriors heal by writing creative versions that are somewhat removed from their real-life
traumatic experiences? How does it work? Prove it’s not just some BS thing that Language Arts teachers say to
get students to write creatively when they know good-and-well that, whether the writing it produces is good or
not, no “healing” happens. Well, I do think it heals, not only from experience, but from what I know about
Neuro-Biology and Psycho-Therapy. These Creative Writing soldiers get to see the things that trouble them from
a distance; to borrow from what we've studied in our Zen Unit, they get a chance to view the trauma from an
eternal/universal perspective (Big Mind) rather than from a temporal/cramped-space perspective (Small Mind).
By writing their experiences with fictional characters, and tangential settings, and imagined dialogues, they get
to recast their troubles into art and art is sometimes something that even the artist can view as a spectator.
How does this bring closure? After finishing the narrative, especially a good one, the fictional characters take on
lives of their own. Then it's like that narrative happened to other people or it's like going to see a play (hopefully
a good one) written and directed by someone else; over time it becomes only vaguely familiar in its
parallel meaning to the soldier-author’s actual experiences...the proper distance of the art from the
troubled mind is key...too far, and it’s not an honest expression of/from self...too close, and it's too nonfiction, too immediate and painful, too re-living the trauma as they already often do in shell-shocked flashbacks.
The healing that these creative-writing warriors reap calls to mind a particular type of therapy that some
psychiatrists employ, a guidance away from what is termed rumination toward reappraisal.
Rumination is a continuously looping, hate-filled internal dialectic that one cannot let go of, that one
cannot stop telling. It is poisonous to the body and the spirit. The psychiatrist helps to extract the
poison by having the patient recast the story in empathetic terms. If you can see the scenario from
the other guy’s point of view, then you can start to tell it from his point of view without the hatred
welling up as much in you as you tell it.
DO THIS WITH YOUR WRITING: A reappraisal narrative is the rumination retold with the patient
imaging it in progressively more distant narratives:
First, write your rumination narrative down (As in your “Warriors Voices” draft)
Second, imagine that you are telling the narrative from the p-o-v of the hated enemy
Third, imagine that you are a stranger to the scene, disinterestedly overhearing yourself and the combatant
interact and tell it from a 3rd-person p-o-v.
Finally, transform your narrative into a fictional version that has the "right" medicinal distance from the
events and the people involved--make sure the narrative still honors the truth you seek to express, but
make sure the story has closure. When you're done, the narrative arch should be satisfying--IMPORTANT:
this does not necessarily mean you need to imagine a happy ending in which the parallel fictional
protagonist, the one who wears your shoes (if your fictional character even wears shoes), vanquishes all
villains because readers appreciate a character who has been wronged but handles his/her lack of due
atonement with dignity, and remember, you too will be a reader of your narrative.
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Perhaps you are not the type of person who ruminates, and it is difficult to
figure out the original content rumination that needs to be reappraised. Well,
then consider the two following, typical high-schooler experiences that might
trigger Poisonous Rumination for your fictional character, then reappraise
the narrative for that character:
1. During a week-long group project, a few of your assigned group members slyly manipulate you into
doing the bulk of the work. You confront them and they brush you off and the teacher does nothing to
help. You work late into the night and you're steaming, even after you finish you can't sleep well
because you ruminate on the things they said and how they should have treated you. You replay
it in your mind over and over, irritated that you can't sleep, cortisol building up in your veins. This
rumination does nothing to change those jerks and does not ease your work load or improve your
grade and you know this, but you just can't stop the rumination tape from looping: "Those
damn slackers have the nerve to call me hyper-sensitive? Why does Mr. Teacher let them
torment me and instead threaten my grade?...I tried to offer them my help in learning the
material, but I get no thanks..." on you Such therapy is proven to lowered cortisol levels(stress
hormone that constricts blood vessels and kills people much faster than Father Time intended).
or: 2. "How could she be with that jerk? Sure we're not together anymore, but him? He's a borderline
rapist..." add rumination loops for 15 minutes while missing the best Humanities lesson evvva!
For Homework: the link below is to a Rumination and Reappraisal Study. Read enough (at
least two pages) that you understand that there is real science behind these techniques--both
psychiatry, and, its clearly less-expensive twin: creative writing.
http://spl.stanford.edu/pdfs/Ray_08.pdf
Constellation Art
I’m supposed to feel something.
I’m supposed to feel mad or sad at the things done to me.
But believe me when I say I haven't let a single tear slide down this cheek since the day of my last beating.
I’m supposed to feel something.
But all I feel is nothing.
The endless poundings on my back, arms, and legs have compacted all my insides into a small fucking ball. I
take up no space.
Unless I remember that my skin is the fabric of space.
My bruises shade my skin blacker than any wormhole in the universe with scrapes and dashes of red here and
there like exploding stars staining into nebula.
My scars are the stars on a canvas.
The artists were the smartest because they controlled themselves enough to never touch my face.
To never leave a permanent enough scar to label me as "abused," but I promise you…a lift of my shirt will show
you the story
Of a painter who made too many mistakes on their blueprint to call it "art."
I'm a used and broken canvas with no end or meaning.
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I wasn't beautiful enough to be hung up on a wall like the times they've strung me up by the neck.
Wasn't beautiful enough to carry a docent’s pretty white label description on the side.
No one would take the time to gaze heavenward at the constellations of throbbing stories imprinted on my
skin.
Not a moment to say 'wow, what pretty colors!' because there is too much black and blue.
I've spent eons below the gutters, but this poem is me, done with waiting for a sunrise.
Every time I stop to think of the bullets of ice and rock that shot through my sky, I'm reminded why I it shot
down into that wormhole of repression.
This poem is like an obsession, I rehearse it until my throat is raw. The repetitions are attempts to push away
the painful thoughts that caused the poem.
The poem is a flame that burns me with vivid memories that once were pushed away like a raging forest fire.
But it’s heat is too great and violent to control. The rush of fire and ice courses through me like a fucking
NASCAR race, wanting but not having the slightest taste of grace.
The tumult of thoughts flames around the elliptical track, orbiting the same midnight black pavement over and
over again until they finally begin to understand that they are going nowhere.
Bleeding trails of oil behind them blackening the surface of life.
Never knowing where they are going
only hoping the torment will end.
I am a comet in the sky
Heaving out a battle cry,
Charging out of the captivity cell of abyss, letting myself go wanting and waiting to feel the faintest touch of
this poem’s bliss.
