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Michael Fotos Professor Budris The Writer’s Mind 12/18/2014 Finals Reflection A funny joke or pretty sound can tickle the back of your neck, but true art can reverberate over and over in your head, letting shock waves escape on occasion and travel through your body timelessly. Artful writing coincides with reverberation. However, it is not obtainable without a combination of skill and a craving to exude meaning. I once believed good writing to be technical writing in the sense that multiple techniques (following genre conventions, willingness to reshape and use literary devices, etc.) were used before it was considered finished material, but through enduring The Writer’s Mind I realized that it is less technique and more of meaning and emotion. Calibration Assignment I read a statement written by Stephen King that charmed me. It read somewhere along the lines of insipid inspiration but it stuck with me as something dearer than a cliché ever could. “Write the stories that haunt you,” his words told me. And I’ve neglected it ever since. I wrote of fairytales that recurred in dreams and monsters that I found fascinating. However, I never wrote of the apparitions in my life until The Writer’s Mind challenged me. I was issued to write of ghosts, of flickers in memory and imagination combined. But before that I had to examine where I was in stature and status as a writer. With realizations after completing the Calibration Assignment I deemed myself an amateur, for self-critical analysis bestowed an awareness of my simple-minded flow of what I believed was inspiration. In this
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assignment, I analyzed how I generated the ideas gathered in writing a piece that I have abandoned. I set it aside and let it rot because I believed it must until I have triggered a thought process deeper than collecting interesting tidbits of information and write, finally, as a writer who is aware that he is his characters, that every action written, he has committed. Self is within story, I now realize. And this work has proved to me that I had not gathered this information. I may conclude that I am not seasoned for fiction; not yet, and must write of my experiences that have impacted me. Maybe the impact will translate and travel.
Shadow Poem assignment My shadow poem, however, was a step in the right direction to making meaning and sentiment. My piece was not embellished, not fictional, and it has proven to be decent work. It is not quite of writer’s caliber, and this could be because I lack technique in creating meaning. The technical abilities that I possess pushed me to produce work that rhetorically insinuated lust and repulsion in a juxtaposed set of phrases. This, I believe, is on the right track to producing works that possess powerful words, words that can change a mood, a life. However, I was lost in using clever creative grammar that is unapparent in the filmy eyes of unengaged readers. I thought using the word Grey as many times as the respective numbered section called for was witty, was good writing. But that isn’t it either. It isn’t fancy phraseology and the cadence of sensual sounds set together; although, it doesn’t always hurt. But rather, it is the stories that you hide away from friends and family and only reveal to strangers, the ones that sum up your past and current characters, the ones that mean something. In this assignment, I missed the mark because I was afraid and uncomfortable with speaking in concrete words and thus, diminished potential meaning and weakened the associated emotions.
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Memento Narrative Assignment The Memento Narrative may be the best writing in my life. It is shitty, but it is the best shit I have to offer. And I thank The Writer’s Mind for the realization accrued after writing this piece of work, for I believed I accomplished meaning. It isn’t as apparent as desired or clear enough to evoke the preferred amount of yearning in my characters. But it is a start, and that start has inspired me. More than a pretty image can, but in the way witnessing death can make you daring. I believe I am now more daring, able to spill my character onto pages and sketch together rehearsed techniques to create work that will truly impact a heart and mind, rather than tickling someone’s neck. This consciousness of mind comes from investigating and sitting with the events in my life that have haunted me. I can push these times away so easily and yet, when given the assignment I knew exactly what needed to be written. The two exercises completed in class were used in my final piece. Even after discussing with family and friends and evaluating the information gathered, the two events, I believe, had to be chosen. And the meaning was right there in front of me the entire course; I just had to piece it together, conjoin two narratives that have changed my life.
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Final Project Revision Bend Such a delicate and treasured property it was. Furnished with opulence. The tallest, most established housing I had ever owned. Oh, a portrait it was, within a panorama of beautiful homes. Upon entry I took notice of the wonders I rarely witnessed in poverty. My first steps lead to a large television set and a row of couches absent of worn seams and puffed cotton for the world to view. As I walked upon the hardwood, all pieces the same color of lacquer, I tripped over a rug tinged several tints of coco and sand and stitched with burgundy trees and boxed patters. I chaffed my knee upon the rug, but it dully dazzled in a painterly fashion, rustic and sophisticated. The very center accommodated, nearly imprisoned, the most fashionable medallion. If a pattern of such significance were to escape its borders, imagine what rule it would possess, hypnotizing its audience into submission. Its fringes very much like Celia upon a living cell seemed to travel like a beetle with a gemmed case. The rug was pure perfection; however, while entranced in a fixation of lavish, I discovered a bug, a flaw, an error beyond belief. Upon the northern left spandrel, a nap or warp of fabric enticed the edge binding causing a pull, a stiffness of material, a hike in the carpet. This was the cause of my plummet and I would have none of it. Nothing was to cause distress to my home. I attempted to eradicate the hike. I commenced my work with positioning, but there was no way to maneuver placement without disrupting the aesthetic appeal. Turning the rug ninety degrees would hide the hike but then the couch would grow a brown tongue flapping words in
