Week 5 Response

I had my first interview today for my profile with Gospel Mission. With one interview under my belt, and four more to go this week, I tried to read each assigned piece for Wednesday very carefully. I was most intrigued by Larissa MacFarquhar’s presentation about The New Yorker Profile. She made a lot of good points that I think will be very helpful in my upcoming interviews, especially the two interviews involving clients of Gospel Mission. 

MacFarquhar talks about how it’s important to remind subjects that the interview is not a friendly conversation -- we, as reporters, want something from them. I think the most useful tip was her point about not filling the silence. People, myself included, are uncomfortable with long periods of silence during a conversation -- we find the situation and ourselves awkward, so we jump to a new subject to avoid this momentary discomfort. MacFarquhar, on the other hand, invites us to embrace this awkward silence. She states: “If you shut up, they have to speak.” I was really fascinated by this suggestion and am going to try to restrain myself in my upcoming interviews, and encourage my subjects to tell their stories. 

I was also interested by her viewpoint of first person. She states: “I feel that even one use of ‘I,’ the first person, interrupts.” She compares the writer’s use of first person to a director leaning in front of the camera-- “It has broken the illusion.” I think I tend to agree with her, although I think LeBlanc’s use of first person worked well in the particular instance of ‘Trina and Trina.’ Overall, the Sinatra profile and this presentation reinforced the dedication it takes to make a good profile. MacFarquhar states that it takes approximately 2 months for each story: one week spent with the person; three weeks preparing/studying up on subject; week transcribing tape; four or five days to writ time. Given all of the details and scenarios shared in the Sinatra profile I would imagine it took around the same amount of time to create such an amazing piece of writing. 

Personal Essay Revised(x2)

Franklin Outline

Complication: Suzanne fears illness
Development:
     1. Past threatens Suzanne
     2. Suzanne rejects fear
     3. Mom admits panic
Resolution: Suzanne accepts unknown

The Clean-Up Conversation

It was Tuesday. Six chairs and four people sat at the kitchen table. It had been a month since my return from Scotland, and the family dinners that I had missed so much when I was away had become normal once again. Now I longed for the North Sea.

Dinner conversation collapsed into its usual pattern with my dad ranting on about my older sister Margaret, and her mooching boyfriend Kyle.

“He’s good to Margaret,” my mom interjected, always the peacemaker at a table that has seen its fair share of battles. 

She scooped my dad a heaping helping of seconds -- a peace offering -- and was quiet for the rest of dinner. Sometimes my mom becomes so internally preoccupied that she checks out from reality. That night, staring at a swirl of peas across her plate, she was lost in her thoughts once again.

After my dad finished his food he pulled his chair from the table -- a sign that we were now free to leave. 

My younger sister, Mary, snuck out after him to avoid the after-dinner clean-up. I waited for my mom to offer up one of her weak pleas for help, but she said nothing. Hunched over the kitchen table, she began to put away the leftovers that would be my dad’s lunch in the morning.

Left alone with her in the kitchen, I tackled the dishes and complained about my boss.

“Joe wasn’t even in the office when I got there this morning. I had to wait 30 minutes before he even showed up!”

No response.

“And then I had to call every golf league member about the price change because he forgot to include it in the bulletin.”

No response.

I looked at my mom across the kitchen, bent over dishes, mechanically ripping off sheets of saran wrap. I rolled my eyes in annoyance, and continued to scrub away dinner scraps. 

“If I get sick I want you to put me in a home.”

I switched off the water and turned around to look at my mom casually covering the spinach casserole with pink plastic. She didn’t look at me. I think she wanted to pretend that this conversation was normal. That it was like any other clean-up conversation we’ve had over the years. But it wasn't. The obvious terror in my eyes would have only confirmed it.

“What are you even talking about?”

“I want to be put in a home. You can find a nice place and visit me. I don’t want to be taken care of.”

“That’s a little dark and premature mom, don’t you think?”

She let out a breathy sigh, shrugged her shoulders, and placed the leftovers in the fridge. 

My grandfather died when I was 10 after losing his humanity to Alzheimer's. Reduced to an infant, a 6’3’’ man in diapers, he could no longer walk, or speak, or remember us.

Is this what she thinks will happen to her?

My grandma took care of him at home; my mom and her siblings alternated weekends to drive up to help, until every couple weekends became every weekend. Eventually a hospice worker came to the house, but there were always family members around -- taking him to the bathroom, changing him, feeding him, talking to him. 