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While Work-shopping
Some ways to give feedback on rough draft slam poems:
Often the idea of the first draft is worth salvaging, but needs tips on elevating to poetry—you might suggest
some of the following:





frame the poem in a context,
add exposition (where, when, who),
add concrete imagery,
turn some of the similes to metaphor,
provide an extended version of that first stanza metaphor to use as a structural backbone to the
narrative…known as conceit
Below are examples poets who sent me rough-draft text and audios versions (you too should be this specific
in your feedback)
EXAMPLE # 1
Slam Poem Final (Creative Title)
"What this life is all about is to step out of your comfort zone." Those were the words
that my dad agreed on. Moving around the world was the usual thing to do. However, this was
not about travelling, but settling into new places places new. Just like nomads did in prehistoric times. Can't find food? Well let's move out. But how fun do you think it is, to have
moved 5 times in 15 years, 7 different schools and farewell tears. Every time I leave, I lose my
friends, like a chicken does hens do when she they loses her their eggs, but seriously, chicken
hens, after all those eternal days incubating those eggs, how does it feel when your dad the
farmer comes in and steals your future children, so that he can have some great poached eggs?
Well chicken hen, or should I say eggs? I feel exactly how you do, I try my very best to make
friends,
Open my heart, try to be nice; Lots of effort is needed to put in, but after all that, my friends,
the fruit of my social efforts are being taken away, or actually in simpler words--I AM
MOVING OUT! Again. Just get the globe, spin it around, close your eyes and choose where to
go. That is what my dad is expected to do or else his business will let him know what he did
wrong.
And dad, when I was little, I actually used to think you were an FBI agent, since you
never told me what your job was and we moved almost every year, but no, that is not true
because whenever I try playing COD you will unplug the cords. Because playing a violent
game is way across the line, but what is there no line that we can't cross? when we can seems
not as we drift travel across the globe?
Instead of driving a regular car, I say, dad get out of the bar and go get us a fucking U-Haul
truck. Because what is the point of having a small car, when a U-HAUL truck would serve us
the best? Or what is the point of making friends, when in 2 years from now you I won't ever see
them again? But seriously dad, where in this world will my future rely on self rest, anchored
like a rusting ship that's done leaving harbors? Because even though, we have travelled a
lot, there are still many places unknown. Asia, Africa or South America, it all seems foreign to
me. How many languages will I have to learn? Will I ever not be the new kid? No, because
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whenever I stop being that "New Kid", that will mean that I reached my comfort zone, and If
growing up necessitates since what life is all about is to stepping out of your comfort zone,
then call me Gandalf, because my comfort-zone is the only foreign land I've never stepped
foot in, and my grey beard hides under my weary baby-faced skin we will have to move
again. Born in Rome, from there to Spain, Spain to France and then U.S., now what is next?
Well it has been an honor but before I go to London, write my email and let's meet pronto. The
next context in which my quest for rest will be vexed is London, where, a disorienting
Underground railway journey like Christopher John Frances Boone's underneath a tooold me looms. Delivering this slam poem has been less than comfortable, but discomfort
zones have taught me not to groan, so this poem is a farewell from the guy you've barely
known, a thank you for what in our too little time together we learned to share and give
away rather than selfishly keep as your own.
EXAMPLE # 2 Alessandria,
I love how you deliver that you often hear girls say "when I was 5" and the “never fighting the music” line and
thank you for sharing your passion. My main recommendation is to come out of the sing-song end-of-line
rhyme structure 3 or 4 times. For example, I love the image of you leaping through a tide, but it's short-lived
because you are in a pattern that forces the quick rhyme with hide...sing of the tide leaping in more of a
metaphorical passage, something like "my legs are supple and strong because they kick in the studio during
high tide, they kick turtles and sea-urchins and Aphrodite's foam and I kick the water back to the other side of
the ocean until my legs are wings and I dance so light that I kick seagulls up to the sun, all day long I kick until
it’s low tide..." then come out of the second use of "tide" with the rhyme "hide"
Also you twice question the representation of sadness in art and suggest that all art should be to make people
glad. You say "Why didn't Shakespeare make R&J live?" I think there are very good reasons that you want to
leap around like Juliet prior to her death when she is in love. I'm not alone, though, in loving how sad the
ending of the play is and I think you can still honor your inclination to glad-dance instead of sad-dance by
answering your own question about the main characters more deeply than that...the parallel question of why
so many ballets are sad should also be answered (are all the choreographers wrong?) do you ever enjoy the sad
dances?
Simple reversal of sad things is too simply reversed by simple rhyme...add some sophistication with the
exploration out of the question and by breaking free in metaphor
Be well,
Mr. Franklin
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EXAMPLE # 3 Olivia,
Some of the phrases I dig: "shaving off what little weight remains of you," "gripping onto a quivering
cord of hope," "the captain of an ever-sinking friend-ship", "I shadow-less"
My main recommendation is to keep most of it the way it is, but to give the poem some ballast,
something to hold together the beauty of the language that as of now is mostly mood and interior
dialectic: guilt, cringing, wondering, wallowing...all well-paced.
So where to add some anchor to the sinking ship? Feel free to insert the following suggested and say
them as your own they are just a way to frame the narrative you've already laid out so that the
audience can better piece together the how and why of the story.
Instead of opening with "you look into the mirror, but all you're seeing is a reflection, all you see is
glass" you might start with a physical causality of the broken mirror and the shards of the mind.
Metaphorically you might start with: "you pluck your brain from your head and huck it at the mirror..."
from there you might toss in a few more corporal images, such as "I swing open the medicine cabinet
seeking suture to sew the mind shards back to before the sinking of the ship"...also, let the audience
in on some of the cause for this state of mind--throw in an iceberg or two. Show the actual or
mistake(s) that sank your friend-ship; make the leaps from "you" and "I" very clear...if you want to
disguise the actual mistakes, use parallel metaphors
I like the pace of the poem but it feels as though the end should be a slow thaw...a dawning
awareness of a way to live now...the current ending is a bit of a let down to the rest of the poem's
grandeur: you see your younger self, "because you never grow old in Neverland"? So you are living in
Neverland? Why? Pretending you are that younger self, pre-tussle, is your solution? But the pain is still
there. Perhaps another way to end would be something like "the pain of the sharded mind learns to
ache for grace which is like wearing regret like a tattoo on your face until you have the strength to
hoist the ship from the ocean's bottom--or build new ships..."
Be well,
Mr. Franklin
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EXAMPLE # 4 Slam poem draft!!!
DON’T TEXT + DRIVE
Texting and driving..
It’s like being blindfolded
Strapped to a time bomb
That is moving
At the same time
That is all I see when I drive to school in the morning and when I leave in the afternoon
I ride the highway to hell
But the destination is not my concern
There are zombies in the cars next to me
Their faces glued to the shiny flashing screens of their cell phones
With glazed over eyes
Is a message more important than a life?!
