“One Stage of Our Journey is Over. Another Begins." -Gandalf, “The Lord of the Rings”

Well, I thought that the personal narrative section was rather fun. Of course, almost anything with the word “narrative” in it has the potential to be enjoyable (please bear in mind that I said almost. I'm sure some English teacher somewhere has found a way of making even narratives unbearable. Good thing I don't know them.). My narrative wasn't quite as good as I would have liked it to be, but I suppose that is partially my fault for not putting enough effort into it and partially the fault of my choice of material.

With any luck, we'll get a chance to write a narrative on our choice of material (fiction or nonfiction, preferably fiction). Maybe I could check the syllabus. I'll be right back. Sadness. It looks like we're not going to get to write any more stories. What a pity. Well, I just hope that whatever it is that we will be doing will end up being both educational and highly entertaining. Anyway, back to my story.

I liked that my first paragraph was able to entice/intrigue people as I had hoped that it would. I liked that for the most part the conversation seemed to work. I didn't like the middle as much, as it seemed like “filler”, just a couple of paragraphs to get the reader from point A to point B. There were bits that I liked, but I was happy when I finally came up with a semi-decent way of editing that out in a manner that made it more like a story (which luckily is what it was supposed to be anyway). I thought that I was able to improve the last paragraph or so somewhat, though I would have liked to do more editing to that and the conversation.

I enjoyed the chance to write a story, but the huge mental block at the beginning where I couldn't come up with a single thing to write about? Not so much. I loved the chance to read the writings of our blog-members. Too bad we didn't get to read all of them. Oh well. I'm just glad that it turned out alright in the end.

Drafting the Draft

Well, here we go. I've got a personal narrative I need to write. Okay, I guess. I've written what I think is an alright beginning, but I'm kind of torn because there is at least three or four options as to where I could go next. I'm not sure. I guess I'll end up writing the options separately, and than see how they fit together. I'm not sure how strictly to adhere to the chronological order, or if I should just manipulate time, and move around, giving scenes and information out as needed to keep the plot going and help the story make more sense. Since I had multiple conversations with essentially the same feel, tone, and message (probably the same words, too), should I combine them into one generic conversation and use that as my dialog, or should I just use one specific example? Perhaps I could describe the generic conversation and then show an example, or maybe I could use one specific conversation, but really get into my head with my feeling/thoughts, and then tell how this conversation was repeated again and again, describing the different people and locations the same words were spoken in. I've got a theme/message, but I'm not really sure how to make it apparent. I could talk about what I learned during the concluding paragraph, but that sound suspiciously like beating your audience over the head with the message. I don't know. I just can't think of a single event that illustrates my point. Maybe I could just try to emphasize the gradual change and talk about the theme while discussing the change itself. It's a thought. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy your writing endeavors. I hope your life is more interesting than mine so that you can easily write about it and actually be able to make it sound interesting to other people. Here's to hoping that I can do the same.

Good Call, er, Choice

Depression is never fun.  At least that is my personal opinion.  So, even though it makes no sense whatsoever, I am strangely not terribly interested in focusing on depressing stories.  Thus, as the most entertaining, and least depressing story, I am pleased to discuss "Mother's Choice", by Anna Quindlen.  She starts off the story by doing the unthinkable: quitting her job and becoming a mom.  Crazy, I know.  Hasn't she heard the feminist movement demonize motherhood as Chauvinist slavery enough times?  As the author astutely points out, while motherhood used to be the norm and a career so unspeakable as to be almost unheard of, now it is mothers who must break the mold in order to be moms.  It reminds me of the complete lack of logic in an entire generation of teenagers deciding to be rebels.  Just listen to what our hidden bugs have unearthed: "Man, I'm so bored.  What are we going to do??"  "I don't know dude, but check it out!  A ton of people are bein' rebels!  Sounds cool!"  "Yeah, man!  Let's be like everyone else and rebel!"  Is it just me, or is there something terribly ironic about people trying to rebel so that they can conform?  At this point, the true rebels are actually the people who don't do anything stupid.  How weird is that?  Anyway, and now, back to our program.  So our hero, Anna, has decided to break social norms and become a mother!  Life is certainly never dull, and with such comments as "'Don't you ever stick something like that in his ear again or I will throw you out the window!'" the conversation stays lively and witty.  Well, good luck, Hero-Mom!  After all, getting the next generation on-course is the most effective way of all to change the world.