This went on for five years. I was too young to be sad about a man I had never known when he was healthy, a man that would never know me. 

Put me in a home.

At 21, the idea of my parents in a home was not something I had ever really thought about. I had never considered the possibility of my mom having Alzheimer’s, but after that conversation, the possibility consumed me. An image was stamped across my eyes and I couldn't blink it away. There was my mom, sitting in my grandfather’s rocker, her warm blue eyes faded into an absent stare. 

Yeah, she forgets where she puts her keys, but doesn’t everyone sometimes?

She always asks us to leave her reminder post-its, but she just has a lot going on. 

She works too much. 

Yeah, she works too much.

A few nights later, during a different clean-up conversation, my mom would tell me that she was afraid. 

“What if something’s wrong with me?”

I didn’t tell her that I was scared too -- scared that I might lose her; scared that she might someday forget me.

“Mom, there’s nothing wrong with you. Really, you’re worrying about nothing.”

Dinners passed, the kitchen was cleaned and eventually I stopped worrying about an illness she might get years down the road. But there are still moments, like when she misplaces her keys, that the familiar feel of panic sets in and I am terrified all over again. 

She just has a lot going on. 

She works too much. 

Yeah, she works too much.

Word Count: 813

Intended Audience: Lives

Discussion Questions - Writing For Story

1. In the final chapter, Franklin talks about the difference between stories about reality and true stories. He says that real life and researched facts do not add up to truth -- that reality is confusing, boring, and lacking in emphasis. Rather, readers want an extract of reality -- "a story with minimum loose ends, a tale that's been simplified and crystalized in such a way that it clarifies and enlarges the mind" (213-214).

Franklin believes that readers do not want reality, they want the truth. What does Franklin mean by truth? How can we as writers be truthful?

2. In the chapter "Stalking True Story," Franklin states that "successful stories generally have happy endings" (80). He talks about the public needing relief from the sorrows of the world. But as writers, are we doing a disservice to society at large by only writing happy endings? Surely in life, the end result is not always pleasant. Doesn't there need to be someone to investigate and narrate these moments of human suffering? In Franklin's assessment of what readers actually want, is he wrongly assessing society as shallow and fearful or is he accurate in that readers will not want to read sad stories?

3. In the chapter "Structuring the Rough," Franklin advises writers to begin with the end of the story rather than the beginning. He states: "The story doesn't pivot on the beginning, it pivots on the end -- so write that first. That way, you know exactly where it is that you need to foreshadow" (158). While this piece of advise makes sense to me, I also find it problematic. How do you feel about writing the resolution first? Do you think this approach is helpful or complicated?

Week 4 Response

  I was pleasantly surprised at how “readable” I found Writing For Story to be. It didn’t take me a long time to read and it clarified a lot of writing aspects that I struggle with. I was most influenced by the chapters that focused on structure and outline. I was struck by Franklin’s statement “words are not, repeat not, the basic unit of literary structure” (93). So often when I’m writing (whether it be journalism, poetry or a critical essay) I find myself stressing over word choice. In each phase of revision I change more and more words (often the final change is reverted back to the original word in the first draft) in hope of sounding original. However, after reading Franklin’s chapter about structure, I realize that word choice, though important, is not critical to a story’s success.  Structure, however, and establishing a clear focus, is imperative.

  I think my greatest struggle as a writer thus far is focus. Therefore, while outlining could help aid me in my focusing dilemma, I’m intimidated by the process. My approach to writing is what Franklin deems “spaghettiing.” I knock out a terrible first draft and then I edit (and edit, and edit, and edit, and edit, etc.) until I’m either pleased with the outcome or so disgusted and tired of my work that I can’t look at it any longer. Writing can thus be a long and tedious process for me sometimes. I think that the dramatic outline that Franklin describes in the chapter would greatly benefit me. I really struggled with my personal essay, and wasn’t too pleased with the outcome. Something about it didn’t sit well with me. After reading the outline chapter I realized what was wrong: my complication didn’t match up with my resolution. Dramatic outlining is definitely something I need to start doing; however, I know that it will be difficult for me stay within the 15 words. I tend to complicate things -- I like to use a lot of adjectives and words in general when I’m writing. I’m the kind of student who has to find ways to play with font and margins to make her paper appear shorter. The dramatic outline will definitely be a challenge to say the least. With that being said, I know that once I get the hang of this outlining technique my writing process will be a lot less painful, and hopefully the structure of my writing will have a clearer focus. 

