My second story idea involves a man that saves a child's life...and how the local media embraces the story. The saving the life won't be as titillating enough, nor the kid cute enough, for the national media to embrace it. This takes place in a decent size area (like a Saginaw-size place) where there is not enough real news to report. The type of place, like here, where they interview people at gas stations for opinions on why gas prices are high, and call it news. So, it is a great opportunity for a "feel-good" piece for the local news.
The main conflict, or problem, is that the guy is not a likeable guy. He has done bad things in the past, and even now lives his life in a way that is unheroic. He is trying to find a way to spin the public attention for his gain, but also has to make sure that they don't find out who he truly is, and what his past is like. He knows that the news and a large portion of the general public likes to build up heros and tear them down...and he is not a good guy to begin with.
So, this sets off a string of events why he tries to play up his moment of good public opinion, while trying to hide who he is from reporters and the public.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Character Description #2
This is my second attempt at the Character Description. This is actually the one I started to write first, but was not doing well. I think I improved it...but it still seems pretty weak. This person was someone I saw with my oldest sister while visiting my mother in Hale. I made an inappropriate comment about the people in Hale...and it made this stick in my head. I think the one I posted first is the better of the two. I am posting this just for more practice.
Mindy is staring at herself in the mirror. Her hair was still wet from the shower – the drops running down her back. She feels there is a lot of work she is going to have to do today. Her eyes feel puffy, though she knows they look no different from any other day.
This has potential to be a big day. Her shift at Food Pride starts right around the noon rush. Mindy loves the holiday weekends. This is usually when the boys, “or trunk-slammers” as the older locals call them, come up from downstate. They will be stopping by the Food Pride, picking up cases of beer and bags of chips, before they go off four wheeling or fishing. These guys live their beer. It is amazing Anheuser-Busch sold out to those damn foreigners. If the bigwigs ever visited places like here, they would see how many true Americans drink their Buds. Even the down-state guys do.
As she straightens her hair, she dreams about leaving this hellhole. Possibly moving down state. She has talked to enough of her customers to envision where she wants to live. There are just no worthy local boys up here.
Mindy opens the cabinet above the sink. A few tubes of lip gloss and mascara fall out. She sees the unopened box of hair dye and silently curses. This would be a perfect time to have used it. Some highlights at minimum would have been nice. She reaches for the wrinkle remover. It lessens the bags under her eyes, but does wonders for the crow’s feet. As she is applying the cream, she notices that she is starting to get lines around her lips too. Can she really be getting more wrinkles? That is why Mindy dreads every birthday. She is getting older, and she gets less attention from the guys at Food Pride.
After she finishes putting on some makeup, she practices smiling. Food Pride doesn’t approve of a lot of makeup, but she puts on the types that make her look natural - and younger. She searches her room for the perfect outfit. Clothes are tossed in a pile in a corner. She has not had time to do laundry yet this week. The selection she has that is appropriate for work is sparse. Mindy spends more of her time on her “going out” clothes. Most of the time, she does not care what she looks like at Food Pride. Today, she cares. Mindy pulls out the nicest pair of jeans from her dresser. They are tight, and she feels shows off her ass pretty good. She pulls out a white top. It is slightly tight, but when wearing the appropriate bra, it shows off the shapes she wants people to see, while hiding some of the areas she wants to remain hidden.
After Mindy is dressed, she rushes goes to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. She wishes she had one of those thermoses so she could drink on the road, but has to settle for quickly drinking from one of the small mugs in the cupboard. Most of them she got as free samples…this one from a local realtor. She pours a cup from her Mr. Coffee machine, adds some Food Pride brand artificial sweetener, and glances at the time. Though she got up early, she still seems like she has to rush to not be late.
She grabs her keys, cigarettes, and brown, faux leather purse from the countertop. She hops in her white ’97 Grand Am and heads for work. It is another summer season, and this time she is going to make the most of it.
Mindy is staring at herself in the mirror. Her hair was still wet from the shower – the drops running down her back. She feels there is a lot of work she is going to have to do today. Her eyes feel puffy, though she knows they look no different from any other day.
This has potential to be a big day. Her shift at Food Pride starts right around the noon rush. Mindy loves the holiday weekends. This is usually when the boys, “or trunk-slammers” as the older locals call them, come up from downstate. They will be stopping by the Food Pride, picking up cases of beer and bags of chips, before they go off four wheeling or fishing. These guys live their beer. It is amazing Anheuser-Busch sold out to those damn foreigners. If the bigwigs ever visited places like here, they would see how many true Americans drink their Buds. Even the down-state guys do.
As she straightens her hair, she dreams about leaving this hellhole. Possibly moving down state. She has talked to enough of her customers to envision where she wants to live. There are just no worthy local boys up here.
Mindy opens the cabinet above the sink. A few tubes of lip gloss and mascara fall out. She sees the unopened box of hair dye and silently curses. This would be a perfect time to have used it. Some highlights at minimum would have been nice. She reaches for the wrinkle remover. It lessens the bags under her eyes, but does wonders for the crow’s feet. As she is applying the cream, she notices that she is starting to get lines around her lips too. Can she really be getting more wrinkles? That is why Mindy dreads every birthday. She is getting older, and she gets less attention from the guys at Food Pride.