Sometimes, Cliche Doesn't Have to be Bad

Hmm... “Love Story Fades to Black”, by Michael Potter. Sounds interesting. The title implies something along the lines of a traditional hopeless romance scene where the guy loves the girl, but the girl considers the guy to be, at best, a friend. A bit cliché, but there is still hope. After all, this Michael couldn't be that bad of writer if he could come up with an intriguing sounding title like “Love Story Fades to Black.” Perhaps it will be funny. It's not like I've got a choice anyway. I have to read this for Writing 150.

“I walk into the scene looking nonchalantly around the walls...” Okay, so he's got a nice style, sounds very suave, etcetera, etcetera, blah, blah, blah, or at least he does in his own head. I'm curious about the use of the word “scene”, though. He acts as if he were in a play, not the real deal. Is he disconnecting from reality, trying to pretend that he is in a play, because people in a play always get the girl? Is this just a harmless contrivance, or is it a dangerous defense mechanism? My suspicions are partially confirmed a few sentences later when he adds, “Hopefully it's a movie where the insecure romantic gets the girl.”

“'What a lovely home.' Hmm, a little too much like daytime television, but here we go.” I've got to admit, he's right. That is a rather hopeless piece of opening . Next, he substantiates the theory that the girl isn't interested by saying that it lacks the warmth he thought it should have. Then again, he could just be paranoid and imagining it. Continuing my reading, I enjoy how he tells himself to be quiet, probably because I tell myself that on occasion. It's nice to know that I'm not alone. 

Next, he admits the dread secret the mankind has hidden from womankind for untold millennium: that we also over-think things, because we have absolutely no idea how girls think. I wonder if this is what the teacher meant when she said that we need to be candid in our personal narratives? Anyway, as the story continues, the author leaves clues explaining that he's been gone on his mission, that she probably doesn't care for him, since she only sent two letters, but that he is still blind enough to hope otherwise, at least for right now.

The dialogues both internal and external, continue, but the author quickly realizes that he is losing control of the conversation, which doesn't seem to be headed along the romantic lines he'd been hoping for. All seems lost (and the way he was moaning, the author sounded almost as if he'd lost more that just the conversation), when suddenly, “I hear what I hope marks the transition into a deep, Oscar-worthy second act.” There is hope as the girl asks what he's thinking about, but than the author gets lost in a remembrance of the “good old days” when they would sit on a tower and talk for hours. Sweet, and probably useful for me to know, but it isn't helping the conversation. But perhaps that remembrance was what he needed to get into the right mood for romantic dialogue. Of course, the girl is still clueless, and his attempt at romance soon flounders. He is on the verge of falling apart completely, when he is save by the bell, or rather, the phone.

Since his “second act” failed miserably, he readies himself to try and make the “third act” a rousing success. He readies lines sure to make the girl go weak at the knees, prepares himself for the delivery, only to drop dead as she returns saying, “'That was my friend. He's stranded in Las Vegas. Oh my gosh, he is the funniest guy. I'm so excited that you'll get to meet all my friends. There are some cute girls too.'”

If it wasn't for the girl's exceptionally clueless comment about how some of her girl-friends were cute, the author would have likely hoped that the funny guy would remain in Las Vegas permanently. As it was, he is completely shattered. At last, he must admit to himself that not only is this real and not merely a movie, but he also must confront the fact the his dream girl does not love him, and is clueless to the fact that he does. Having the other guy out of the picture wouldn't help in the least. As he wallows in the mental agonies of the dual revelations, he abandons himself to despair and the scene fades to black. Poor guy, you really have to feel sorry for him. All the same, at least he succeeded in not turning the story into a sappy cliché. I give him full credit for that.

Who am I?

Hello, stranger. Allow me to introduce myself. I am me. I'd give you my name, but that doesn't really tell you much about me, does it? Perhaps I should describe myself. I am eighteen, slightly short, with an inquisitive mind and a healthy yet bizarre sense of humor. I read, write, sing, dance, design, dream, query, and joke. I enjoy music, theater, clever stories, Risk, intriguing ideas, robotics, soccer, Axis and Allies, and racquetball. I abhor chocolate, save when in the purity of white, and don't particularly care for rap or opera. I appreciate my family, friends, religious freedom, and the opportunity to savor the unique weirdness inherent to all.