What is the urgency to “Lol” at a friend when you are in control of a 2000 pound wrecking ball
It seems to me that your priority list
has been shuffled a bit
what used to be at the top has been smashed to the bottom
what was at the bottom has been raised to the tip
head down
eyes looking at your lap
has your brain snapped?
the explicit sight of this can be effortlessly pointed out
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The level of stupidity astounds me
The reasoning of your actions eludes me
You have the personality
Of “Crashing? Oh it won’t happen to me!”
OPEN YOUR EYES
Because sometimes
Those three repeated lines
Can save some lives
And to get people to listen
Because of texting and driving 9 lives are wasted a day
And I don’t know about you, but to me, that is 9 lives to many..
You’re driving, and your cell phone goes off (ringtone)
And your mind says”pick. It. Up.”
And even though you know that safety
Is necessity
You ignore that and say “hell I’ll go for it”
You might as well be driving without eyes
Hoping that muscle memory will take over so you can get home okay
Even though love helped save harry potter,
in a car crash situation it’s as useful as your breaths condensation
While you can feel the rising levels of desperation as your feet try to find the break..
The distance between your car and the next decreases, decreases, decreases, decreases..
And then BAM!
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AAA can only do so much to help you with your parent’s car that you crashed
That costs about as much as your college tuition
And maybe a lost life
all be because of a stupid decision
Andy,
The poem is a good public service announcement with fun rhyme and rhythm--might get a few people to better
remember the message that is sometimes too dry in its delivery.
My main recommendation is that you parlay this poem by doing a double message through extended metaphor.
For example, also say that texting blinds us when we are not driving, that we lose sight of peoples' body
language and "traffic" signals (red-face = stop, yellow face = pale need to slow down, green face = ate
something putrid in the CEA so get me the nurse) and causes friendship and relationship accidents, crashes, and
AAA versions of social mishaps...I like that you use Harry Potter as a popular reference/allusion, but "Even
though love helped save harry potter," as a phrase does not get developed enough as a link for the lines it
comes between...show Harry doing something specific from one of the books to better justify referencing
him.Your poem has some clunky phrases that need softer poetic tact: "That is all I see when..." "has been
smashed (use a better verb) to the bottom" "You have the personality Of" "While you can feel the rising levels"
Be well, have fun with it,
Mr. Franklin
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Blurb About a Short Story (or something) You Think Others Should Experience (20 points)
Assignment: Blurb something that moves you deeply and gush your recommendation. You could
choose to blurb a favorite short story, or a video game, or book, or band, or…let me know! Please do
not blurb about something with which most people are familiar such as Curious George. Most
people must not know about it—at most it could have a cult following such as for the show Freaks
and Geeks. Your goal is to attract a new audience—include parallel references to well-known
stuff as points of reference.
For example, I picked up a book called The Son by Philip Meyer – it’s a finalist for the Pulitzer and all,
but mostly it just sounded like something I’d like. There’s a blurb on the back jacket by Chris Cleave
that is one of the coolest book-descriptions I’ve ever read, so I’m reproducing it for yiz below. Don’t
this make you want to read the book? Wow! I read the book last year because of this blurb and guess
what? It is my favorite book eva’! Be well.
“The Son is an epic, heroic, hallucinatory work of art in which wry modern tropes and savage Western
lore hunt together on an endless prairie. No one, ever, has done a novel like this, but if you took One
Hundred Years of Solitude as your mare and Blood Meridian as your stud, then spooked the resulting
herd of horses and had the cast of The Wire dress as Comanches and ride them hard through the gates
of hell, you’d have some kind of idea. This is a horribly tragic, disturbingly comic, and fiercely
passionate masterpiece of storytelling, bred from painstaking research and magisterial prose and
offering up two hundred years of American history in a manner so relentlessly compelling that the
reader, in awe, struggles to catch their breath.”
___________________________________________________________________________________________
After writing your own blurb from above, then, before reading “Sonny’s Blues,” by James Baldwin on pages 281310 in40 Short Stories for homework, read Mr. Ryan’s response to my suggestion that he teach it in his
American Literature class.
In the following response to Baldwin’s story, Mr. Ryan (Mr. Franklin’s mentor and go to guy
for reading recommendations) may seem a bit like Junior, the narrator from The Absolutely
True Diary of a Part Time Indian, hyperbolic and too eager to share. You might suspect that
he was hamming it up, that it’s actually just disingenuous sentimentality or even sarcasm, but
I assure you that the guy is writing on the level, he means every word…seems that “Sonny’s
Blues” passes Atwood’s test for good literature: “The test of good literature is that the reader
lives differently, maybe even with more wisdom, than they did before the reading of it.”
dude: this story hit me like a lightning bolt! I don't know if I'll never write a
word again (why would I? why would anyone? This cat done said it all, for
real), or if I can't wait to write another story and try to live up to the bar set so
frooking high in the sky I'll need miles of "the right stuff" to even get close to
it. I've never read music written about so well, I've never read brothers written
about so well, I've never read race written about so well. I'm literally choked up
here. I want to read this story and nothing else the rest of my life; I never
want to go near this sumbitch again because I can't gaze at the face of God any
longer. I mean, Damn! Right? Baldwin wrote a novel here, in short-story
form. I feel entire lives lived and breathed and died and memories and the
future and all the goodness we get from the best of Art, and I got it all in these
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few, one-sitting, pages. You could have given me a one thousand dollar bill
today, and I wouldn't thank you as sincerely as I do now for this Baldwin
piece. He has added dimension to my soul and stripped layers of rough from
my heart. He has made me love my sons, my family, more than I already did which was considerable! - and he has articulated the feeling of music that has
always been right there in my skin and bone and blood ever since I was sixteen
years old and heard Bob Dylan and turned a corner in my life that put me on a
road I never expected and that's led me only to good places, and this story
articulated all that in a way that almost went beyond language, that rang like a
bell, that preached like the best sermon ever mounted, that slipped between the
silkiest sheets of love and tenderness that ever covered a yearning heart. And
yet it was language! It was words! Baldwin took all the words I know, that you
know, that we all know, and he put them into a certain order and a particular
sense, and in doing this he shows us what Art is, what the world is, how the
particular is the world and how the universe is right here with us, deep inside,
like the thrum of a deep bass chord. There are not that many things in life that
change you, change you in some fundamental way - it's only happened to me a
few times. This story is another one of those moments. I feel different—I see
the world differently. I understand something about the world now that I didn't
before, and man, what more can we ask of a story, but to take us from the
flickering fires of our past and the darting stars of our future, to plunk us down
right here where we live, but filled up like a cup, ready now, again or at last, to
spill our sweet newness like the fine wine that we want everyone to deserve.
_____________________________________________________________
After writing your blurb, see what you think of “Sonny’s Blues.” Was Mr. Ryan right? Read
and see.