After she finishes putting on some makeup, she practices smiling. Food Pride doesn’t approve of a lot of makeup, but she puts on the types that make her look natural - and younger. She searches her room for the perfect outfit. Clothes are tossed in a pile in a corner. She has not had time to do laundry yet this week. The selection she has that is appropriate for work is sparse. Mindy spends more of her time on her “going out” clothes. Most of the time, she does not care what she looks like at Food Pride. Today, she cares. Mindy pulls out the nicest pair of jeans from her dresser. They are tight, and she feels shows off her ass pretty good. She pulls out a white top. It is slightly tight, but when wearing the appropriate bra, it shows off the shapes she wants people to see, while hiding some of the areas she wants to remain hidden.
After Mindy is dressed, she rushes goes to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. She wishes she had one of those thermoses so she could drink on the road, but has to settle for quickly drinking from one of the small mugs in the cupboard. Most of them she got as free samples…this one from a local realtor. She pours a cup from her Mr. Coffee machine, adds some Food Pride brand artificial sweetener, and glances at the time. Though she got up early, she still seems like she has to rush to not be late.
She grabs her keys, cigarettes, and brown, faux leather purse from the countertop. She hops in her white ’97 Grand Am and heads for work. It is another summer season, and this time she is going to make the most of it.
Quick thoughts on week 3 exercise (not really class assignment).
Ok...this is more of a ramble, than anything coherent. The blog I posted just a bit before this is the one for the actual assignment. This is just thoughts, that I may revisit tomorrow and see if I can improve my assignment. I think I did pretty good at the task sheets and thinking about different people. I can easily answer the questions for a range of different people.
I was playing around with the Exercise 31 too. Kind of got away from the exercise we are supposed to do...but just wanted to get used to describing certain types and get my mind going.
The making the hero flawed portion (Exercise 29) is definitely going to help with my short story. Even if I don't go with my first plot idea, I think this will be something I will reread. For the blog posting, I don't believe we were supposed to incorporate it...as it is just a character introduction. I started hinting at things, but never really expanded on this.
The 1st person versus 3rd person exercise .... I failed. To me, I can change from "I" to "he" and not get dramatic differences. The only time I can see the obvious benefit to 3rd person is if you have multiple characters that you want to have their thoughts and behaviors better utilized. If it is a primarily one person story, I can't see how one way is too different from others. So...I am missing something there. If anyone reads this, can they tell me what I am missing?
So...I posted my introduction. It might be longer than I needed to. I think I described the workplace better than the person. I might have went with too much physical description, though I attempted to keep that to a minimum. I tried to subtley sneak in her mannerisms, but I am unsure if I added enough to it. I want to share what I think I added, and how I perceived it...but I think that goes against the heart of the exercise. This was my third character I started writing on. I stopped on the other two. Maybe tomorrow I will attempt one of the ones I abandoned. I wanted to try a female, as I don't believe I have ever written primarily from a female perspective. Let's see how off I am on how women think and act.
I was playing around with the Exercise 31 too. Kind of got away from the exercise we are supposed to do...but just wanted to get used to describing certain types and get my mind going.
The making the hero flawed portion (Exercise 29) is definitely going to help with my short story. Even if I don't go with my first plot idea, I think this will be something I will reread. For the blog posting, I don't believe we were supposed to incorporate it...as it is just a character introduction. I started hinting at things, but never really expanded on this.
The 1st person versus 3rd person exercise .... I failed. To me, I can change from "I" to "he" and not get dramatic differences. The only time I can see the obvious benefit to 3rd person is if you have multiple characters that you want to have their thoughts and behaviors better utilized. If it is a primarily one person story, I can't see how one way is too different from others. So...I am missing something there. If anyone reads this, can they tell me what I am missing?
So...I posted my introduction. It might be longer than I needed to. I think I described the workplace better than the person. I might have went with too much physical description, though I attempted to keep that to a minimum. I tried to subtley sneak in her mannerisms, but I am unsure if I added enough to it. I want to share what I think I added, and how I perceived it...but I think that goes against the heart of the exercise. This was my third character I started writing on. I stopped on the other two. Maybe tomorrow I will attempt one of the ones I abandoned. I wanted to try a female, as I don't believe I have ever written primarily from a female perspective. Let's see how off I am on how women think and act.
Week 3 - Introducing a character
Only three more hours left on her shift. For the remainder of the week, she is working the late shifts. She doesn’t mind that at all. On those shifts the door is locked, and the people have to pay for the window. There is no chance that she will be robbed. Also, with the thick glass, and the turnstile that they put their money or credit card in, there is very limited opportunities for conversation. Megan can’t stand hearing the same fucking lines over and over. The old guys, or the young ones filled with machismo and fake bravado, using the same cheesy lines to hit on her.
Today is slow. The bigger name gas stations have lowered their price to match Admirals. That is the only reason people come to this dump. The gas is usually cheaper. Inside the small cramped establishment, there is a cooler with a few Coke and Pepsi products, water, and a few flavors of Gatorade. Beef Jerky hangs next to the sparse candy rack. The cigarette shelves are packed. The other shelves have chew, and bags of tobacco. Besides that, all that remains is a shelf with motor oil, and the newspaper rack. The station sits on the corner of two busy streets. There is usually an accident once a month from people trying to pull in or out of this station. Most busy days there are a few near misses as cars jockey for pump positions. The pavement is cracked. Megan sometimes wonders how much of the spilt gas and leaking oil seeps in to the ground beneath the pavement cracks. She has spent most of the day just staring out at the traffic, or at her nails. Her fingernails are painted black today, though her left index finger has part chipped off. She wishes she brought the nail polish with her.