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disgruntled slurs to the television. “Thith ith not thatithatory.” A one hundred eighty degree turn would hide the hike under the entertainment center, but the patterns would no longer advocate entry. It suggested departure of an unworthy home. Run from the crooked portrait, scream of pandemonium. No, I would have none of it. My home was to be perfect. And so I ran an iron over the hike, but it only warmed the fabric. I placed a cinderblock found in the neighbor’s backyard on its corner for two consecutive days. It only scuffed the hem. Clamps were set in the opposite direction of the bend. I sat on it, a chicken over a faulty egg. Creams were used, ointments for thread. I attempted rolling pins and flat irons. There was no way to meld the rug. Exasperated I was, and drowning in a stupor. My arms stung from pounding and pressing. My legs, soar from kneeling, buckled. The television laughed at me stumbling over the couches. I was a hunched back cripple, a drunkard after foolishly wasting his life away. A foot latched onto a tottering leg and I fell over, crashing in between couches. I heard the rattle of metal as a standing lamp fluttered down. My vision blurred into a colorless tunnel and bells tolled like sirens. I developed an instant headache. I stood and rubbed my eyes as my sight saturated itself with color and the bells whirring like glass harmonicas settled into a wine glass operatic. The lamp’s shade had rolled over and set itself on the center of the rug. I bent over to retrieve it. The plastic was lined with puppy dog fur the length of pencil points. Quite a pretty shade of purple, too. I positioned the lamp upright and placed its cover upon the bulb, a curious
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spiraling work of glass. I inspected the lamp stand for damage, but only found an engraved pattern in the metal that was soothing to touch. Such an exquisite lamp I thought. I rubbed my head for a lump was forming and searched the freezer for cubes of ice. But I found no ice tray. However, when I closed the freezer I took notice to an ice dispenser. I had never used one prior. I searched for a Ziploc bag but only found a wok and crock pot. I have always wanted to buy my mother such gifts, but never had the money. I used a plastic bag instead and applied a soothing chill to my head. I sat on the dining room table to relax and discovered that the walls were painted a mint green. Following the frosting-white trim lead me to a rich wood-chocolate ceiling fan. The room was gorgeous, a realm of mint chocolate. It smelled of peppermint ice cream and hot cocoa. The adjacent room was lined with wood paneling and green ornaments. A bonsai tree stood in a corner atop a quaint mahogany coffee table. The lit scents around the fixture smelled of spices. I danced in the room encased in wood like an ant fox-trotting in a redwood tree. I leapt and ran around the house occasional tripping over the rug in order to appreciate the next wonder, but never again did I attend to the bend.
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Original Text with Comments
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Final Project Reflection I chose to revise the parody piece because of all the works written this semester it was the least moving and incorporated the dullest sense of meaning. The original intention of the piece was to exude some message. I didn’t care what it was that was being conveyed, just as long as there was purpose to the writing. I believe I failed at this; not because the piece hadn’t any meaning, but because I forced meaning upon it. The lesson behind the piece was so spelled out for the audience that there truly wasn’t a lesson at all. Lessons are felt and are lasting because it is visceral. Audiences shouldn’t have to piece together your plans; they should make them up for themselves. When writing the memento narrative, I used two very different scenes and yet my readers were able to piece together some hint at a connection, a source of meaning. When asked what the purpose of writing was, in their belief, I received several ideas. Each related to each other, but also had distinct differences. I was proud of that work because it sparked thought in my audience. I wanted to accomplish this once again. I took to rhetorical revision first. I asked myself what was important and what was not for my audience. What bits of information would have an effect? Thus, I cut several sections. For example, having roommates added nothing to the world but extra unknown characters that were scarcely mentioned. I also scrapped the ending paragraph which spelled out the entire piece and extricated any potential thought process beyond the one I provided. I also added to sections that I believed needed more sensory details, more things at stake. I attempted to make my character more involved in his world, as well as more animated. His quest to primp his carpet now seems direr. This adds to the visceral feeling, but I wanted to add more.
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I reread Living Like Weasels and noticed an arch in the narrative, as well as a turning point. I decided I needed this as well. I believed it helped me guide the reader in pinpointing where meaning is supposed to spark. This moment in my text is when the lamp falls on the narrator. He becomes delusional and explores his home. He discovers new wonders instead of obsessing about the carpet. The text changes from anger, empty determination and obsession to wanderlust and beauty. This is the turning point. However, I must question whether it is strong enough of a change, and if it is clear. In addition to structure, I also attempted to add a shadow so I would have something to drive my writing. This was scarcely mentioned and I fear it may simply be extra information that doesn’t aid the text. The shadow associated was living a life of poverty, much rougher than most of the college students I interact with on a daily basis. I will admit that it helped me embellish and enrich details, but my goal was to add another layer to the text. Perhaps audiences may think the piece revolves around the obsession, greed, and devotion to perfection stereotypical to families and individuals who live lives according to the American Dream or utopian lifestyle. It is this reasoning that provoked me to keep the details about poverty in the text. Overall, I do believe the writing has been improved. Utilizing techniques and theories of writing, along with many revisions and forms of invention, I am happy with the outcome.
Conclusion If there is one thing I have learned this semester, it is that writing is damn hard, but the rewards are worth the effort. I will continue to write, continue to strengthen my skills and learn new techniques, especially through analyzing genre and feedback from peers on my work. I will devote myself to putting in the work to create good writing that not only requires skill, but must
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emanate meaning and feeling. My current plan is to create a chapbook. I would like to use a revised version of the Why I Write exercise as an introduction and write short stories and poetry that revolve around the shadows in my life. Perhaps if I follow the paths of the assignments in The Writer’s Mind, I can create meaning in multiple pieces including the pieces written for the course which can be further embellished. Maybe one day I will have a collection of pieces that induce meaning via emotions that will heighten moods and change minds.