Rather than provide you a set of guided questions as you read “Sonny’s Blues,” come up with
three questions that you think will improve other readers’ appreciation of it too.
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Writing More Meta makes Sonder More frequent…
Sonder (n.) The realization that each passerby is living a life
that is as vivid and complex as your own
See the SONDER video http://vimeo.com/80318195
Is studying a creature that thinks and acts too complex? How much can you deduce about how
other human beings experience life through reflecting on how your own life is experienced and
what limits are there in our own subjective truths?
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DIVE
i often repeat myself
and the second time's a lie
i love you
i love you
see what i mean i don't
...and i do
and i'm not talking about a girl i might be
kissing on
i'm talking about this world i'm blissing on
and hating
at the exact same time
see life---doesn't rhyme
it's bullets...and wind chimes
it's lynchings...and birthday parties
it's the rope that ties the noose
and the rope that hangs the backyard
swing
it's a boy about to take his life
and with the knife to his wrist
he's thinking of only two things
his father's fist
and his mother's kiss
and he can't stop crying
it's wanting tonight to speak
the most honest poem i've ever spoken in
my life
not knowing if that poem should bring you
closer
to living or dying
drowning of flying
cause life doesn't rhyme
last night i prayed myself to sleep
woke this morning
to find god's obituary scrolled in tears on
my sheets
then walked outside to hear my neighbor
erasing ten thousand years of hard labor
with a single note of his violin
and the sound of the traffic rang like a
hymn
as the holiest leaf of autumn fell from a
plastic tree limb
beautiful ---and ugly
like right now
i'm needing nothing more than for you to
hug me
and if you do
i'm gonna scream like a caged bird
see...life doesn't rhyme
sometimes love is a vulgar word
sometimes hate calls itself peace on the
nightly news
i've heard saints preaching truths
that would have burned me at the stake
i've heard poets tellin lies that made me
believe in heaven
sometimes i imagine hitler at seven years
old
a paint brush in his hand at school
thinkin what color should i paint my soul
sometimes i remember myself
with track marks on my tongue
from shooting up convictions
that would have hung innocent men from
trees
have you ever seen a mother falling to her
knees
the day her son dies in a war she voted for
can you imagine how many gay teen-age
lives were saved
the day matthew shepherd died
could there have been anything louder
than the noise inside his father's head
when he begged the jury
please don't take the lives of the men
who turned my son's skull to powder
and i know nothing would make my family
prouder
than giving up everything i believe in
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still nothing keeps me believing
like the sound of my mother breathing
soul
so angels will have a place to make their
way inside
life doesn't rhyme
life doesn't rhyme
it's tasting your rapist's breath
on the neck of a woman who loves you
more
than anyone has loved you before
then feeling holy as jesus
beneath the hands of a one night stand
who's calling somebody else's name
it's you never feelin more greedy
than when you're handing out dollars to
the needy
it's my not eating meat for the last seven
years
then seeing the kindest eyes i've ever
seen in my life
on the face of a man with a branding iron
in his hand
and a beat down baby calf wailing at his
feet
it's choking on your beliefs
it's your worst sin saving your fucking life
it's the devil's knife carving holes into you
still life is poetry --- not math
all the world's a stage
but the stage is a meditation mat
you tilt your head back
you breathe
when your heart is broken you plant seeds
in the cracks
and you pray for rain
and you teach your sons and daughters
there are sharks in the water
but the only way to survive
is to breathe deep
and dive
--Andrea Gibson
94
Birthday
by Andrea Gibson
For Jenn
At 12 years old I started bleeding with the moon
and beating up boys who dreamed of becoming astronauts.
I fought with my knuckles white as stars,
and left bruises the shape of Salem.
There are things we know by heart,
and things we don't.
At 13 my friend Jen tried to teach me how to blow rings of smoke.
I'd watch the nicotine rising from her lips like halos,
but I could never make dying beautiful.
The sky didn't fill with colors the night I convinced myself
veins are kite strings you can only cut free.
I suppose I love this life,
in spite of my clenched fist.
I open my palm and my lifelines look like branches from an Aspen tree,
and there are songbirds perched on the tips of my fingers,
and I wonder if Beethoven held his breath
the first time his fingers touched the keys
the same way a soldier holds his breath
the first time his finger clicks the trigger.
We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe.
But my lungs remember
the day my mother took my hand and placed it on her belly
and told me the symphony beneath was my baby sister's heartbeat.
And I knew life would tremble
like the first tear on a prison guard's hardened cheek,
like a prayer on a dying man's lips,
like a vet holding a full bottle of whisky like an empty gun in a war zone…
just take me
just take me
Sometimes the scales themselves weigh far too much,
the heaviness of forever balancing blue sky with red blood.
We were all born on days when too many people died in terrible ways,
but you still have to call it a birthday.
You still have to fall for the prettiest girl on the playground at recess
and hope she knows you can hit a baseball
further than any boy in the whole third grade
and I've been running for home
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through the windpipe of a man who sings
while his hands playing washboard with a spoon
on a street corner in New Orleans
where every boarded up window is still painted with the words
We're Coming Back
like a promise to the ocean
that we will always keep moving towards the music,
the way Basquait slept in a cardboard box to be closer to the rain.
Beauty, catch me on your tongue.
Thunder, clap us open.
The pupils in our eyes were not born to hide beneath their desks.
Tonight lay us down to rest in the Arizona dessert,
then wake us washing the feet of pregnant women
who climbed across the border with their bellies aimed towards the sun.
I know a thousand things louder than a soldier's gun.
I know the heartbeat of his mother.
Don't cover your ears, Love.
Don't cover your ears, Life.
There is a boy writing poems in Central Park
and as he writes he moves
and his bones become the bars of Mandela's jail cell stretching apart,
and there are men playing chess in the December cold
who can't tell if the breath rising from the board
is their opponents or their own,
and there's a woman on the stairwell of the subway
swearing she can hear Niagara Falls from her rooftop in Brooklyn,
and I'm remembering how Niagara Falls is a city overrun
with strip malls and traffic and vendors
and one incredibly brave river that makes it all worth it.
Ya'll, I know this world is far from perfect.
I am not the type to mistake a streetlight for the moon.
I know our wounds are deep as the Atlantic.
But every ocean has a shoreline
and every shoreline has a tide
that is constantly returning
to wake the songbirds in our hands,
to wake the music in our bones,
to place one fearless kiss on the mouth of that brave river
that has to run through the center of our hearts
to find its way home.
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Have You Ever Noticed?
If you feel like adding a pinch of philosophy to an
otherwise fast-paced organic narrative,
Try using the quick transition question:
“Have you ever noticed?...”