Megan has already looked in her little black bag. It doesn’t hold much, but she loves the bag. It has little skulls all over it. Her purse is crammed with ATM receipts, some lip balm, a few wadded dollar bills, a half pack of Newports and her keys. She doesn’t like to bring too much stuff with her at work, because you never know when you will get held up.
The job is overall not too bad though. It is easy, and she doesn’t mind not doing anything. There aren’t too many jobs out there for someone with just a high school diploma. This one lets her easily pay her portion of the rent. They let her dress however she wants to, as long as her clothes are not ripped. She had a pair of jeans she bought with rips in them, but was informed she could never wear them again. Her boss doesn’t understand her fashion. It is ok though. She can still wear her concert t-shirts. Today Megan is wearing one of her favorites – See You Next Tuesday. She is not too much of a fan of the band – her old boyfriend was. He used to love the song 8 Dead, 9 If You Count The Fetus. All of the songs sounded the same to her…just a bunch of high pitch screaming. Still, the shirt is pretty fucking cool. It is black, but the graphics have so much color, including pink, that she can match it with any color nail polish and eye shadow. The only bad part is they make her wear the blue Admiral vest over the shirt. Most of the day she doesn’t have it on. She can see when a boss pulls up, and always has time to pull it on before they notice.
The radio is playing Z93. Nickelback is playing again. They play the same shitty songs over and over. One day she will bring in an MP3 player, so she can listen to some good music. Since nothing is good on the radio, it is time for another smoke break.
Megan grabs a cigarette, bums a disposable BIC from the bowl on the counter, and steps outside. Just as she lights up, a Chevy Cobalt with the bass on high pulls up to the pump. She takes one more quick drag and tosses the cigarette to the ground. She grinds it with her black and pink Vans and steps back inside.
She looks at herself in the security mirror as she waits for the young guy to finish filling the tank. The red streaks in her hair are starting to fade a bit. She cheapened out and used the temporary dye the last time. Next time, I will go blue. Megan always thinks about going blue, but ends up sticking with red. She knows her boss won’t bitch with her hair having long strands of red in it. For some reason that seems to be more acceptable to old people than blue. Why push her luck? The guy finishes filling up and heads her way to pay. She notices his American Eagle shirt (and probably the same with his shorts) and backwards cap. She hopes this loser won’t hit on her. He is probably too preppy to care, but she can tell he has the cockiness. Oh well….another day in paradise….
Today is slow. The bigger name gas stations have lowered their price to match Admirals. That is the only reason people come to this dump. The gas is usually cheaper. Inside the small cramped establishment, there is a cooler with a few Coke and Pepsi products, water, and a few flavors of Gatorade. Beef Jerky hangs next to the sparse candy rack. The cigarette shelves are packed. The other shelves have chew, and bags of tobacco. Besides that, all that remains is a shelf with motor oil, and the newspaper rack. The station sits on the corner of two busy streets. There is usually an accident once a month from people trying to pull in or out of this station. Most busy days there are a few near misses as cars jockey for pump positions. The pavement is cracked. Megan sometimes wonders how much of the spilt gas and leaking oil seeps in to the ground beneath the pavement cracks. She has spent most of the day just staring out at the traffic, or at her nails. Her fingernails are painted black today, though her left index finger has part chipped off. She wishes she brought the nail polish with her.
Megan has already looked in her little black bag. It doesn’t hold much, but she loves the bag. It has little skulls all over it. Her purse is crammed with ATM receipts, some lip balm, a few wadded dollar bills, a half pack of Newports and her keys. She doesn’t like to bring too much stuff with her at work, because you never know when you will get held up.
The job is overall not too bad though. It is easy, and she doesn’t mind not doing anything. There aren’t too many jobs out there for someone with just a high school diploma. This one lets her easily pay her portion of the rent. They let her dress however she wants to, as long as her clothes are not ripped. She had a pair of jeans she bought with rips in them, but was informed she could never wear them again. Her boss doesn’t understand her fashion. It is ok though. She can still wear her concert t-shirts. Today Megan is wearing one of her favorites – See You Next Tuesday. She is not too much of a fan of the band – her old boyfriend was. He used to love the song 8 Dead, 9 If You Count The Fetus. All of the songs sounded the same to her…just a bunch of high pitch screaming. Still, the shirt is pretty fucking cool. It is black, but the graphics have so much color, including pink, that she can match it with any color nail polish and eye shadow. The only bad part is they make her wear the blue Admiral vest over the shirt. Most of the day she doesn’t have it on. She can see when a boss pulls up, and always has time to pull it on before they notice.
The radio is playing Z93. Nickelback is playing again. They play the same shitty songs over and over. One day she will bring in an MP3 player, so she can listen to some good music. Since nothing is good on the radio, it is time for another smoke break.
Megan grabs a cigarette, bums a disposable BIC from the bowl on the counter, and steps outside. Just as she lights up, a Chevy Cobalt with the bass on high pulls up to the pump. She takes one more quick drag and tosses the cigarette to the ground. She grinds it with her black and pink Vans and steps back inside.
She looks at herself in the security mirror as she waits for the young guy to finish filling the tank. The red streaks in her hair are starting to fade a bit. She cheapened out and used the temporary dye the last time. Next time, I will go blue. Megan always thinks about going blue, but ends up sticking with red. She knows her boss won’t bitch with her hair having long strands of red in it. For some reason that seems to be more acceptable to old people than blue. Why push her luck? The guy finishes filling up and heads her way to pay. She notices his American Eagle shirt (and probably the same with his shorts) and backwards cap. She hopes this loser won’t hit on her. He is probably too preppy to care, but she can tell he has the cockiness. Oh well….another day in paradise….