The Clean-Up Conversation

It was Tuesday. Six chairs and four people sat at the kitchen table. It had been a month since my return from Scotland, and the family dinners that I had missed so much when I was away had become normal once again. Now I longed for the North Sea.

Dinner conversation collapsed in to the usual pattern: Mary said a prayer; dad complained about work; Mary yacked on about tennis and school; I talked about work; dad ranted about my older sister, Margaret, and her mooching boyfriend Kyle; mom listened.

After a heaping helping of seconds, my dad pulled his chair from the table and settled in to the black leather arm chair in his office. Finished with his food, we were now free to leave the table. 

Mary snuck out after him to avoid the after-dinner clean-up. If I had been in a better mood I may have yelled at her to stay and help, but I was tired. Too tired to listen to her usual ramblings about why she was exempt from kitchen duty. 

“Suzanne, I don’t have time to help I have too much homework.”

“Sorry that I actually go to school and have tennis.” 

“It’s not like you’re busy.”

At 15, “little Mary” has her moments of being a huge bitch, but being the youngest she gets away with it.

Left alone in the kitchen, I tackled the dishes and complained about my boss while my mom handled the leftovers that would be my Dad’s lunch in the morning.

“Joe wasn’t even in the office when I got there this morning. I had to wait 30 minutes before he even showed up!”

No response.

“And then I had to call every golf league member about the price change because he forgot to include it in the bulletin.”

No response.

Sometimes my mom becomes so internally preoccupied that she checks out from reality. It’s like talking to a brick wall. In these situations I’ve found that it’s best to leave her alone and let her think. So I continued to scrub away dinner scraps, carefully placing the rinsed dishes in the dishwasher. 

“If I get sick I want you to put me in a home.”

I switched off the water and turned around to look at my mom covering the spinach casserole with pink plastic.

“What are you even talking about?”

“I want to be put in a home. You can find a nice place and visit me. I don’t want to be taken care of.”

“That’s a little dark and premature mom, don’t you think?”

She let out a breathy sigh, shrugged her shoulders, and placed the leftovers in the fridge.

My grandfather died when I was 10 after losing his humanity to Alzheimer's. Reduced to an infant, a 6’3’’ man in diapers, he could no longer walk, or speak, or remember us.

Is this what she thinks will happen to her?

My grandma took care of him at home; my mom and her siblings alternated weekends to drive up to help, until every couple weekends became every weekend. Eventually a hospice worker came to the house, but there were always family members around -- taking him to the bathroom, changing him, feeding him, talking to him. 

This went on for five years. I was too young to be sad about a man I had never known when he was healthy, a man that would never know me. 

Put me in a home.

At 21, the idea of my parents in a home was not something I had ever really thought about, let alone my mother having Alzheimer's. But as I stood in the kitchen, my hands wrinkled and wet from the soapy suds, that’s all I could think about. An image was stamped across my eyes and I couldn't blink it away. There was my mom, sitting in my grandfather’s rocker, her warm blue eyes faded into an absent stare. 

Yeah, she forgets where she puts her keys, but doesn’t everyone sometimes?

She always asks us to leave her reminder post-its, but she just has a lot going on. 

She works too much. 

Yeah, she works too much.

A few nights later, during a different clean-up conversation, my mom would tell me that she was afraid. 

“What if something’s wrong with me?”

I didn’t tell her that I was scared too -- scared that I might lose her; scared that she might someday forget me.

“Mom, there’s nothing wrong with you. Really, you’re worrying about nothing.”

Dinners passed, the kitchen was cleaned and eventually I stopped worrying about an illness she might get years down the road. But there are still moments, like when she misplaces her keys, that the familiar feel of panic sets in and I am terrified all over again. 

She just has a lot going on. 

She works too much. 

Yeah, she works too much.

Word Count: 815

Intended Audience: Lives

Week 3 Reading Response

Susan Orlean’s The American Man At Age Ten and Adrian LeBlanc’s Trina and Trina helped me to really think critically about the interviewing process in the upcoming profile assignment. Both pieces involved an in depth interviewing process in which the journalists shadowed their sources and became completely emerged in their lives. However, before they could accumulate real material from their sources, they needed to first gain their trust, which isn’t always an easy or quick task. 

Orlean talks about how Colin was completely disinterested in the article in the beginning; but after a few days, he finally invited her to check out his dog and bedroom. In kid world, that’s the nod of approval. From that point on she was able to immerse herself in his kid-friendly world -- although she was an adult, by participating in all of Colin’s activities it helped to gain his trust and perceive her in a different manner. 