For example, from Donald Antrim’s The Verificationist
“Have you ever noticed?—people, no matter how beautiful or
desirable, invariably will, if observed closely while going about
their daily business of keeping alive, begin to seem like monsters.”
Or check out the use of this phrase as an anchor thesis to Robert
Winkler’s poem “Nobody” on the last page of this reader.
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Excellent example of a clear and explicit Writing
Connection to an Embed Link into the paper.
Engineering was Conner’s favorite class of the day. Although it was really just glorified
woodshop with metal, it sure sounded impressive to others, mostly though Conner just really liked
to make things. Unfortunately the class was mostly full of idiots who wanted nothing more than to
screw around and piss of the teacher, Mr. Esteb. Luckily, most of those kids were in Engineering
Projects whereas Conner was in Senior Projects, so he got to be a solo tinkerer. Today though, he
wasn’t going to be cutting or welding or grinding or anything like that. He was test riding a drifttrike that he helped his friend make.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hFMOfYUs-a0
Conner had already completed several laps of the back parking lot, going full opposite lock
in the corners, when he saw a few girls he knew standing and gawking. Trying to show off, he
began a large power-slide going full speed right past them. Too bad Conner and his friend Josh
hadn’t hooked up the brakes at that point—they would’ve really helped in preventing him from
crashing straight into the wall when he couldn’t stop in time to avoid a car. Both of the girls and
Josh ran over to where he lay, asking if he was all right between spurts of laughter. Conner’s face
turned a rosy red, but he successfully laughed off his embarrassment. He figured that a little faux
confidence couldn’t hurt in situations like these. In fact, he figured that confidence was pretty
much one of the main things a girl looked for in a guy—he was told so by one of the girls he was
friends with. After that show of bravado, the girls continued on their walk to their cars, ditching
the rest of 6th period. Conner on the other hand had to spend the rest of the period repairing the
damage he had dealt to the drift trike. When the final bell of his day rang, Conner hung up his
welding gloves and helmet, wound up the cord on the angle grinder, and turned off the gas on the
MIG welder.
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Excellent Example of Interior Monologue of intention to apply Kensho
concept in Matt’s current life
On this day Matt and his group were to instruct the class on the Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind
concept of Constancy. Matt was up first and read his poem aloud to the class. He then stepped
aside while his group members preformed a skit on Constancy. Matt felt a little anxious during the
skit. He and his group mates didn’t have a lot of time to prepare and his omnipotent lack of
Constancy made him feel like the skit was dragging on for too long. Thankfully the skit ended and
his group-mate saved the day with her clever drawing and explanation of Constancy. Matt sat
down and opened his comp book to jot down some notes on the next Kensho, No Trace. Their
group read aloud a poem and did a skit involving someone trying to do homework while their
phone was going off. After the presentation Matt understood that No Trace involved Somdhi, a
singular focus to the exclusion of all distractions, but it was Mr. Franklin’s follow up commentary
that really intrigued Matt.
“If you play a sport you compete to do well at your skill, not to leave behind a legacy or a
trace,” Mr. Franklin calmly uttered as if he were the Buddha. This simple quote flicked a lightbulb
on in Matt’s head. He loved this idea of leaving No Trace and he thought about how he could
apply this on the lacrosse field. Matt, more than anything, more than endless chemistry
worksheets, hated making a mistake on the lacrosse field. If his attack man scored a goal on him
it ate away at him for days. Not only would he get angry because he did a poor job of playing
defense, but more so because he felt like his attack man had made a fool of him and that his
reputation as a defender had been tarnished. At this moment in class Matt realized that whenever
he was beat and scored on by his attack man, Matt overly stressed out about his reputation, his
Trace. Mr. Franklin’s words embedded themselves in Matt’s brain like seeds that were just
beginning to take root in the soil. Matt realized his reputation as a defender meant nothing
because someday his life would end and his Trace would no longer exist. Matt pledged to his
honest, witnessing mind that he would try and play to become a better lacrosse player for himself,
to work out his body, and most of all to have fun, not to make a name for himself with the hopes of
impressing others. He knew that practicing No Trace would take years; with his decade of
habitualized hot-head embarrassment dances, he’d need time, but Matt was nonetheless satisfied
with his moment of clarity.
99
Excellent Use of Meta In Bold and Humorous Scene
“Thinking of thought, on paper I’ve got.” The two walked into Mr. Franklin’s room, room 155.
World Literature was Matt’s favorite class of the day. Pardon Matt for a moment class, but he wants to
get Meta for a moment and talk to Mr. Franklin as he reads this in what will be your present tense.
Please know, Mr. Franklin, Matt hates brown-nose-ers, and he can see through them to their selfinterested B.S., but Matt hopes you can read his sincerity in saying that this was Matt’s favorite class.
Why? Mr. Franklin valued student opinions and thoughts, and, though some of the slow-tongued students
probably felt interrogated, Matt appreciated their answers to Mr. Franklin’s thought-provoking questions
and Matt usually felt up to thinking aloud, getting the chance to un-muddle, long-muddled thoughts aloud.
Mr. Franklin sometimes used guided meditation and that was therapeutic, but he more often pressed the
pace. He knew how to keep a class entertained and on their toes. Sometimes a sleepy or high or struggling
or depressed student would bristle and Mr. Franklin would back off a bit, or he’d turn up the heat if that
student had been too lazy for too long.
Mr. Franklin reminded Matt of Yoda a little. He said quite a lot in a few words. Not that he used
few words—the man could string language out in logical, lucid paragraphs. He often wore a mischievous
look; like he knew something no one else knew, and Matt thought that Mr. Franklin most likely did. Matt
took a seat and listened to the music.
“What’s up Mr. Franklin?” Matt asked his teacher.
“Hey, Matt,” Mr. Franklin calmly replied. Mr. Franklin seemed always to be calm and at peace
with the world. Some days he looked really tired, but today he looked happy. That meant class would be
not only enlightening, but fun as well.
They were responding to a Nietzsche quote. Matt thought that if he were a teacher, which he might
be, he would not be a math teacher even though that was what he was good at. He didn’t like English much
though, so he was in a predicament: maybe Science.
They had a seminar on Kenshos.
Matt could tell which kids actually put thought into the work they did, and which kids were just
repeating what the questions said with some B.S. on top. Why do that? Mr. Franklin never asked irrelevant
questions, some even made Matt think about his life in new ways.
Next they were to listen to a song, “Acid Raindrops” by People Under the Stairs. Matt liked the
fact that his English class was 5% a music class. He knew the song, but for the beat, so he paid attention to
the unfamiliar lyrics when Mr. Franklin put them up on the projector. The class listened to the song in the
dim room, which was relaxing. Matt read the lyrics as one of the rappers, who he thought to be named
double K or radio or something, rapped them. Matt enjoyed the drums in the song and thought the lyrics
sounded like a normal Day in the Life. Sound familiar, class? Yes I’m talking to you, future students.