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Week 2: Story Plot
This is going to be rather informal, as I am still just toying with this idea. My story is something that I was thinking about while watching a TV commercial for Terminator Salvation after 3am. I dismissed it...but it keeps returning to my thoughts.
My story is going to be about a superhero. The problem is, right now the economy is bad. My superhero has great powers, but he doesn't have the means to become a true superhero. Like...Batman, Iron Man (I think...from the TV commercials), and some other ones were rather wealthy. Superman was a reporter in the big city. All of these seem to have big jobs, or live in the big city. What happens if there is this guy that has special powers, and he wants to use them for good...but he can't find a job in the big city. He is financially struggling like a lot of us. Maybe he lives in a town like Saginaw. He could be a mail room clerk - or a job where he doesn't have contact with the "seedy underbelly of society." He can't even really have a cool costume. Maybe he tries to improvise with it.
I think, since this is a short story, that this would have to be character driven. This is a weakness in my writing...which makes it more intriguing for me to attempt. I think I can go a lot of different ways with this. I could make it humorous, dark, sad/depressing, or so many other emotions. I would like to go for seriousness, but mix in humor too...try a few different elements, as long as it is not forced.
The conflict is an internal one. He knows he has a gift, and knows he should use it for good, but doesn't know how the hell to do so.
And...just like he doesn't know how the hell to use his super powers, I have no idea how I am going to end this story.
My story is going to be about a superhero. The problem is, right now the economy is bad. My superhero has great powers, but he doesn't have the means to become a true superhero. Like...Batman, Iron Man (I think...from the TV commercials), and some other ones were rather wealthy. Superman was a reporter in the big city. All of these seem to have big jobs, or live in the big city. What happens if there is this guy that has special powers, and he wants to use them for good...but he can't find a job in the big city. He is financially struggling like a lot of us. Maybe he lives in a town like Saginaw. He could be a mail room clerk - or a job where he doesn't have contact with the "seedy underbelly of society." He can't even really have a cool costume. Maybe he tries to improvise with it.
I think, since this is a short story, that this would have to be character driven. This is a weakness in my writing...which makes it more intriguing for me to attempt. I think I can go a lot of different ways with this. I could make it humorous, dark, sad/depressing, or so many other emotions. I would like to go for seriousness, but mix in humor too...try a few different elements, as long as it is not forced.
The conflict is an internal one. He knows he has a gift, and knows he should use it for good, but doesn't know how the hell to do so.
And...just like he doesn't know how the hell to use his super powers, I have no idea how I am going to end this story.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Week 2 Exercise: From Situation to Plot
The nurses and doctors have finally left my side. Now it is just my mother and father in the room. I know it is tough for them to see me like this, but it could have been worse. It was a freak accident that put me in this hospital bed. I was crashing the net, going for the loose puck like I have done many times before, but this time I lost my balance. The opposing D-man and I collided – and then I collided with the boards. I thought it was just a stinger, until I blacked out.
I have been playing hockey my whole life. I just turned sixteen a month in to this season. I was finally playing in the OHL, and was doing well. My ice time was increasing, and my shifts becoming more regular. My parents financially supported me through the years. The skates and equipment was not cheap, and they made sacrifices. I was finally showing them that it was paying off. The better I did, the worse my home-life got.
My mother and father fight a lot. I am frequently used as the source, though I am sure that without me, they would still fight. Maybe without me, they would be divorced. My mother hates hockey. She deems it too barbaric. She used to always say, “one day because of this stupid ‘game’, you will wind up in the hospital.” My father would mock her, and I would laugh. I look at both of their faces and see no laughter now.
I will be okay. There will be no permanent damage. The doctor says I am lucky. There have been cases similar to mine where the player became paralyzed. Player. I always hated that term. I do not merely “play” hockey. I live it. From when I learned to skate at four, until now, all I wanted to do was be on the ice. In the beginning it was just because this seemed to be the only thing that made my father proud. My mother could barely watch my games. When I was younger, and my father was at work, she had to take me to games. She never watched. I could sometimes see her in the near empty stands reading a book. I wonder now if she ever could fully concentrate on the novel. Tonight was the first time she came to a game this season. And I ended up crumpled along the end boards.
My mother was still slightly sobbing. Her eyes were red and puffy. She no longer had the tissues in her hand though. My father had his arm around her. He was comforting her. It felt like a normal family for once. No yelling across the dinner table. No fights about the lack of money – which was often blamed on the travel and equipment needed for hockey. I actually felt comfort. Maybe it was a small, unfortunate incident that could make us a family again. Maybe my parents could see that they still loved each other, and that I loved them. We could be a normal family. Our nights could be spent joking around, and telling each other how our days went – with no accusations.
“Don’t worry honey. The doctor stated it is only a concussion and an inflamed disc. Everything will be okay and back to normal soon enough. This isn’t career-ending.”