For LeBlanc, the process was slower and more difficult. The trauma of Trina’s life (sexual abuse, crack addiction, prostitution, abandonment issues) made her much less susceptible to be won over in comparison to Colin, a child whose loss Orlean describes being comprised of the deaths of family members, and friends who have moved away. LeBlanc therefore made the conscious decision to not “rummage through the details of her life” right off the bat; her hesitancy represented her respect for Trina. 

In addition to winning over the subjects, I was surprised at the time commitment the journalists, specifically LeBlanc, dedicated to their articles. Reading the dates, LeBlanc followed Trina and her story for three years. Although it is unclear how long Orlean shadowed Colin, from all of the details in her story it surely took more than a few days to capture someone so perfectly in their natural environment. All of that takes time. This really strikes me in thinking about our profiles. Is it really possible to capture someone’s story in one interview? How do you find a way to naturally insert yourself in the subjects life in order to get a natural and honest viewpoint? How do help them trust you enough to get such a viewpoint? While these questions might not necessarily be pertinent for our profiles due in class, they are certainly critical to the craft of narrative journalism.

I read both articles one after the other and was struck by the differences between the two. Still working on my personal essay rough draft, I find myself searching for personal clues about the authors. While Orlean mentions that she is married to a lawyer and would like to have children someday (girls specifically), I have no sense of Orlean as a person. LeBlanc’s article on the other hand was much more personal. She talks about seeing her own attributes mirrored in Trina; preparing herself for Trina’s death; feeling guilty about talking to Trina when she is high because Trina will never remember the conversation, etc. Not only does LeBlanc do an excellent job in characterizing Trina and bringing her story to life, but I have a sense of LeBlanc as a person.

This difference is what struck me the most. What are the boundaries when it comes to a reporter and his/her subject? LeBlanc becomes incredibly involved: she buys Trina clothes; celebrates birthdays/holidays with her; let’s Trina stay at her home; chauffeurs her from prison, etc. Although LeBlanc surely gained writing material from each of these experiences, LeBlanc herself realizes that she crossed a boundary. But I feel that the crossed boundary is what made this story so interesting to me. It would be hard to follow this woman and her story so closely and not find yourself personally involved. From last week’s reading in Telling True Stories, Banaszynski (“Stories Matter”) writes: “I think that stories make us human. Only by telling them do we stay so” (5). To me, that’s what LeBlanc is doing in her piece -- restoring humanity. The fact that LeBlanc made the piece so personal made me like it even more. But I’m interested in what the class thinks about this. In a piece that’s profiling a subject, should there be a distinct boundary that the journalist cannot cross? Does crossing that boundary, like LeBlanc does, hinder the overall effect of the piece? 

Writing Process

It was difficult for me to find a topic to write about it. I couldn’t think of a “pivotal event” that had really changed me, or my outlook. I considered writing about study abroad, but it was really the experience as a whole, not a particular event while I was away that I feel affected me. Given that it's a "personal" essay, I wanted to take a bit of risk and delve in to a conversation or a relationship that's unique to my life. After some lackluster ideas, I remembered a conversation I had with my mom after dinner about a month ago. Out of no where my mom just blurts out, "If I get sick put me in a home."  I was really taken aback by the abruptness of this statement and tried to do that conversation, that night and the following morning justice, but I'm not sure the essay works. It kind of reads more like a story than an essay, so not quite sure if it even really follows the assignment..

The “How to Write a ‘Lives’ Essay” handout that we received in class says not to write about sickness and death, and while that wasn't my intention writing the piece, I'm afraid that is maybe how it reads. My grandfather's sickness is certainly an element of the story and the fear that my mom could end up like him is present as well, but I tried to make it more about me realizing that my parents were getting older for the first time. And that decisions like putting my mother in a home were decisions I would someday have to make. That’s what my mom’s comment “put me in a home” signified to me -- her mortality. Up until that conversation, I never really thought about what it would be like not to have my parents around.

I tried to be specific and set the scene of the conversation, but I’m not sure if it takes too long to get in to the actual “action.” Another concern is whether or not readers can see a difference in my character post-cleanup conversation. I tried to portray that through the repetition of my thoughts: She just has a lot going on. She works too much. Yeah, she works too much. For me, it was a way of trying to convince myself/get my mind off what my mom said to me. However, I'm not sure that's how it comes across. 