Mr. Franklin told me he’d use this paper as a model in the future and to use some meta-narrative to
break down the fourth wall that separates us, to tear through the fabric of time to talk to you for a
moment. He said it would be a good introduction to your “Meta-Narrative” final. See, our class, back
in ’08 did some of the same assignments you’re now doing. I loved them. I hope you do too.
The class discussed what the rappers valued and examples of this. Even though it was a good class,
Matt was happy when the bell rang. He was free from Redwood. Time for the boys gaming at home.
“Hey, Mina,” said both the boys. Nick called Matt’s grandma what Matt called her since he was
practically part of the family. Gunshots, explosions, and voices filled the living room.
“Mina, will you make me a Tuna?” asked Matt.
“Sure, Nick do you want a Peanut Butter?”
“Yes, please,” said Nick
“Do you guys want chocolate milk?” she added.
“Yea.”
“Yea, that’d be great.”
This was a ritual. Matt had to have 4 meals a day. Breakfast, lunch, second lunch, and dinner. All
his meals varied but his second lunch. This was always a Tuna fish Sandwich. Nick always had a Peanut
Butter and Jelly, and when Sam came over he had either one or the other. Matt remembered that his step-
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mother, Judy, had recently told him there was a lot of mercury in Tuna and that it could drive you crazy like
the Mad Hatter. He knew that was from Alice in Wonderland, but not what the character was like. He
often questioned if he was crazy, though, so maybe he was somewhat like the Mad Hatter. It had to be the
Tuna fish. Marilyn brought them their food, and they ate and played at the same time. Good food.
“Fuck you, you faggot,” sounded an angry voice from somewhere across the world through the
online video game. Matt’s grandma, however, did not know that other people’s voices could come out of
the TV, so from the kitchen she yelled, “That kind of language will not be tolerated in this house!”
“Grandma, it wasn’t us,” Matt protested.
“Well, who was it then? The alien?” she asked mockingly. She thought she was clever.
“No, it was other players,” Nick explained. Matt’s grandma didn’t know that you needed a
microphone to be heard in the game, so from the kitchen she yelled at the TV,
“Hey, you guys, this is
Matt’s grandma and that language will not be tolerated in this house!!” Matt and Nick cracked up. The
other players couldn’t hear her and wouldn’t know who Matt was if they could.
“Grandma, they’re not in our house,” Matt was able to fit in between spurts of laughter.
Later, they went to Rugby practice—paradise. And after practice they finished as always at the Mt.
Tam Racquet Club. They called old people “Coach Duncan” after their old and goofy freshman football
coach.
“Look at Duncan over there, he’s hella funny lookin’.”
“Daaaamn, that’s Wilford Brimley Duncan,” replied Caddy. Names were added to Duncan to
specify different types of old people there at the gym. For example, if there was an old Asian man, he was
Mr. Miagi Duncan or if there was a large Black man he would be Michael Clark Duncan after the actor.
“Who’s Wilford Brimley?” someone asked.
“A guy who does these diabetes commercials,” answered Caddy.
The boys continued to do bench press, incline dumbbell press, chest-flies, dips, and skull-crushers.
Then they survived their punishing rugby practice.
“Damn, I got home late” he thought to himself. There would be no time for homework now if he
wanted to try. He was way too tired even if it was only 9:53. Tonight he would be getting to bed earlier
than usual. He turned to his bed after shutting down his computer and found his dog, Buddy, already laying
there.
In a dog voice Matt said, “Ahhh, Buddy, what you think you’re doin? Huh? That’s my bed.” Then
he switched to his normal voice and continued, “Alright, I guess you can share the bed tonight. I’m tired
though so you can’t hog it. I’ve got to teach you to be a nice, sharing dog.”
Matt pushed his big dog to the bottom of the bed, which made Buddy grunt, and then got under the
covers. He forgot to turn off the bathroom light, so he got back up, got a drink of water, said goodnight to
his mom who had already found her own way to bed, and returned to his room. He turned on the fan which
he needed to sleep. Buddy stirred. He crawled back into bed, and wished he could lucid dream like Mr.
Franklin talked about. He began to imagine robbing a bank and getting shot like he did earlier that day. He
imagined that he did it with all his friends and that he survived the gunshot wound. Then he imagined
buying his school with the money and improving it. That led back to the girls in his school and with that
thought he drifted off to sleep.
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Group Work Policy
 When it comes to graded assignments that are presented to the class,
sometimes collaboration can augment the learning process and improve
the final product. So, if you feel that it is in your best interest, invite
others (as many as you like) to share in the process.
 Please know that you never have to collaborate on graded assignments.
Solo artists are welcome too.
 If you do sign up with a group, and find it difficult to meet with members
or feel that others are not contributing, feel free to cut them loose at any
time because you are each individually responsible for meeting the
criteria of the project by the deadline—that may mean you present
something solo even though you attempted, for whatever amount of time,
to work with group members.
 If you present as a group, 10% of you grade will be accounted for in
turning in individual write ups about the process and how you
individually approached each piece of the assignment’s criteria.
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The Heart is not a Wall
by Nate Eastman
(for A. Franklin)
A man is traveling east on the SF Bay Bridge at sunset. He drives the bridge every
day, but today is different. Today is the first day they have opened the bridge after
installing a temporary section on the eastern span—an S-shaped segment that diverts
traffic to the right so that the new bridge being constructed can be connected to the island
tunnel that unites the western and eastern decks.
Information about this temporary curve has been broadcast on local news outlets.
The man is aware of the altered design. He has even, being an architect by training, taken a
professional interest in the maneuver. Anything involving megatons of steel and concrete
with minimal impedance to human activity impresses him. But wonder is not his overriding
sensibility as he approaches the new curve. Like most of the other drivers to his left and
right—boxing him in like a sled in a chute—he is tunneling his way mentally through
another long day’s loose ends. A project at work has suffered setbacks; the clients aren’t
happy; they shouldn’t be. On top of all that he’s dog-tired.
He attributes his exhaustion to the fact that he’s trying to quit smoking. He has been
quitting for four years, since the birth of his third child. Sometimes he’ll go weeks without
one. But then he caves late at night when he can’t sleep, runs out for a pack, smokes one,
flushes the rest. He did this three nights ago. An unfortunate side effect is that for several
days afterwards, as the nicotine leaves his system, his blood pressure drops. He feels like
he’s being sucked backward towards sleep. Today this experience is particularly intense,
which is strange because it has been 72 hours and the residual nicotine should no longer be
an issue. He nearly swoons at the wheel. He catches himself, turns off the air and switches
over from his usual classical station to some local AM talk.