As soon as he stated that, I knew nothing would be okay. I saw my mother stiffen up and pull away from him. She started yelling. I could hear the anger, but I swear there was some fear in her voice too. How could he even think about me playing hockey again? She was stating that it was because of him pressuring me to continue playing that I almost wound up paralyzed. I wished the nurses would come in to check on us, but my wish was unfulfilled. My father tried to find the right words to say. Tried to go back to being comforting. He was never good at that. I could hear the frustration creep in to his voice. The more she accused him of causing me to end up here, the angrier he got. I was trapped. I was unable to get out of the bed. There was nothing I could do to get both of them to stop fighting. If I gave up hockey, I would disappoint my father. I would disappoint myself. If I didn’t give up hockey…I am unsure what my mother would do. I fear that this would be the end of their marriage. This would be the incident that finally made her give up. This seemed to be too much weight to put on a teenager’s shoulders. I have to not only choose sides…but whatever I stated would affect my life. Do I give up the sport that I love, and potentially save their marriage – and our family? Do I state I want to continue to play, knowing that the fighting will never end, and knowing that there is only a slim chance that I could make a career out of hockey? I had to choose between my two loves – hockey and family.
“Don’t worry, dad. I will be ready by playoffs.”
Analysis: I chose to post my story for the From Situation to Plot Exercise 54. I don’t feel this is my strongest story, but I felt this might be the best one to get some feedback. I will briefly mention the other exercises at the end.
I tried writing this a few times. I realized that the only way I seem to be able to move forward is in front of a computer. I just can’t do longhand writing. I don’t know why this is, and seems like this will make things harder for me to edit and review – but I will fail every time if I use a pen. My paper remains blank.
I am not fully sure if I succeeded in having this fully character-driven. The end seems to have moved to the plot-driven. I am unsure if that is true, and I hope someone will comment on if they feel this was completely character-driven, or if I faltered. I noticed that I didn’t use anything from the props exercise. I struggled with this exercise, therefore this is probably something that I am going to attempt again on my own. The ending seems to be a bit open-ended, which goes against Aristotle’s “a beginning, a middle, and an end.” I think this is acceptable because of the top of the page states there should be a resolution of the crisis “or at least ‘something happens’”.
The Skeleton exercise (which won’t be posted) was interesting, because it was tough to focus on just one person. I think when I write, it is usually from one main POV, but there are more than one fleshed out character. I just didn’t like my stories for this exercise.
The What If? and There’s a Party…exercises were not really delved in to that much. My workplace encountered an unexpected turn of events. I had trouble focusing on past stories that I got stuck in. My thoughts have been mainly on my job. There was a short story I wrote and posted in the past that people liked. I thought about strengthening that story – but I feel that went against the goal of these exercises. I was content with the way it ended. Others seemed to enjoy it too.
I have been playing hockey my whole life. I just turned sixteen a month in to this season. I was finally playing in the OHL, and was doing well. My ice time was increasing, and my shifts becoming more regular. My parents financially supported me through the years. The skates and equipment was not cheap, and they made sacrifices. I was finally showing them that it was paying off. The better I did, the worse my home-life got.
My mother and father fight a lot. I am frequently used as the source, though I am sure that without me, they would still fight. Maybe without me, they would be divorced. My mother hates hockey. She deems it too barbaric. She used to always say, “one day because of this stupid ‘game’, you will wind up in the hospital.” My father would mock her, and I would laugh. I look at both of their faces and see no laughter now.
I will be okay. There will be no permanent damage. The doctor says I am lucky. There have been cases similar to mine where the player became paralyzed. Player. I always hated that term. I do not merely “play” hockey. I live it. From when I learned to skate at four, until now, all I wanted to do was be on the ice. In the beginning it was just because this seemed to be the only thing that made my father proud. My mother could barely watch my games. When I was younger, and my father was at work, she had to take me to games. She never watched. I could sometimes see her in the near empty stands reading a book. I wonder now if she ever could fully concentrate on the novel. Tonight was the first time she came to a game this season. And I ended up crumpled along the end boards.
My mother was still slightly sobbing. Her eyes were red and puffy. She no longer had the tissues in her hand though. My father had his arm around her. He was comforting her. It felt like a normal family for once. No yelling across the dinner table. No fights about the lack of money – which was often blamed on the travel and equipment needed for hockey. I actually felt comfort. Maybe it was a small, unfortunate incident that could make us a family again. Maybe my parents could see that they still loved each other, and that I loved them. We could be a normal family. Our nights could be spent joking around, and telling each other how our days went – with no accusations.
“Don’t worry honey. The doctor stated it is only a concussion and an inflamed disc. Everything will be okay and back to normal soon enough. This isn’t career-ending.”
As soon as he stated that, I knew nothing would be okay. I saw my mother stiffen up and pull away from him. She started yelling. I could hear the anger, but I swear there was some fear in her voice too. How could he even think about me playing hockey again? She was stating that it was because of him pressuring me to continue playing that I almost wound up paralyzed. I wished the nurses would come in to check on us, but my wish was unfulfilled. My father tried to find the right words to say. Tried to go back to being comforting. He was never good at that. I could hear the frustration creep in to his voice. The more she accused him of causing me to end up here, the angrier he got. I was trapped. I was unable to get out of the bed. There was nothing I could do to get both of them to stop fighting. If I gave up hockey, I would disappoint my father. I would disappoint myself. If I didn’t give up hockey…I am unsure what my mother would do. I fear that this would be the end of their marriage. This would be the incident that finally made her give up. This seemed to be too much weight to put on a teenager’s shoulders. I have to not only choose sides…but whatever I stated would affect my life. Do I give up the sport that I love, and potentially save their marriage – and our family? Do I state I want to continue to play, knowing that the fighting will never end, and knowing that there is only a slim chance that I could make a career out of hockey? I had to choose between my two loves – hockey and family.
“Don’t worry, dad. I will be ready by playoffs.”