Personal Essay, Rough Draft

Audience: Lives

It was Tuesday. Six chairs and four people sat at the kitchen table. It had been a month since my return from Scotland, and the family dinners that I had missed so much when I was away had become normal once again. Now I longed for the North Sea.

Two empty place-mats decorated the table space in front of Elizabeth’s and Margaret’s empty chairs. Elizabeth was probably at the Alma College library scrawling scientific jargon in her lab notebook. Margaret..well, wherever she was, she was with Kyle. After dating for two years, Margaret and Kyle had become a sickening twosome attached at the hip, complete with gag-inspiring pet names.

Their relationship was constant dinner conversation which my father used as an outlet for his built up resentment of Kyle, resentment that my sister wouldn’t understand.

“I already have four kids, and now I’m paying for another one,” my dad rants. “I would never help myself to food at your mother’s house when I was his age. He eats everything!”

I swish some straggling peas across my plate, making circles with my spoon around pieces of cut off fat. It gives the steak flavor, according to my dad.

“I know but he’s good to Margaret,” my mom interjects, always the peacemaker at a table that has seen its fair share of battles.

A breathy “Hmmph” from my dad concludes the rant as he pulls his chair from the table and sulks back to his office, finding some sort of solace in his black leather armchair and finance shows.

Mary sneaks out after him to avoid the after-dinner clean-up.

Suzanne, I don’t have time to help I have too much homework. 

Sorry that I actually go to school and have tennis. 

It’s not like you’re busy.

At 15, “little Mary” has her moments of being a huge bitch, but being the youngest she knows she can get away with it.

Left alone in the kitchen, I tackle the dishes and complain about my boss as my mom handles the leftovers that will be my Dad’s lunch tomorrow.

“Joe wasn’t even in the office when I got there today. I had to wait for 30 minutes before he even showed up.”

No response.

“And then I had to call every golf league member about the price change because he forgot to include it in the bulletin.”

No response.

Sometimes my mom became so internally preoccupied that she tuned everyone and everything out. So I continued to rinse away dinner scraps, scrubbing the stubborn food chunks with a soapy sponge before placing them in the dishwasher. 

“If I get sick I want you to put me in a home.”

I turn off the water and turn around to look at my mother covering the spinach casserole with pink plastic.

“What are you even talking about?”

“If I get sick I want to be put in a home. You can find a nice place and visit me. I don’t to be taken care of.”

“That’s a little dark and premature mom, don’t you think?”

She let out a breathy sigh, shrugged her shoulders, and placed the leftovers in the fridge.

My grandfather died when I was 10 after losing his humanity to Alzheimer's. Reduced to an infant, a 6’3’’ man in diapers, he could no longer walk, or speak, or remember us.

Is this what she thinks will happen to her?

My grandmother took care of him at home; my mom and her siblings alternated weekends to drive up to help, until every other weekend became every weekend. Eventually a hospice worker came to the house, but there were always family members around -- taking him to the bathroom, changing him, feeding him, talking to him. 

This went on for five years. I was too young to be sad about a man I had never known when he was healthy, a man that would never know me. But not my Mom.

Yeah, she forgets where she puts her keys, but doesn’t everyone sometimes?

She always asks us to leave her reminder post-its, but she just has a lot going on. 

She works too much. 

Yeah, she works too much.

I stood in the kitchen, my hands wrinkled and wet from the soapy suds, and as hard as I tried not to think about it, all I could imagine was my mother, sitting in my grandfather’s chair, staring at me blankly. 

Put me in a home.

At 21, the idea of my parents in a home is not something I had ever really thought about. In their early 50’s, both my parents are healthy; my dad runs 30 miles a week and my mom walks and eats right. Physically, my parents don’t seem old. But maybe it’s not just the physical that I need to worry about.

In the morning, her heels click and clack all the way down the stairs. Her Flowerbomb perfume left a trail of scent behind her, mixing with the columbian blend that hung in the air from my coffee. She rummages through her purse, pulling up zippered pockets and emptying its contents on to the table. Her eyes dart from the table to the shelf and back again. Staring at the lipstick, hand sanitizer, chapstick and a collage of receipts sprawled across the kitchen table makes me angry. 

“Oh my god mom you put your keys on the counter.”

I’m harsh and instantly regret it.

But she just smiles. “Have a good day.”

Keys in hand she clicks away in her heels out the door. The garage door rumbles as it opens, and again as it shuts a few moments later.

She just has a lot going on.

She works too much.

Yeah, she works too much.