All of this happens in a matter of seconds, as he approaches the tunnel that precedes
the new S-curve. Everything is familiar: the whoosh of entering the tunnel, the glow of
taillights, the uneven road. Fully awake again, he relaxes into his seat and hits the gas to zip
ahead of the guy riding his tail. As he exits the tunnel at 48 MPH, the colors of sunset flood
his left field of vision. He glances to the left, at the beautiful sky. The panorama touches
upon the hundreds—could it be thousands?—of infernal sunsets he has witnessed at this
very moment, driving home from work. He experiences a kind of cumulative reminder of
why he loves living here. Cumulative gratitude follows.
He refocuses on the road. Or thinks he does. As he traces the arc of the curve
something disturbing happens: he is confident that he is attuned to his surroundings. And
yet if that is the case, if he is living in the world as it truly is, then why, when he hits the
heart of the curve and it is sharper than he is used to—he yanks at the wheel to stay in his
lane—why does he feel like reality is splintering into two possible worlds? The answer
comes immediately, a millisecond before he sideswipes the car to his left: I am seeing
according to habit, driving this road as it exists in my mind.
<><><>
103
The sense of veering suddenly off into nightmare does not end with the accident. He
survives. The person he hit and the woman who plowed into him from behind both survive
as well. No death. He is not dead. He realizes this as he stumbles from his car and collapses
on the road in agony. His left arm and leg are broken. There are no protruding bones. He
lies there yelling “I’m okay! I’m okay! Go check the others!” to the motorists who have
stepped out of their cars and are walking towards him. He hears sirens. The EMTs come
and load him on a stretcher. They scream off. During the ride they give him morphine. He
says, “My car.” The EMT watching his vitals, this cute dough-faced Latina, gazes at him and
shakes her head. “Crushed-in, bad.” The drugs smooth out his sense of unreality. Only the
pain is real. When they dial that down, he is just eyes atop a dull throbbing pool. He stops
processing and drifts among lights and sounds and faces to the ICU.
When his wife and two sons visit him he has the same experience he had out on the
bridge: the sense that his mind has been superimposing a template on reality; that his days
have become so repetitive and familiar to him that he can literally pass through them like a
blind man. Has he? He feels he has. When he looks at his sons he feels he has. Their faces
seem to have lost their baby fat overnight. They seem leaner, more alert, yet less feral. To
what extent his condition is impacting their behavior he can’t be certain. But he feels he
has been absent. Even his wife. He has grown accustomed to thinking of her face as
drooping with age. He doesn’t mind. She is his mate. It is a matter of course. But now eyes
are shining on him. The way they used to, but for different reasons. He wonders if she has
had the same experience of seeing according to habit. He will ask her later. He can’t get the
thought out now. He returns her gaze. They tell him they need to keep him.
“Just go home with the boys,” he tells his wife. “I’ll be out soon.”
He is not out soon. When they do a PET scan to make sure he didn’t suffer any
serious head trauma, they discover he has a tumor in his brain. Stage 2 glioblastoma. The
word inoperable goes through him like a plague of rodents. He feels the sickness. He
thought the drowsiness was from the cigarettes. And the headaches—he has always gotten
those. Headaches are par for the course in a 44 year-old with two young boys who are set
on destroy 83% of the time. He works 60 hours a week, spends another 10 commuting
because his wife is from Orinda and prefers the warmth of the East Bay to the chill of the
peninsula. He is a family man who endures the attendant stresses with fierce pride—fierce
because he failed the first time around, with his first wife and first child.
<><><>
The second day in the hospital, his daughter visits. His wife called her to let her
know about everything. His wife and his daughter do not “get along.” His daughter is going
through a period of bitterness and self-pity that has lasted from age 12 to 19. Even in the
hospital room with him, while he hovers in dark limbo, she is self-absorbed. She is warm
with him. But it is limited warmth: formal, as if she has to try a little. His wife was the first
person to teach him about unlimited, informal warmth.
He looks long at his daughter, battles through the past selves his mind is projecting
upon her out of cerebral languor, notices her eyes seem to be collecting more light than he
remembers. Maybe her internal self-pity meter has gone down a few clicks. She started
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working in catering right out of high school, getting a taste of the world. He offered college.
She refused. At first he felt she was doing it to spite him. Later he decided she was
paralyzed by her mother’s trademark indecision. The catering industry is full of indecisives.
Last he heard she was dating one. He doesn’t ask for an update.
She shakes her head. “It’s just crazy that this is how you find out.”
“Yeah,” he says, “the bad thing introduces you to the terrible thing.”
“Maybe not a bad thing. I hear that when they catch these things early the outlook is
better.”
He looks at her, forces a smile. “The undefined quantity there is the parameters of
the term ‘better.’”
<><><>
He lives another fourteen months. In that time he undergoes brain surgery. They
remove what they can. Glioblastomas have tentacles and spread like octopuses, very
difficult to excise. To try to reduce the size of the cancerous material they cannot remove
surgically, the doctors prescribe chemo and radiation. For six months there are signs it is
working. The tumor shrinks. But in the ninth month it redoubles. The second round of
chemo and radiation does not work as well as the first.
The whole time he undergoes treatment, his daughter moves in with his second
family—“to be there.” She lived with them once before, from ages 13-15, when the situation
at her mother’s became untenable due to her mother’s drinking. That was when the rift
between his wife and his daughter developed. His daughter interpreted his wife’s warmth
as “a fake attempt to curry favor and win respect.”
These days the language is more veiled. One night, when his daughter gets dropped
off drunk at 2 AM—a clear violation of the agreed-upon house rules—she breaks a dish in
the kitchen while fixing food. The entire family wakes. He is too weak to get out of bed. His
wife goes and handles it.
“It’s just a fucking DISH,” he hears his daughter half-shout. Two more violations:
cussing and voice-raising.
What she’s really saying is: he’s fucking dying. His wife gets this. She comes back in
and lies next to him without a word. Her profile is strained. She sits up in bed, staring at
the opposite wall. He touches her shoulder, closes his eyes. Sleeps. When he wakes later,
she is still staring at the opposite wall, her face slack now. A drainage occurred in the
interim. He touches her shoulder again.
<><><>
Life goes around normally around him. His wife still works. His boys still go to
school. He misses them during the day. But at the same time it is easier to be with his
daughter when they are not around. She works late, if she works at all. She wakes around
ten—noon if she has been out the night before. They hang out in the kitchen. He can tell
when she’s really hung over because she just drinks coffee. Otherwise she fixes a pile of
105
excessively-cheesy scrambled eggs. One morning, when she’s frying some up, he decides it’s
a good time to talk. Two nights ago there was another skirmish with his wife. His daughter
came home late again, intoxicated again. There was an argument. His daughter said: “Look,
I would gladly move out tomorrow, believe me, but I gave up my place and it’s not that easy
to just find another.” His wife returned to bed tense. When he touched her shoulder she
moved away. “Not now,” she said. A few minutes went by. “I’m distracted at a time when I
want to be focused,” she said. He knows her well enough to understand what she is saying.