Analysis: I chose to post my story for the From Situation to Plot Exercise 54. I don’t feel this is my strongest story, but I felt this might be the best one to get some feedback. I will briefly mention the other exercises at the end.
I tried writing this a few times. I realized that the only way I seem to be able to move forward is in front of a computer. I just can’t do longhand writing. I don’t know why this is, and seems like this will make things harder for me to edit and review – but I will fail every time if I use a pen. My paper remains blank.
I am not fully sure if I succeeded in having this fully character-driven. The end seems to have moved to the plot-driven. I am unsure if that is true, and I hope someone will comment on if they feel this was completely character-driven, or if I faltered. I noticed that I didn’t use anything from the props exercise. I struggled with this exercise, therefore this is probably something that I am going to attempt again on my own. The ending seems to be a bit open-ended, which goes against Aristotle’s “a beginning, a middle, and an end.” I think this is acceptable because of the top of the page states there should be a resolution of the crisis “or at least ‘something happens’”.
The Skeleton exercise (which won’t be posted) was interesting, because it was tough to focus on just one person. I think when I write, it is usually from one main POV, but there are more than one fleshed out character. I just didn’t like my stories for this exercise.
The What If? and There’s a Party…exercises were not really delved in to that much. My workplace encountered an unexpected turn of events. I had trouble focusing on past stories that I got stuck in. My thoughts have been mainly on my job. There was a short story I wrote and posted in the past that people liked. I thought about strengthening that story – but I feel that went against the goal of these exercises. I was content with the way it ended. Others seemed to enjoy it too.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Class assignment #1 - Person from my past, and where they are now
When I was in fourth grade, there was a kid in my class named Mark. He used to wear suits, and was obsessed about money – like a little Republican. His suits and nicely combed hair did not fit his demeanor. Though he was very smart, he was also a troublemaker. I will never forget his laugh. He had a laugh like Muttley from the old Hannah-Barbera cartoons. He caused trouble and got kicked out of class a lot – or used his wits to make the teacher his foil. An example of this deals with our assignment of learning a word, and teaching it to the class. Mark chose “mark”. After the teacher told him to stop making a mockery of the assignment and choose a new word, he pointed out that mark was a basic unit of money in Germany. I believe he knew that mark was a word we didn’t know, and that he could use this information to get a reaction from the teacher. I envied the guts it took for him to upstage the teacher. After a while, I became his victim.
One winter day, he took a piece of ice and packed snow around it. He threw it and it hit me in my head. I fell down crying, but no one watching knew about the hidden ice. They laughed and called me a cry-baby, because they assumed it was just a snowball. After that incident, his verbal attacks directed at me increased. He enjoyed the attention that this caused. I grew to hate him. One day, I had enough. I got out of my chair, walked over to him, and shoved him. He fell over a chair and hit the ground. Even back at that age, I think his fall was more of an act. He wanted the reaction – whether it was positive or negative.
After a while, he no longer attended our school. The rumor was that his parents put him in military school. When I was in high school, I heard he returned to public school. The new rumor was that he was kicked out of military school for drawing a swastika on his head and threatening students and instructors. He no longer wore suits, but wore mainly black. A mass of black hair now fell down in his face, close to covering his eyes. There were a few kids that followed him around like he was the new Jesus or Charles Manson.
I think he had the intelligence to be someone great. He just chose the wrong path. His job does not have him dealing with the public. Mark is good enough at his job where the bosses can’t fire him, but his coworkers are uneasy around him. He works at a job like a post office - a place where he can do his job, collect a check, and leave. He is left alone to his thoughts.
Mark owns a small house that is run down. Crabgrass makes up a large portion of the yard. The remaining grass has not been mowed. The interior is as unkempt as the exterior. Inside, his furniture is worn. There are cigarette burns on the coffee table. A metal ashtray is filled, with butts scattered around it. There is a hard pack of Marlboros on this table. The couch is stained from alcohol and past dinners. Empty beer cans and bottles are scattered around. Some on tables, but most are on the floor – surrounding the area where he sits.
The kitchen has grease and grime over the appliances. There is a partially eaten Stouffer’s Lasagna left in the oven from last night’s dinner. It will probably be his meal for tonight too. The few dishes he has are dirty – piled up by the sink. His refrigerator contains beer, some simple staples like cheese, lunch meat, and ketchup. There is a carton of milk that has expired weeks ago, but has not yet been thrown out. In the back of the refrigerator is a food container thick with mold. Empty pizza boxes stick out of the waste basket.
He currently lives with a female. It may be a girlfriend, or just the current girl in his life. She is skinny, and wearing a heavy metal t-shirt. Her hair is long, stringy, and dirty-brown in color. She loves him, but still is a little afraid of him. You can tell when she lights up a cigarette – her hand trembles as she lights her Newports with the disposable Bic.
There is about the same amount of clothes in his chest of drawers than there are on the floor. Dirty clothes are strewn about his bedroom. A small bag of marijuana sits on the stand by his bed. His bed has not been made in weeks, nor have the sheets been changed.
The only book he owns is Mein Kampf. This is mainly just for shock value, as he has not read it. Mark wants people to view him as an outcast, and actively tries to play that image up. He does not consider his friends as equals. They, in fact, see him more as a leader than a friend. He still has that power over some people.
Mark is mad at the world. He thinks it owes him something. He knows he is smarter than those around him, but has nothing real to show for it. He spends the nights drinking more Budweisers and vegging out in front of the television.
Conclusion of the exercises:
I think it was natural of me to view him going further down the wrong path. He started out as a bright kid who was well-dressed, but caused problems. Then the rumors I heard later showing that he no longer looked the part of what adults would consider a “respectable member of society.” I just continued the path onwards. People still were uneasy around him, and he had little respect for things and people around him. I attempted to describe his house to emphasize this.
There are two things that surprised me.
First, I am slightly disappointed that my description seemed clichéd. I almost feel like I went with mainstream Hollywood’s skewed view of “stereotypes are based on facts.”
Second, I thought I was going to make him in to a sociopath. He ended up being narcissistic, but far from a sociopath. When I first thought of using him as my character, I felt a twinge of deviousness, because I could exact revenge in my writing. I eased up on it though. Though, my portrayal would not be considered flattering, it is not as bad as I thought it was going to be. It led me to think of what his life really was like back then. Did he have a bad childhood, were there emotional issues that he had? Maybe it is because I have always viewed him as intelligent. That is a character trait that I value. So, since I value intelligence, yet hated him back at that age, it makes me wonder if there were troubles in his life. I think that influenced what I wrote. What I expected to write is not what I ended up writing.
One winter day, he took a piece of ice and packed snow around it. He threw it and it hit me in my head. I fell down crying, but no one watching knew about the hidden ice. They laughed and called me a cry-baby, because they assumed it was just a snowball. After that incident, his verbal attacks directed at me increased. He enjoyed the attention that this caused. I grew to hate him. One day, I had enough. I got out of my chair, walked over to him, and shoved him. He fell over a chair and hit the ground. Even back at that age, I think his fall was more of an act. He wanted the reaction – whether it was positive or negative.
After a while, he no longer attended our school. The rumor was that his parents put him in military school. When I was in high school, I heard he returned to public school. The new rumor was that he was kicked out of military school for drawing a swastika on his head and threatening students and instructors. He no longer wore suits, but wore mainly black. A mass of black hair now fell down in his face, close to covering his eyes. There were a few kids that followed him around like he was the new Jesus or Charles Manson.
I think he had the intelligence to be someone great. He just chose the wrong path. His job does not have him dealing with the public. Mark is good enough at his job where the bosses can’t fire him, but his coworkers are uneasy around him. He works at a job like a post office - a place where he can do his job, collect a check, and leave. He is left alone to his thoughts.
Mark owns a small house that is run down. Crabgrass makes up a large portion of the yard. The remaining grass has not been mowed. The interior is as unkempt as the exterior. Inside, his furniture is worn. There are cigarette burns on the coffee table. A metal ashtray is filled, with butts scattered around it. There is a hard pack of Marlboros on this table. The couch is stained from alcohol and past dinners. Empty beer cans and bottles are scattered around. Some on tables, but most are on the floor – surrounding the area where he sits.
The kitchen has grease and grime over the appliances. There is a partially eaten Stouffer’s Lasagna left in the oven from last night’s dinner. It will probably be his meal for tonight too. The few dishes he has are dirty – piled up by the sink. His refrigerator contains beer, some simple staples like cheese, lunch meat, and ketchup. There is a carton of milk that has expired weeks ago, but has not yet been thrown out. In the back of the refrigerator is a food container thick with mold. Empty pizza boxes stick out of the waste basket.
He currently lives with a female. It may be a girlfriend, or just the current girl in his life. She is skinny, and wearing a heavy metal t-shirt. Her hair is long, stringy, and dirty-brown in color. She loves him, but still is a little afraid of him. You can tell when she lights up a cigarette – her hand trembles as she lights her Newports with the disposable Bic.
There is about the same amount of clothes in his chest of drawers than there are on the floor. Dirty clothes are strewn about his bedroom. A small bag of marijuana sits on the stand by his bed. His bed has not been made in weeks, nor have the sheets been changed.
The only book he owns is Mein Kampf. This is mainly just for shock value, as he has not read it. Mark wants people to view him as an outcast, and actively tries to play that image up. He does not consider his friends as equals. They, in fact, see him more as a leader than a friend. He still has that power over some people.
Mark is mad at the world. He thinks it owes him something. He knows he is smarter than those around him, but has nothing real to show for it. He spends the nights drinking more Budweisers and vegging out in front of the television.
Conclusion of the exercises:
I think it was natural of me to view him going further down the wrong path. He started out as a bright kid who was well-dressed, but caused problems. Then the rumors I heard later showing that he no longer looked the part of what adults would consider a “respectable member of society.” I just continued the path onwards. People still were uneasy around him, and he had little respect for things and people around him. I attempted to describe his house to emphasize this.
There are two things that surprised me.
First, I am slightly disappointed that my description seemed clichéd. I almost feel like I went with mainstream Hollywood’s skewed view of “stereotypes are based on facts.”
Second, I thought I was going to make him in to a sociopath. He ended up being narcissistic, but far from a sociopath. When I first thought of using him as my character, I felt a twinge of deviousness, because I could exact revenge in my writing. I eased up on it though. Though, my portrayal would not be considered flattering, it is not as bad as I thought it was going to be. It led me to think of what his life really was like back then. Did he have a bad childhood, were there emotional issues that he had? Maybe it is because I have always viewed him as intelligent. That is a character trait that I value. So, since I value intelligence, yet hated him back at that age, it makes me wonder if there were troubles in his life. I think that influenced what I wrote. What I expected to write is not what I ended up writing.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Another non-class related blog
Ok...I am using this blog for more than class, because it appears that it is acceptable to Dr. Lacina that we can.