He needs to get his hands dirty. She knows he’s sick but she’s reached her limit.
When he broaches the subject over breakfast, his daughter uses the same line, how
she would move out if she could but she gave up her place. He saw her place once. A ratty
bedroom in an old bungalow over by City College in San Francisco. The notion that she
gave something up is a bit grandiose. But he humors her without her knowing it. He asks if
he can set her up somewhere nearby.
She frowns. “So you’re kicking me out?”
“I’m looking for some middle ground.”
She rolls her eyes. “I feel like I’m being made to feel like criminal for living my life.
I’m not hurting anyone.”
This line causes him tremendous anxiety. It is verbatim from her mother, who
struggled with alcohol until a DUI cost her a good job and she finally got sober. That was
when his daughter came to live with him and his wife. A rough transition. His daughter had
grown up with a license to party at home. They tried to help her find some balance but she
went right on raging through the rest of her teens. And now here she is. Recycling her
mother’s lines. Jesus. He’s seen this coming from a great distance. He assumed he would
have more time to let things shake out natural. No such luck. He must foist wisdom upon
her. He does his best to curb his anxiety, approach at a loving angle.
“Do you remember when you were about six or seven? I brought you out to Bodega
Bay for a long weekend?”
She eyes him dubiously, as if his embattled brain is causing him to dole out random
non-sequiturs, but she humors him (with him knowing it). “Um, sure. You had that
girlfriend. We ate a bunch of crab.”
“Yeah,” he says. “We also played tag with some kids from a neighboring camp. There
was a roundabout with some trees and bushes in the middle. I kept running around the
outside and threatening to run into the middle and chase you all out of there. But it was
funny. Instead of running away from me you ran towards me, right up to the edge where
the grass turned to road. I could have easily reached out and grabbed you. But you stayed
right there.” He pauses. “At the time it just seemed like child’s play. But the feeling of you
hovering close even though it defeated the purpose of the game—it never left me. It begged
me to understand it. And finally I think I do. See, truth be told, I wasn’t really paying
attention to you that much that weekend. I was caught up in my own mess. That
girlfriend—that was one of those relationships that keeps you off center. We were fixing
the sauces for the crab and she was treating it like a life or death situation. Well, anyway, I
finally broke away and let her deal with it and see what you were up to. And you were so
happy to have my undivided attention that you didn’t care about winning the game. To win
was to be wanted.”
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His daughter is looking at him as if he has officially lost his mind.
“I’m just trying to point out,” he says, realizing he has almost misplaced the point,
“that you always seem to be looking for the battle, and yet when it comes all you talk about
is running away.”
“Have you been reading a lot of Shakespeare lately?” she asks.
He laughs. “And you deflect with the best of them. And Shakespeare, ahem, would
employ a more arch diction.”
“Him and Dr. Scholls.”
“I see my point is receiving serious consideration.”
“To be clear,” she says, “your point is that I care more about winning a fight than
getting along?”
“I’m saying I think somewhere in there you feel unwanted, and that I am partly to
blame for that.”
She looks down at her eggs, stirs them with her fork.
“You are wanted,” he says, waiting for her eyes to come back up to his. “You are
wanted,” he repeats when they do.
<><><>
His wife throws a diner party for him, in order to get the friends who have been
indispensible to him in life under one roof. They all have such busy schedules, seeing them
one by one is untenable. Three fly in for the occasion. His wife makes coq-au-van. Much
wine is poured. After dinner, when they are all sitting around the table, digesting before
dessert, he feels sufficiently lubricated to address his audience. He has been working on a
speech—bullet points on a grubby notecard.
“I used to think that when I got older wisdom would just pour into me,” he began,
“and I would be like this perfectly designed building, with all the greater concerns of life
neatly partitioned on the upper floors, lots of space and light, while the everyday details,
the shit that drives us all nuts, resides on the lower floors. Kind of on autopilot down there.
Well, that’s not how it turned out…”
He talks about his experience on the bridge, which inaugurated this whole weird
chain of events. He has, he explains, become aware of a tendency that allows the human to
keep the mental decks clear for the day’s stresses: if you upload a template of your base
reality, you get more done. But in the process you miss mountains. All that shit you put on
autopilot—it’s not shit. The passed-over details can come to include you sons’ faces as they
grow. Your daughter’s moods as they swing like a chandelier in a hurricane. His daughter is
at the table. She smiles. They have been talking more. She’s out late less. Still drinking too
much, but he knows she’s hearing him. She’s hearing him now. Everyone is. They know
what he means. Among people there are warm silences and cold silence. The silence
around the table is the silence of understanding, warm and communal.
It’s a nice moment and he blows it. Not in any dramatic way. He gets all
metacognitive on them, starts rambling about the nature of wisdom. The architect in him
wants to build. He can feel the communal silence around the table breaking down. Less
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warm. More patient. Patience is often mistaken for warmth. It’s not quite. No, this is more
like watching the moon wane over the course of a month.
Full.
“Wisdom doesn’t come pouring in. You go a whole lifetime and come out with a few
nuggets that are your own.” He laughs. “That’s why old people repeat the same anecdotes,
it’s not just dementia…”
Half.
On his notecard, this philosophical aside about wisdom is meant to act as segue to
the story about playing tag with his daughter. The other piece of wisdom he gained in
forty-four years. Giving her his embattled all. Her running towards him. To win is to be
wanted. He’s aware it’s a bit precious.
Crescent.
He reads a sentence he labored over and printed at the bottom of the notecard. Even
as he reads it, he understands it is better read than spoken, as sentences without concrete
referents usually are. He feels like a spider spinning gossamer. Still he reads: “And what
these two events have in common is that they were moments when the laws I have lived by,
my whole life, were violated in full, exposing deeper ranges of possibilities, which, if
entertained, might yield more subtle joys.”
New.
<><><>
Four months later he is dead. The people who were at the dinner are at the funeral,
with the addition of a high school pal who has spent a lifetime in the navy and couldn’t get
away for the dinner. He gets up and says a few words, tells a story, leaves the podium with a
salute. Then the wife goes, after her the daughter. She says they made up for six years in six
months, and can’t get through the rest…
Before you read Mr. Eastman’s last page to end this piece
What other directions might you author to honor this story? Try a didactic line.
Write some notes for three various paths. Adhere to the rubric.
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