I got my new DVD player finally. It took forever for it to get shipped. This weekend I get to have fun and hack it. This was the first DVD player I could find for under $100 that I know has a known hack. It shouldn't be too hard. I wanted a region free player for so long. Ok...slight lie. I only fully understood what the different regions meant. So, I wanted one after I realized there were movies in the world I was not able to view. I really started searching after I realized that Great Britain has a version of Revolver that the U.S. doesn't. They "dumbed down" the American version. That intrigues me, because the dumbed down version had me thinking for quite a while afterwards. Maybe I am not as intelligent as I wish I was.
I am hoping I do well in my class. Not grade-wise. I still am not really interested in a grade. I really just want to learn. I have this book idea for years now. I know the basic trigger-point, believe I have an ending, and have some basic characters built in my mind. I have started a few times, and quit. I would love to actually write this book...even if no on ever reads it. I hope this class will teach me ways of progressing when I get stuck. If I get a confidence boost along with it, so much the better.
I probably should have a dead journal....or maybe one that could not be viewed by anyone. I think maybe it just helps me to get these thoughts out of my mind.
On another rambling point, I had a Mexican Pepsi today. The cashier seemed a little amused when I asked if it was a true Mexican Pepsi. I think I was a little over excited. There is nothing like a Pepsi made with sugar cane. I know they have the throwback Pepsi now...but it isn't quite the same. I heard they had to alter the formula a few ways, because of the switch to plastic bottles. Mexican Pepsi is still in the glass bottles. Now I know two places in Saginaw to get real Mexican sodas.
Sometimes I feel that my life is boring if the highlight of my day involves a beverage.
I got my new DVD player finally. It took forever for it to get shipped. This weekend I get to have fun and hack it. This was the first DVD player I could find for under $100 that I know has a known hack. It shouldn't be too hard. I wanted a region free player for so long. Ok...slight lie. I only fully understood what the different regions meant. So, I wanted one after I realized there were movies in the world I was not able to view. I really started searching after I realized that Great Britain has a version of Revolver that the U.S. doesn't. They "dumbed down" the American version. That intrigues me, because the dumbed down version had me thinking for quite a while afterwards. Maybe I am not as intelligent as I wish I was.
I am hoping I do well in my class. Not grade-wise. I still am not really interested in a grade. I really just want to learn. I have this book idea for years now. I know the basic trigger-point, believe I have an ending, and have some basic characters built in my mind. I have started a few times, and quit. I would love to actually write this book...even if no on ever reads it. I hope this class will teach me ways of progressing when I get stuck. If I get a confidence boost along with it, so much the better.
I probably should have a dead journal....or maybe one that could not be viewed by anyone. I think maybe it just helps me to get these thoughts out of my mind.
On another rambling point, I had a Mexican Pepsi today. The cashier seemed a little amused when I asked if it was a true Mexican Pepsi. I think I was a little over excited. There is nothing like a Pepsi made with sugar cane. I know they have the throwback Pepsi now...but it isn't quite the same. I heard they had to alter the formula a few ways, because of the switch to plastic bottles. Mexican Pepsi is still in the glass bottles. Now I know two places in Saginaw to get real Mexican sodas.
Sometimes I feel that my life is boring if the highlight of my day involves a beverage.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Familiarizing myself with the website.
This post, or blog, or whatever the hipsters are calling it these days, is not part of the assignment. I just wanted to make sure I could use this program before the assignment is due. I am already finding the navigation not to what I am used to...but this site looks easy enough to eventually know what I am doing.
I see that we can post whatever we want to on here...along with our assignments. I suppose I will clearly mark my title when it has to do with the assignment, so no one has to peruse through the rest of the stuff.
I am realizing today more than ever that I need to make a career change. It just so happens that I am doing it at the worse economic time of my work history. I work in the quality department (which due to layoffs consists of...me) for a business that has a management team that does not believe procedures, training, and structure are needed. Technically, they are not really sold on quality either...because I get pushback for finding too much incorrect information and "have to allow for acceptable room for error." Note: Never respond to that comment with "whatever errors I miss are what we can consider acceptable".
I am unsure if, for this course, we are just supposed to skip to the exercises he wants, or if we are to read all of the pages up to where the task starts. I think I am going to read from the beginning. I am not fully aware how he wants the first assignment to be done. I think I will read a bit tonight, and if I am still cloudy I will post on the help board. I believe I just need to take a step back, listen to some Rachmaninoff, and let my head clear. If that doesn't work...I am popping in some old Atreyu (before they found melody).
I see that we can post whatever we want to on here...along with our assignments. I suppose I will clearly mark my title when it has to do with the assignment, so no one has to peruse through the rest of the stuff.
I am realizing today more than ever that I need to make a career change. It just so happens that I am doing it at the worse economic time of my work history. I work in the quality department (which due to layoffs consists of...me) for a business that has a management team that does not believe procedures, training, and structure are needed. Technically, they are not really sold on quality either...because I get pushback for finding too much incorrect information and "have to allow for acceptable room for error." Note: Never respond to that comment with "whatever errors I miss are what we can consider acceptable".
I am unsure if, for this course, we are just supposed to skip to the exercises he wants, or if we are to read all of the pages up to where the task starts. I think I am going to read from the beginning. I am not fully aware how he wants the first assignment to be done. I think I will read a bit tonight, and if I am still cloudy I will post on the help board. I believe I just need to take a step back, listen to some Rachmaninoff, and let my head clear. If that doesn't work...I am popping in some old Atreyu (before they found melody).
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